DISASTER STRIKES

I hear my bottle still rolling down the steps, but I don't take my eyes away from the boy. His phone sits broken in a small pool of juice, a step below us, from when he must have dropped it.

He calmly moves his head, accessing the damage. His white T-shirt is now stained a light purple. I see him glance at his wrist and stop.

I watch as a look of mania clouds his green eyes. He springs to his feet. There's a sense of urgency in his movements as he yanks his watch off. He's breathing hard, frantically wiping it against his shirt. His brows are drawn together, as if pleading as he taps the face of the watch with his finger.

I hear people begin to hurriedly climb the stairs. By the time he slides his watch into the pocket of the pair of jeans he's wearing, wet at the crotch and down one leg, a small crowd has gathered around me in a semi-circle.

He looks up and his eyes zero in on me. The expression that takes over his face as he advances makes me shrink back; they’re cold, sharp and full of rage.

“Are you fucking blind?”

The words growled at me, are low and piercing. The murmuring crowd seems to tighten around us, simultaneously tightening the knot around my neck. My eyes dart around wide and panic-stricken, as the words to express how sorry I am refuse to leave my throat.

Someone yanks my backpack off and throws it down. A heavy sound meets my ears as it slams against the ground and I lurch forward, staring at the prone object. Please let my phone be okay, please.

Fingers clamp around my ear and twist, bringing my attention back to the angry mob and their ring leader. I stifle a groan against the electric jolt of pain, as the boy drags my head closer and spits, “Do you know how much that’s worth?”

“Is it mute?” I hear someone whisper before someone else sharply taps my cheek, hard enough to leave it stinging. “Carter asked you a question, idiot!”

I frantically shake my head no and he scoffs mockingly, towering over me. “Of course. It's more than the part of your fees you could afford to scrape together, you dumb fuck.”

Hot shame has my face burning. I open my mouth to try and apologize but before I can speak, he growls, “You're going to fucking regret that.”

Still holding my ear, he drags me forward. Crouched, I stumble after him as the crowd parts like we're some sort of freak attraction at a fair.

He pushes my head down, right in front of his juice soaked phone. “Clean it up, with your tongue. Wouldn't want whatever you had in that rusty can to go to waste.”

Is he serious? I look around. The other students are not surprised. This isn't the first time Carter has done something like this and it chills me to the bone. Maybe I could make a run for it?

Out of the corner of my eyes I catch sight of something that makes me perk up. Right behind Carter, at the door, is a man, who could be a teacher. He watches the scene through small square glasses, his salt and pepper hair long to his ears yet he doesn't make a move to stop this, to break it off. I stare at him, willing him to do something, anything!

The impact of Carter's palm against my cheek, redirects my vision to the ground. “Do not make me repeat myself,” he says menacingly, “or I’ll make sure you never even make it to your first class.”

When I look up, the man is gone.

My chest feels tight as the weight of my situation settles heavily on my shoulders

 I imagine my parents' disappointment if I'm expelled from school on my first day, a place they worked hard to get me into.

I lean down and pick up the phone. I feel sweat run down my back as I tentatively run my tongue on it, a short trembling lick. The tartness of the juice stings my pride so bad.

I glance up as laughter erupts from the people around me. Phones are pointed at me, the eager faces behind them drinking up the scene. Tears prick my eyes. I just wanted to go to class.

“Again.”

I press my tongue to the screen again, somehow feeling more embarrassed than the first time. Carter's fingers find my ear again and I shrink away from him, even though I have nowhere to go. “Now the back.”

“Please, I'm sorry,” I finally force out, my voice cracking.

“Oh so it does speak!” Carter says, giving me two slow, mocking claps as the crowd chuckles. “The back!”

“I—”

A slap to my other cheek makes me eat the rest of my apology. I lean down and run my tongue along the back, desperately holding back my tears. I can't let them fall. My dignity may already be in a melted puddle at my knees but I will grasp this last shred tightly. It's all I have left.

“You!” Carter calls, pointing to a small girl in the crowd. I immediately know she's like me; she's here because of the special admission program. She has this look in her eyes, a weary, beaten down look that I'm sure I now mirror.

She hurries to him, looking like prey about to be gobbled up standing next to his muscled frame. “Throw that phone away and get me a new one. I don't want to catch whatever he has.”

She quickly snatches the phone from my hands, careful not to let our skin touch. Her eyes meet mine briefly and I see the empathy in her gaze mixed with fear she has that she could be next.

“And you, this is what happens when you mess with the king of the school. Don't let me see your sorry face again,” he commands, gripping my chin so I'm forced to look at him, “or there'll be more hell to pay.”

And then he turns around and walks away, like an executioner who's finished delivering punishment. The crowd follows behind him, still laughing at their early morning entertainment. I'm left kneeling on the cold tiled steps, cheek throbbing, thoroughly humiliated.

I press my head to the floor and pray to God that he's not a senior too. If he is, there's no way I can avoid him. I can't ensure a full year of this.

As I struggle to my feet, I shut out a scared voice insisting that I run, that this is only the beginning.