My Sweet Bully

We’re both dragged to the office and placed on a bench in front of the secretary. I can’t look at Stacy, I know if I do, I’ll hit her again.

And that’s not what I want. I’m not that person, I’m not aggressive or violent. But damn, I’d be lying if I said my goal isn’t to make that girl hurt.

Don’t be her, Prairie. That’s what she wants. She wants to push you.

Grass bits are stuck in my shorts, dirt and green stains smear my shirt and skin. Raw flesh and fresh wounds spot my arms and legs. My lip is starting to swell as the taste of blood begins to fade.

Picking the blades of grass out of my shorts, I drop them to the floor. I have to clear my head, come down from this outburst of emotion and ground myself. Stacy wants to get under my skin, that’s the whole goal of her little stunt.

Unfortunately, it worked.

“Stacy,” the principal opens his door, and keeps it open until she’s inside.

I strain my ears, leaning a little closer to his office, trying to hear what she’s saying to him, but I can’t hear shit.

Miss Chris, the secretary, gives me a look, so I lean back in the seat. My stomach is a ball of nerves as my foot starts to tap against the tiles.

I’m not someone who gets in trouble, I’ve never even had detention. This is actually my first fight too. I’m not sure where all that rage came from, but when it hit, I couldn’t control it.

Fuck, Prairie, you can’t act like that. You want a spotless record for college.

The door opens after several minutes. Stacy comes out, her head down, sniffling and wiping her nose. One of her eyes is puffy, her hair is knotty and frizzy, with grass and debris still tangled in the locks.

She glances as she walks by me, just one quick look. Our eyes connect briefly, but it seems like so much longer. There’s a flicker in her gaze; satisfaction.

My muscles resurge with adrenaline, hands clutching the bench at my hips, holding me down. She thinks she won this. But her pouty little face and fake ass tears don’t mean shit.

“Prairie,” Principal Murphy says my name, his voice stern.

Sucking in a breath of air, all the anger that’s coming back to life is swiftly knocked back down, contorting into a wave of anxiety. The twisting, the coiling, the rolling, it all makes my knees weak, and my palms sweaty.

“Sit,” he says, pointing at the chair in front of his desk.

I do as he asks, taking the seat, and not saying a word. I’m not going to start blurting out apologies or excuses, because honestly, I don’t feel bad about it. She deserves to be knocked down a notch or two.

Mr. Murphy is peering at me. He’s a big man, intimidating still for his older age. It’s his eyes, the seriousness they hold, the way they stay steady, as if he’s able to control even the slightest of muscles movements.

The bright green tie he has on is decorated with yellow bananas, and it stands out boldly against his navy blue shirt. With an army haircut, short and flat on top, I know he’s a no bullshit dude instantly.

Steepling his fingers, he tilts his head, watching me carefully. I think he’s waiting for me to speak, but I’m not sure where to start. So, I stay quiet, letting him take the lead.

He splits his hands apart, letting out an audible sigh. “So,” he says finally, his brows arching slightly, causing a wave of wrinkles to flood his forehead. “You’re new here, so I want to cut you some slack. Maybe you lost your temper, maybe you got pushed to react, maybe there’s a lot of reasons. Stacy isn’t new to me, but you are.” Pressing flat palms into the top of the desk, he sits back in his chair. “Do you want to tell me what happened in your words?”

“We had a disagreement; it didn’t end well. I apologize for my misconduct; I don’t know what else there is I can say.”

“Prairie, you’re a smart girl. I read your transcripts from your other school, I see the college prep courses you’re in, your grades, the fact you have an almost perfect grade point average.” He wags a finger as he stiffens in the chair and lifts his shoulders. “But, what I can’t understand is why you’re mingling with some of the people you are.”

What the hell does that mean?

“I don’t understand. What do you mean?” Cocking a brow, I’m trying to figure out where he’s going with this.

“Stacy told me about Max Ramon. She said you two were close, and that’s what started this tiff between you both.” His finger swings side to side as he points at the various cuts and scrapes he can see. “Let me give you a little advice. I won’t speak ill of any of my students, because that’s unprofessional, but I will say this, for your own sake, and your future: it’s best if you don’t get involved with that boy.”