Don't Hurt Me

Chapter 8

I get thrown into detention that same day. They waste no time.

A lecture from the principal, and I'm off to 220, the famed room that's used for keeping back nasty kids. On my way there, I keep thinking about what happened, and yet, none of it seems to stick. I feel like it was someone else who did that to Derek. Like I watched, breathless, as another girl threw that punch.

220 - the room stands right in front of me, door waiting.

I put a hand to the cold, round knob, turning it. Four people are in here. A young teacher, sitting at the desk with a book. Miss Porter. And three boys sitting in a line in the middle row.

Everyone looks up at me, like I'm a welcome distraction. For a moment, we are all still, stuck in a moment that wastes away. Then Miss Porter, with a lift of an eyebrow, impatiently waves me in. There can be no mistake. No one 'wanders' into Room 220 by accident.

I step inside, letting the door click shut behind me. I dance my gaze over the three boys for a second, weighing my options.

Whoa. Wait a minute. One of those guys looks familiar. The one on the right, nearest to the windows.

The thick dark hair. The green eyes.

It's him. The guy from that gang. He's here. He and I are in the same detention.

I take a second to glance over the other two. One is huge, his bulk protesting against its little chair, his expression hard and unfriendly. The other is skinny, with spiked hair and a leather jacket. All are bored. All watch me as I make my way to the windows, where I can feel the sun and be far away from them. As soon as I'm settled, Miss Porter returns to her book, losing herself in it. Oblivious. Indifferent.

I pause for a moment, expecting to start feeling something. I guess regret, or shame. It's my first detention ever. Shouldn't I feel bad about this?

I look out the window beside me. The sun falls, dropping gold over the landscape, over colored roofs, patches of lawn-grass and lonely roads. I wonder where my house is. I should be there now. I should be sitting in my room at home.

But, really. What difference does it make? School, home. They're both places I endure, nothing more.

I tilt my head back, studying the cream ceiling and its constellations of marks and stains. When I lower my eyes again, I realize that the boy from the gang is staring at me. And he's not even trying to hide it. I hold his gaze for a second, then look away.

After a moment, there is the slightest creak. I look sideways, seeing that he's slipped out of his seat and come right next to me. He leans over. His eyes are wide and curious, flashing hues of green and gold.

"Haven't I seen you somewhere before?" he asks, whispering it.

I shoot a glance at Miss Porter's desk. Her face is hidden behind her book.

I turn back to this strange boy, hesitating. So which is it? Does he really remember me or is he just using the most unoriginal pick-up line ever?

It turns out I don't even need to decide.

"That night on Toledo Avenue," he murmurs, remembering.

My face turns hot. I feel exposed as something I wanted to forget is thrown right back at me. I don't even know what to say.

"It's a good thing my friends and I were there, huh?" he adds, the corner of his mouth lifting.

"Look, I don't know what that was all about but it's got nothing to do with me. It's over. Consider it forgotten."