WEDGED BETWEEN TWO FRIGHTENED STUDENTS, Principal Fisher is struggling to make his way to our end of the hallway.

His voice croaks like a toad's while he yells, "Students, get to class. Now!"

The effect of adult presence is immediate — no fight is worth getting in trouble — and the movement starts again. Like frantic ants, students scramble past each other to get to class.

The largest ant of all, Principal Fisher, finds it a battle to just get to us. Hopefully, he is too far away to recognise who participated in the brawl. Brittany rallies her friends, keeping her composure under strict control while the rush of people and rustle of gossip threaten to sweep all else away.

Madison's eyelid drops smoothly into a wink — giving me a millisecond's look at her shimmery eyeshadow — as she sweeps by to Brittany. Terrence avoids my hateful gaze. I would like to believe his guilt is acidic in its concentration, corrosive, painful to bear. But hardly a gasp slipped from him during the ordeal, leaving his humanity up for questioning at present.

A victorious smile on her despicable face, Brittany says, "This isn't over, honey."

Her voice is misleading. The words sound perfectly sweet; but I know there's a row of needles nestled inside.

"Why would it be over? I'm counting on a long fight, honey."

Reece gives Benjamin and Drew one last menacing glower. At a cough from Brittany, he walks obediently away. Even in a headless frenzy, students still dash out of the way of the Monarchy. Those five kids; an aura of elevated status clings to them — and each poor teenager on the end of Brittany's heeled kick — like an aerosol spray. Those five kids; they're sick.

After they fade out of sight, Benjamin limps over to Leah and Delaney, who regard him with gentle words and faces pinched with sympathy and concern. Any weight on his leg makes him hiss in pain — but to his credit, I saw Reece walking away with a few battle scars of his own. I will take pleasure in seeing that bruised cheekbone until it heals.

"I'm fine." The clenched jaw and slight twitching of his lips say much otherwise, but I take Benjamin's word with relief.

Delaney frowns, "You're deluded. Why—"

Leah's hands tremble as she picks up Benjamin's bag for him. I also noticed how he winced when he tried to bend his knees. Strands of his hair stick up, curl over his forehead and stick to his neck with sweat.

"Thank you," Benjamin breathes, preparing himself almost like he plans to go to class. "I'll take Drew to the nurse."

"No," I decline. "I'll take him."

"Sophie, it's no problem," Benjamin stares tiredly at me, eyelids dragged down by pain and fatigue. "I have a free period."

I shake my head, "You go get yourself checked out. Drew has to take his time getting there."

Benjamin's intent posture relaxes immediately. We all look like a sorry lot — some bruised, all tired. And angry. He sighs, "Okay. I'll head on over now."

We watch Benjamin set out, dipping his head casually as he passes Principal Fisher. The stout man is still seeking out anyone related to the fight, red-faced with the exertion of yelling. Leah and Delaney whisper wishes of getting better to Drew, goodbyes to me, and leave for class themselves.

Drew can carry most of his own weight again, and it's the unexpected lift from my shoulders that makes me look at him, worried. His face is starting to swell and colour, almost a painting. Blotches of red and deep brown, like a violent watercolour, Derek the artist.

"Oh," a small voice stirs at the edge of my hearing, "I feel so sorry for him."

The unfamiliar girl's friend responds, "Don't be. His own stupid fault for trying to be a hero."

Both their steps fasten when I turn my head over. Many look at Drew, but he's oblivious to it all. Rather, he keeps his eyes trained to his shoes, tracing the zigzag pattern of his laces, and holds his arm heavy on my neck.

I tug gently on Drew's waist, asking him to stop. His shoulders quiver with the breaths he heaves in; even his voice sounds jagged. "Why'd we stop?"

No response, except for the slight increase in the downwards curve of my lips.

