𝔍𝔞𝔯𝔞'𝔰 𝔏𝔬𝔤𝔟𝔬𝔬𝔨

#3

Band aids don't fix bullet holes
You say sorry just for show
If you live like that, you live with ghosts

- Taylor Swift, "Bad Blood" 🎵

*

I can't seem to discern what it is about Ashish that compels Tiller, but whatever it is deserves my unreserved thanks. I see Ashish stalk towards Tiller, and so do his fellow uniformed folks. I hear them glare contemptuously at my saviour and then urge Tiller to unhand me. He does, but not before attempting to plummet his fist into my face. Ashish deftly grips his elbow, wresting it about a hundred and eighty degrees backwards; and then, I hear an unsettling crack, followed by an anguished howl from Tiller, who impulsively unleashes a litany of profanities that my Catholic mind can't and doesn't want to mull over.

"What's going on here?" A recognisable voice vibrates through the cafeteria: the school principal. The other students are now fully intrigued by this uncomfortable sequence of events, and practically all heads are in my direction. "Mehta, Tiller, Blake, be in my office right this minute. The rest of you, invest your time in enjoying what's left of your lunchtime. You've all got class in twenty."

My sights fall on Reese and Asha as I pick up my fanny pack. Reese runs her hand across the back of my palm, already oiled with sweat and jittery as it is. "You'll be fine," she assures me. Asha, however, doesn't even so much as regard me. I take it to mean she's not exactly pleased with me for getting her brother entrapped in a fist fight.

I scan the perimeter again and then file behind Ashish, who turns periodically to ensure I'm still behind him. I smile genially and he reciprocates. I might be suspended on grounds of provocation, but I heave that thought to the rear. Let's see what happens now.

†

I'm sitting in class, inscribing my heart and soul into my logbook. I don't pen thoughts in English for fear of unauthorised discovery; I write in shorthand. For some indescribable reason, I want to cuddle the living daylight out of Mercury. I miss kissing him and latching my hands around his body, inhaling his very fragrant fur.

My mind reverts to the day's earlier occurrence and I'm suddenly doused in a wave of remorse. Because he tried to protect me, Ashish could be facing a possible two-week suspension. But honestly, I didn't think he could get physical even for a fragment of a second. Judging from Asha's glare then, I imagine her brother doesn't regularly get temperamental. And why does she think it's my fault? Would she rather have me ruthlessly thrashed by that Tiller guy knowing how perfectly defenseless I am?

"Hey," someone calls out to me. I scrutinise him and the first thing I pick up is that jacket this person's wearing is, to all intents and purposes, an exact match to Tiller's. This person, I observe, has relatively thick lashes, a slender nose and thick, lusciously rouge lips to complement that moderate white skin of his. I honestly wonder if he's wholly American or not.

I return to my scribbling. I think he figures I don't want to talk, but I feel something nudge me as I slide slightly against its weight. I turn up to him.

"What? Did Tiller ask you to finish what he started?" I'm startled by my own pertness as I speak.

"I don't want to hurt you."

"Your jacket says otherwise, and we know what happened the last time a member of the football team spoke to me in public."

"Lake Tiller is a jerk, as you know." He's almost whispering the words. "On his behalf, I apologise. I'm sorry he did that to you."

Wait, what? His name is Lake? What the heck?

I look down. "I'm sixteen, not stupid. And I've got literature class in a bit, so could you, I don't know, leave me the hell alone? I'll more than appreciate it."