Mayday by Jonathan Friesen

To your classes. Now!” From the opposite side of the foyer, Assistant Principal Gleason stepped quickly toward the mess. “Break this up!”
    Crow scratched her cheek.
    â€œOh, no,” I whispered. “Don’t do it.”
    â€œDid you mean what you said?” Crow asked, her voice so controlled, it frightened.
    Jasmine chuckled. “Every frickin’ word.”
    Crow nodded slowly . . . and charged. She drove 180 pounds straight backward into the trophy case, shattering glass and toppling thirty years of athletic accomplishment. She wasn’t finished. Crow pushed Jasmine’s head back with a hand to the forehead, grabbed a trophy—volleyball, for what it’s worth—lifted it high . . .
    I leaped forward and caught Crow’s arm. She turned and cuffed me hard across the jaw, and her arm caught a shard of glass protruding down like a wicked icicle. I stumbled back, staring at the blood covering her forearm.
    Crow gazed blankly at me and dropped the trophy, just as Gleason came near.
    His eyes widened. His jaw dropped.
    â€œOh, Lord.”

CHAPTER 7
    THE THOUGHTS OF C. RAINE
    Death is a delightful hiding place for weary men.
    Herodotus
    THE SCHOOL TRIED TO REACH MOM.
    Apparently, she didn’t answer.
    As stitches were more than called for, Crow and Jasmine were taken to Regions Hospital, while I again waited in the powder blue office. Enough people witnessed the event to satisfy administration that I bore no guilt . . . that I deserved some type of commendation for coming to Jasmine’s aid.
    In the end, only Wiggle questioned my innocence.
    â€œDay One. Can’t read. Can’t count. In the middle of a fight,” she muttered, shaking her head. “Perhaps on your second day, I’ll call in sick.”
    The principal spoke to me of duty and rising to the occasion and acquitting myself well. I sighed my way through the sermon, and when finally the dismissal gong sounded, I pointed back over my shoulder toward his wall clock.
    â€œCan I go?”
    â€œYes. Thank you again, Shane. I’m sorry your first day went like this. Five days will give Crow ample time to ponder her actions, so the rest of your week should be less eventful.”
    â€œShe’s suspended? For five days?”
    â€œOh, that this would end there. If she’s not sued.” He spun his chair toward the window and forced his hand through his hair. “If we’re not sued.”
    â€œWell, good luck with that,” I said.
    Five days. What a stroke of fortune! That meant more time with Crow, more time to prepare, without the hassle of classes to interrupt my plans.
    I walked quickly to my locker and toward the front door.
    Middle school is a strange world. Granted, my arrival somehow caused the entire flare-up, but I did the right thing. I spared Jasmine major reconstructive surgery to the face. You would think kids might flip a smile my way, perhaps nod in approval.
    Instead, I walked out of school in a bubble. In front of me on the bus, an empty seat; behind me, the same. Three kids squeezed into one seat, two rows up. Their heads leaned in, while their peeking eyes made frequent trips to the new girl two rows back. I knew I broke middle school code—stay out of other people’s business—but did everyone want to witness a killing? Likely so. Inside my classmates lay a secret desire to witness the macabre. Maybe that’s inside most people.
    It wasn’t inside my dad.
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    Precious few memories lingered of the man who left when I was five. A locket here, a roof there. My five-year-old piano recital was one of those sacred few.
    It was clear from the onset that my musical career would be both short and painful. Most parents encouraged their children to practice. Mom begged me to stop. Yet, my sense of duty was strong, and for hours, I pounded out “Mary Had a Little Lamb,” my first recital