Wordlessly, I urge Drew to straighten up by placing both hands on his shoulders. I pull the hood of his jacket over his head, making sure the edges are hiding his face well. Hesitation to touch him, and possibly hurt him, distorts the clear focus I had into a mentality of panic, distress, and guilt. The erratic pounding of my heart resounds in my ears, whispering that it's all my fault.

"Fisher will be looking for you," I explain.

When I catch sight of Principal Fisher again, he's questioning a group of students about the fight. One boy, wearing glasses and a raglan shirt, roves his stare over the students. The analytical expression he wears grows as he searches; if he sees us, he'll rat us out.

Though no-one can blame him, Drew's remaining unaware of the emphasis placed on finding him is making my job harder. I can practically feel that boy looking over at us, though I don't dare look back to check — that would be a clear giveaway.

"Go along with it," I whisper into Drew's hoodie.

"With what?"

My fingers lace between Drew's, on the hand that dangles from my shoulder. I clear my throat, and do the same with the hand around his waist. His eyes widen a fraction, before I rush in with an emphasised smile.

Then, he figures out what I'm trying to do. "Oh."

It takes every drop of my lacking acting skills to keep the love-struck smile up as we pass our principal, still interrogating people. Hopefully, that attentive boy doesn't think too much of a couple walking to class together.

We get away with the act, and Principal Fisher still thinks the culprits are at the scene of the crime.

A cool gust of relief blows away some of my panic, sweeping through my mind like cold sheets on a hot summer's night.

And by the time Fisher finally makes his way to the place of the assault, all that remains is a slightly dented locker, and a few drops of Drew's blood trampled underfoot.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Drew eases himself onto the bed in the nurse's office.

Ms. Stell, the school nurse, snaps on a pair of gloves while asking for Drew's student ID number. His hood is still obscuring his face.

I let my eyes roam over Drew's condition — his lower half seems fine, considering he walked the entire way here with no complaint. The bruises are darkening and swelling up. I also note how tightly Drew wraps his arms around his ribcage, wincing every couple of seconds.

I take a pose against the wall, leaning back as I watch her assess Drew. Getting up on the bed doesn't seem too hard for him, which makes me feel better, and he drops his hood. The welcoming smile falls right off when she looks up.

"Oh! My dear, what happened?" she asks.

Her laugh lines are shallow — but when Ms. Stell frowns, they turn to fault lines, filled with buckets of concern for Drew.

He lies to protect everyone involved, albeit the Monarchy as well. Drew says smoothly, looking at me with a sour grin, "Eh, some kid got a bit too cocky in Gym class. We were wrestling. Turns out, he had a right to be cocky."

The frown only deepens, but there's no reason for her to believe otherwise. For a minute, she disappears into another adjoining medical cabinet, returning with an armful of gauze wraps, bandages, ice packs and surgical sutures. Drew's face slackens when he sees the sutures.

My hand automatically flies to my throat — but my breath only catches there; I never thought about him needing stitches. My teeth are shredding what skin there is left on the inside of my cheeks.

"Other than," Ms. Stell looks away from Drew's head, "—your face, where does it hurt?" I watch Drew point out his ribcage, and his wrist.

"Can you move your wrist for me?" Drew manages a few small twists, circling like a painter's brush strokes. Those slight movements twist his mouth into a grimace. "Ah, I think it's a light sprain. I'll wrap it, and then you need to ice it and rest it whenever you get the chance."

Then Ms. Stell softly prods at Drew's face, which has swollen to the point of being round — as opposed to Drew's usual defined features. Her movements are feathery light, and she pulls away slightly whenever Drew winces.

My thoughts are flying between one extreme and the other while I watch Ms. Stell work, One moment, I am convinced this was all my ego's doing. Then another, I remind myself that Brittany was the one who told Reece and Derek to start the fight. Then, I think about how I shouldn't have underestimated how villainous Brittany is. The circle of blaming myself, then blaming someone else, is dizzying, though I try telling myself no-one really is to blame but the Monarchy.

