“I told you to stay away from her,” Darren Lagget snarled at Michael Dissanti.

“Hey, Kelly just —” Michael began, but before he could finish, Darren shoved him, hard.

“Kelly just what, huh?” Darren snapped. “What?”

Darren shoved him again, and as Michael crashed into a row of lockers, he purposely drove his elbow into one of the metal doors, hoping someone — a friend, a teacher, anyone, would hear the loud, hollow clang and come running to his rescue.

Michael wasn’t afraid of Darren, even though his rival for Kelly’s affection was on the wrestling team and had biceps the size of bowling balls. The two heavyweights, Matt and Brad, keeping a lookout were another story. Even if Michael kicked Darren in the balls, there was no escape. Now way out.

“I told you to stay away from her.”

“But we have Calc —”

Darren grabbed the front of Michael’s shirt and pressed him up against the lockers.

“I don’t care, Piss Ant!” he roared.

And with that, Michael knew he was in trouble. Darren had used his childhood nickname, dismissing the years they had been friends, living a few houses down the block from each other. So much for fishing on McDill Pond or sledding down the hills at Iverson Park together. It was like they were ten years old again, and Michael was the new kid in the neighborhood. Darren had bullied Michael constantly then, before they became friends. Problem was, Darren now hit like a sixteen-year old, with fists and muscles.

“Chill, Fag Butt,” Michael said, faking a casual laugh. “Kelly and I are just friends.”

He couldn’t resist retaliating with Darren’s childhood nickname, despite the danger. The smirks on Matt and Brad’s faces were at least a small victory.

“Oh yeah, Piss Ant. What of those things you said about her in junior high? Huh?” Darren asked, shoving Michael into the lockers, again. “You were crushin’ on her big time back then. Don’t tell me that’s all changed.”

“I wouldn’t date someone who’s been with you.” Michael muttered.

“What was that, Piss Ant?” Darren asked. “I dare you to repeat that.”

Michael didn’t know what suddenly snapped inside him — anger, fear, or a mixture of both, as he realized that he had nothing to lose. He was going to get punched. Or worse, humiliated. So he pushed back, catching Darren off guard.

“Lay off, Fag Butt!” Michael screamed.

Darren stumbled backwards, and the heavyweights moved in to stop his fall. If Michael hadn’t been shocked by the sudden ferocity of his own actions, he would have slipped away in the brief seconds that the wrestlers fumbled about, arms entangled. Instead, he stood there, amazed at the fact that he, and his mere one hundred and twenty pounds, had nearly pushed over the most-muscular kid in school.

Darren regained his balance before Michael could realize his mistake.

“I’m gonna kill you!” Darren screamed, cocking his arm back, slowly, as if he were loading a cannon.

Still, Michael didn’t run. He stood, rooted to the spot like the old cliché — a dear in the headlights.

Then suddenly, the world exploded in a brilliant red flash. The blow from Darren’s fist whipped Michael’s head around, smashing the side of his face, his shoulder, his arm into the lockers. The loud bang echoed down the hallway.

Surely someone will come now, Michael thought.

He managed to remain on his feet by leaning up against the lockers. Never before had been hit that hard — not in playground fights or crashing bikes off of jumps or falling out of trees. His legs were liquid, and his vision foggy. Darren’s voice roared, angry and incomprehensible, in his ears, but was dulled by the wave of pain that washed over him with every heartbeat.

Michael felt himself being pressed up against the lockers, and Darren’s arm was across his throat, pinning him.

“Are you even listening to me?” Darren yelled, punctuating each word with a spray of spit.

Michael reached up, grabbing Darren’s arm, but he might as well as have been trying push aside a bulldozer. It didn’t budge, and he couldn’t breathe as Darren leaned into him. The edges of Michael’s consciousness grew fuzzy.

“Come on, someone’s coming,” Brad shouted.

“We’ll finish this later, Piss Ant,” Darren growled in Michael’s ear.

As the pressure on Michael’s throat disappeared, his legs finally gave out, and the floor slammed into his knees. Michael caught himself with an out-stretched hand, keeping himself from falling flat on his face. As he heard the wrestlers’ footsteps fade and new ones rush toward him, a dark red pool grew, drip by drip, on the floor in front of him.

“Mike, hey, you okay?”

Michael looked up. It was Carlos Ruíz, his best friend.

“Aw man, your lip’s hamburger.” Carlos winced. “We’d better get you out of here.”

“But it’s only 5th period,” Michael mumbled. “I’ve got Calc.”

Michael felt gravity release its hold as Carlos pulled him to his feet.

“Darren must have rattled something loose upstairs,” Carlos laughed, “if you think bleeding all over a girl is going to impress her.”

- late revised 01/15/09 -