Fearing Tank might pounce on me again and resume the beating, I push Sarah away and scramble to my feet. That’s when my brain and nerves decide to deliver the news. Agony replaces the numbness and I have to struggle to remain standing. My vision blurs and my head feels like one massive bruise. Rubbing my temples with my palms, I scan the yard and, squinting, see that Big Dale has his son pinned to the ground. To my right, Sarah’s sitting on the lawn, holding the bloody towel. She looks dazed, stunned even. I notice blood splatters, my blood splatters, across the chest of her pink tank top and feel bad that I’ve ruined such a nice piece of clothing.

It’s weird, the kind of stuff you think about after getting your ass kicked for the first time.

Mr. Foster’s shouting now, yelling for me to go home. Below him, Tank’s screaming every profanity imaginable and squirming like a hooked fish as he tries to escape. There are so many things I want to say right now, to Tank and Sarah, but it’s impossible to speak under such pain.

I stumble over to Sarah and touch my palm to the side of her face. She doesn’t react, just stares blankly at the blood-soaked towel as if she’s a mannequin.

I turn and run.

Somehow I get home and stagger into the kitchen, where I black out again after hearing Mom’s terrified voice. When I open my eyes, Mom and Justin are carrying me toward my bedroom.

I wake up on my bed several minutes later. It suddenly feels like winter, and I quickly realize Mom has icepacks pressed against my stinging cheeks. Surprisingly, I’ve escaped any major damage. I mean, my cheeks feel like erupting volcanoes and my ribs ache something awful, but the rest of my body seems unscathed, not even a black eye to accompany the facial bruises. Justin says something about me being lucky, like a boxer who takes a savage pounding but seems fine right after the fight ends.

I take the icepacks from Mom’s hands and manage to sit upright. Remarkably, I don’t even have a headache. I look back and forth between Mom and Justin. My vision slowly clears.

“My God,” Mom says, her eyes red and swollen. “What happened?”

“Tank beat me up.”

Justin says, “The hell you doing fighting with Tank Foster? That’s suicide.”

“Sarah,” I say, leaving out the stash and Coach Horton.

Mom and Justin look at each other, then at me.

“What about her?” Mom asks.

“We’re in love.”