After writing for a while on another form, Ms. Stell pulls out an antiseptic wipe. She cleans off the dried blood on Drew's face and neck. The smaller cuts don't need to be bandaged, shown by the way Ms. Stell dismisses them as quickly as she would dismiss a crack on the sidewalk. She puts a plaster over the medium-sized lacerations, which reach just past his jawline. The biggest one obviously needs stitches because even after being cleaned and pressed with a cloth, it's still leaking this weird translucent mixture of red-tinted liquid, like blood mixed with pus.

Ms. Stell tells Drew to lie down, and he complies like he's been doing for the last ten minutes — but not after taking off his hoodie and tossing it on the stool. His shirt comes up, and the flash of dark skin tugs my eyebrows up habitually.

Not feeling comfortable staring, I push myself off the wall with my heel. His hoodie is still warm when I pick it up, and fold it, taking extreme care and detail with the seam lines. I'd never pay this much attention to a piece of clothing usually, but I don't think I can take watching this anymore. He leapt to my defence, and straight into a puddle of blood.

The busying of my hands is a better distraction from my guilt than watching a reminder of it is. Ms. Stell's voice chimes from behind me, "It's just a bruise. Same thing as your wrist; ice it, elevate it, rest it."

"Okay," Drew hums in reply, sounding just on the verge of falling asleep.

I hear the ripping of cardboard, and immediately know that the sutures are being opened. Drew's sharp intake of breath isn't very loud, but it's the one sound I was leaning out for, and also dreading. My fists are clenched tight, and when I look down, the hoodie is crumpled again. Oh, well. Better refold it than have to watch.

"Sweetheart, I think your friend needs you," Ms. Stell says.

Shit.

Squeezing as many extra seconds into my movements as I can, I hang the hoodie back on the stool. I turn, and I take a seat on the bed next to him. Drew's head is facing away from me, so he stares at the starched wall. His shoulders are quivering from the pain, even though some anaesthetic has been rubbed over his face.

Sighing, and steeling my nerves, I take a seat on another backless chair and take Drew's hand. He fiddles a bit because he can't see me but soon, he settles down and stops shaking.

I'm not naturally squeamish. The sight of blood isn't the most traumatising thing about today. It's knowing I could have avoided this. His hand tenses every time the needle goes through, understandably. It takes ten seconds of me whispering consoling nothings and rubbing soft circles on his arm for Drew to relax, just in time for the needle to come back again.

I'm wondering how many stitches Drew is going to need when Ms. Stell stops and snips the ends of Drew's stitches, which goes from the side of his lip down to his chin. Drew sits up, shaking and pale-faced, jaw hanging loosely open. I help him off the bed.

He moves to touch his face but Ms. Stell swats his hand away.

"No touching them. If they come out before two days, you'll have to get new ones," she warns.

Drew immediately takes back his hand. I offer him his hoodie. It's only after he slings it over his shoulder, and stands up straight, that I have a chance to inspect the damage. Along with each small cut, there is a significantly larger bruise lying under it.

"How the hell did you get cut?" I ask quietly, when Ms. Stell is packing away her supplies. Punches are supposed to be blunt. The bruises I can understand, just not the cuts.

"Damn bastard was wearing this ring," Drew explains, "—and it had all these sharp metal edges."

I nod once. Bile has swallowed up my breath at the back of my throat, telling me to either vomit it up or choke on it. I just breathe through my nose, keeping my eyes off of Drew and my thoughts off of Derek.

Ms. Stell re-enters. "Get better soon."

Drew gets a student leave pass, to which my name is added on, a medical waiver, and a treatment sheet. It has tips to care for his injuries at home, and numbers to call if they worsen.

We walk in silence down the empty halls, guilt consuming me. This happened because Drew wanted to defend Leah, Delaney and me, who wouldn't have needed defending if I had just stepped out of the way and let the Monarchy pass.

Except I couldn't.

I couldn't back away from someone who hurts other people.

I never will.