“Maybe if she wasn’t such a slut her whore mom wouldn’t have kicked her out for sleeping with her new man.”

The laughter echoes, growing louder until it wraps around my throat like my mother’s hands when in a fit, choking me until I lose focus.

I stop where I stand.

My eyes haze, rage winning over the calm bravado I attempted to force myself into.

“Trailer trash, bitch.”

More laughs.

And there it is, the push.

Why do they always push?

Before anyone can stop me, not that there’s anyone who would give a shit, I snatch the closest tray off the nearest table and in one swift move, one hard, full swing, smash it across the side of her face.

The cheap red plastic breaks against her head and screams ring around me.

Blood pours from the big mouthed bitch’s forehead and she shrieks, her horrified gaze flying to mine. I wait until our stares connect, then quickly kick her chair sideways. Panic grows in her eyes as she crashes to the floor.

There’s no time to escape, not that I have anywhere to go.

People scream, but no one dares to step closer to me. The lunch lady calls for help and everyone rushes to the side of the asshole on the floor because she’s ‘the victim.’ Sure, I got physical first, but she started it. What did she expect?

If you can’t take it, don’t dish it.

And, yeah, the spat wasn’t a lie, my mother is a whore. The dirtiest of dirty. Straight trailer trash at its finest, I’ll admit it all day.

But she doesn’t get to say it.

And I sure as shit couldn’t let her get away with disrespecting me the way she did, publicly.

Not sure how she managed it, but my mother, the failure she is, taught me one thing - to keep my pride above all else.

Apparently, that’s all a girl like me can control.

So, disrespect me not.

“My office! Now!” Principal Folk screeches. He doesn’t call me by name, doesn’t look my way, but why would he? Here I stand, caught red-handed - literally still holding half of the tray in my hand - as always.

He probably knew it was me the second someone called for help, before even walking in here.

I toss the tray to the floor and head straight to my home away from home - the cheap wooden chair with a ripped-up burgundy center that sits directly across from the principal’s desk.

Monday was, as he warned, my “last strike,” but yesterday I got caught smoking behind the gym, and I’m still here. Today’s Thursday.

Wonder if he’s in another forgiving mood?

I’m guessing not when forty-five minutes later he charges in and slams himself into the seat, glaring at me through his little nerd glasses.