sixty-seven

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By the time fourth hour rolls around, my shoulder still hurts. I ask to go to the restroom and excuse myself. I pull down my hoodie to  look at it. There are purple marks from his fingertips on the back of my shoulder and his thumb-print is right by my collarbone. I graze my finger along the bruises and flinch. 

All of a sudden, a girl walks in. She glances at me, my face, my shoulder. She gulps. "I'm sorry," she murmurs, dropping her gaze. 

I pull my hoodie back up and shrug. 

She rushes into a stall and I leave the bathroom.

Later on, when I'm sitting in sixth hour, something unexpected happens.

The PA system dings in our classroom. "Ms. Warren, could you please send Mia Myers to the counseling center?"


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