looks in our direction.
“So she scratched you, and you scratched her back four
times. And pushed her to the ground?”
“No, she fell.” Roxie won’t look at me, but her eyes
are brimming, and I feel strangely sorry for her for the
briefest moment.
Mr. Polselli turns to me. “Julia, did you attack Roxanne?”
“No, I was reaching for something and I accidentally
scratched her. I wasn’t trying to do that.”
“What were you reaching for?”
“A note. Her friend Sarah pulled it from Sawyer
Angotti’s hand and gave it to her. They think it’s a love
note. It was something private I gave him, and she was
just, I don’t know, goofing around or whatever, and I
reacted, trying to get it back.” I pause, setting my jaw so
I don’t cry. I have never been in trouble like this before.
“I’m sorry I scratched you, Rox. I didn’t mean to. I just
wanted the paper back.” My fingers go to my own neck,
which throbs now, and I wonder how bad my scratches
are. I can feel the raised welts.
My biggest fear is that Mr. Polselli asks to see the
paper, but I’m prepared to say no—it’s not like we got
caught in class passing notes or something. School hadn’t
even started yet. But he doesn’t ask for it, and I breathe a
silent sigh of relief.
“Roxanne?” Mr. Polselli asks. “Do you have anything
else to say?”
“No.”
“It doesn’t look good for you, frankly,” he continues,
still looking at Roxie. “What I saw was you kneeling on a
girl who has a broken arm and just had surgery last month.
She’s got four scratches, you’ve got one, and yours is not
that bad.” He fishes around in his drawer and, after a minute, pulls out a rectangular glass mirror, handing it to Roxie.
“I don’t think we want to take this to the principal, do we?”
“God, no. Please,” I say.
Roxie looks at her scratch. I agree, it’s not that bad.
Mr. Polselli digs around a bit more in another drawer and
hands her a small square packet containing an antiseptic
wipe. He gives me one too.
Roxie sets the mirror on his desk out of my reach and
glances at me. I avert my eyes and fold my arms as best I
can with the cast. “Fine,” she says. “Sorry.”
Mr. Polselli looks at me, then picks up the mirror and
hands it to me. “You don’t want to go any further with this
either?”
I train the mirror at my neck and study the scratches,
four neat lines, the first three pretty heavy and the fourth just
a light scratch like the one I gave Roxie. Thankfully there’s
no dripping blood. It’s going to be interesting explaining this
one at home. “No, it’s fine,” I say. “Just a misunderstanding.”
Mr. Polselli nods. “Okay, then.” He scribbles a note on
a small pad of paper and hands it to Roxie.
She takes it. “Thanks,” she says. And without another
glance, she weaves through the aisle of students and goes
out the door, eyes still shiny, biting her lip.
Mr. Polselli scribbles a note to get me back into class,
and then he says, “She was on your stomach. Any need to
get you checked out? You had some internal injuries from
your crash, right?”
I smile, and now my eyes fill with tears because he’s
being nice, and because the danger and fear of the moment
just caught up with me. “I’m okay. She wasn’t pressing too
hard or anything.”
He looks down at his desk as a tear spills over the edge
of my lower lid and I swipe it away. “Did you get your letter back?” he asks.
I freeze. “Yes.”
He smiles. “Good.” He hands me the excused note
as the second bell rings and the students in his classroom
start to sit down. “Take a few minutes to clean up. I added
ten minutes to the excused time on your pass.”
I take the pass and the antiseptic pad. “Thank you,” I
say. “A lot.” And before another tear can leak out, I turn
and barrel down the aisle, hoping nobody’s looking at me
and my big ol’ neckful of scratches.
Seventeen
“Jeez,” Trey says when he sees me
“So she scratched you, and you scratched her back four
times. And pushed her to the ground?”
“No, she fell.” Roxie won’t look at me, but her eyes
are brimming, and I feel strangely sorry for her for the
briefest moment.
Mr. Polselli turns to me. “Julia, did you attack Roxanne?”
“No, I was reaching for something and I accidentally
scratched her. I wasn’t trying to do that.”
“What were you reaching for?”
“A note. Her friend Sarah pulled it from Sawyer
Angotti’s hand and gave it to her. They think it’s a love
note. It was something private I gave him, and she was
just, I don’t know, goofing around or whatever, and I
reacted, trying to get it back.” I pause, setting my jaw so
I don’t cry. I have never been in trouble like this before.
“I’m sorry I scratched you, Rox. I didn’t mean to. I just
wanted the paper back.” My fingers go to my own neck,
which throbs now, and I wonder how bad my scratches
are. I can feel the raised welts.
My biggest fear is that Mr. Polselli asks to see the
paper, but I’m prepared to say no—it’s not like we got
caught in class passing notes or something. School hadn’t
even started yet. But he doesn’t ask for it, and I breathe a
silent sigh of relief.
“Roxanne?” Mr. Polselli asks. “Do you have anything
else to say?”
“No.”
“It doesn’t look good for you, frankly,” he continues,
still looking at Roxie. “What I saw was you kneeling on a
girl who has a broken arm and just had surgery last month.
She’s got four scratches, you’ve got one, and yours is not
that bad.” He fishes around in his drawer and, after a minute, pulls out a rectangular glass mirror, handing it to Roxie.
“I don’t think we want to take this to the principal, do we?”
“God, no. Please,” I say.
Roxie looks at her scratch. I agree, it’s not that bad.
Mr. Polselli digs around a bit more in another drawer and
hands her a small square packet containing an antiseptic
wipe. He gives me one too.
Roxie sets the mirror on his desk out of my reach and
glances at me. I avert my eyes and fold my arms as best I
can with the cast. “Fine,” she says. “Sorry.”
Mr. Polselli looks at me, then picks up the mirror and
hands it to me. “You don’t want to go any further with this
either?”
I train the mirror at my neck and study the scratches,
four neat lines, the first three pretty heavy and the fourth just
a light scratch like the one I gave Roxie. Thankfully there’s
no dripping blood. It’s going to be interesting explaining this
one at home. “No, it’s fine,” I say. “Just a misunderstanding.”
Mr. Polselli nods. “Okay, then.” He scribbles a note on
a small pad of paper and hands it to Roxie.
She takes it. “Thanks,” she says. And without another
glance, she weaves through the aisle of students and goes
out the door, eyes still shiny, biting her lip.
Mr. Polselli scribbles a note to get me back into class,
and then he says, “She was on your stomach. Any need to
get you checked out? You had some internal injuries from
your crash, right?”
I smile, and now my eyes fill with tears because he’s
being nice, and because the danger and fear of the moment
just caught up with me. “I’m okay. She wasn’t pressing too
hard or anything.”
He looks down at his desk as a tear spills over the edge
of my lower lid and I swipe it away. “Did you get your letter back?” he asks.
I freeze. “Yes.”
He smiles. “Good.” He hands me the excused note
as the second bell rings and the students in his classroom
start to sit down. “Take a few minutes to clean up. I added
ten minutes to the excused time on your pass.”
I take the pass and the antiseptic pad. “Thank you,” I
say. “A lot.” And before another tear can leak out, I turn
and barrel down the aisle, hoping nobody’s looking at me
and my big ol’ neckful of scratches.
Seventeen
“Jeez,” Trey says when he sees me
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