I ate the last of my sandwich and then suddenly realized that there was a commotion growing outside the auditorium. I crammed everything back into my backpack, walked quickly to the door, and cracked it open just a bit. All I could make out were the backs of people’s heads, so I slipped out and tried to blend into the crowd, acting as though I had been there all along. The last thing I wanted was to get caught and lose the only place in the school I could really be alone. I had nothing to worry about because no one paid any attention to me. They were all too busy whispering loudly about the red paint smudged along the corridor walls.

There were random smears here and there that reminded me of the finger paints I used in kindergarten. It would have been funny—except the streaks looked like blood and there was sense of brutality in the air, as though a battle had raged in this hallway. It took a few more minutes for me to notice that the person had also taken the time to inscribe a message across the door of Mr. West’s classroom. Boldly, unapologetically, and in crimson paint, it read:

FAT ASS

At first I was shocked, but then I wanted to laugh. I admired anyone who could pull off a prank designed to humiliate a man who lived to humiliate everyone around him. Several teachers joined the group and tried to coax students back to their classrooms. Then, suddenly, it got quiet and the whispering and pointing all stopped as a man made his way towards the classroom.

Mr. West stood in front of his door, hands on his enormous hips, his goatee trembling and, even though I wished I didn’t, for a second I felt sorry for him. With a roar, he leapt into the crowd and grabbed his prey. When he reemerged, it was with a struggling Daryl in tow.

“Get off of me, man!” shouted a furious Daryl without a hint of panic in his voice as he worked to slip out of the grip that Wicked West had firmly placed him in.

The group dispersed. Teachers herded kids back to their classrooms, but I stayed. So many times in my life I have allowed opportunities to pass me by and I was not going to allow that to happen again. That is what I told myself as my peanut butter and jelly sandwich turned to cement in the pit of my stomach.

“You little freak,” Mr. West growled.

I saw his grip tighten, but Daryl didn’t look scared. Instead, he seemed comfortable, almost relaxed. As if this wasn’t the first time someone was close to smashing his skull into a wall.

“Did you think I wouldn’t figure it out?” Mr. West put his face up close to Daryl’s. I cringed, thinking about what his breath smelled like.

“Stop it!” I yelled.