He went down flat on his face, feeling the breath swoosh out of his chest. Then a small, furious form was upon him, pummeling the back of his neck, the side of his face, the top of his head. Jason’s hands were trapped beneath his stomach, hard knots against his kidneys. He struggled to get his arms beneath him, to heave himself up and over, while a sharp-cornered textbook connected with the side of his face.

“You killed her, you killed her, you killed her! You bastard, you big stupid son of a bitch. She warned me about you. She warned me!”

“Ethan! For heaven’s sake, Ethan Hastings, stop it!”

Ethan Hastings was not interested in Mrs. Lizbet’s command. From what Jason could tell in his shocked state, the computer nerd had a schoolbook and knew how to use it. The corner of the primer had cut his eye; Jason could feel the blood trickling down his temple even as the kid walloped him again.

Running footsteps now. Other people drawn by the commotion.

“Ethan, Ethan,” a male voice was shouting down the hall. “You get off him. Right now!”

Get up, get up, get up, get up, Jason was thinking. For heaven’s sake, get your hands beneath you and GET UP.

“I loved her. I loved her, I loved her. How dare you? How dare you?”

The third blow caught Jason beneath the ear and he saw stars. His vision blurred. He could tell his eyes wanted to roll up inside his head. His chest was too tight, he couldn’t draw a breath, making his lungs burn. He was going to pass out. He couldn’t afford to pass out.

“I fucking hate you!”

Then as quickly as it had started, it was done. Footsteps arrived, strong male arms grabbing the eighth-grader’s furious body and dragging him, kicking, off of Jason’s back. Jason seized the opportunity to flip over, struggling like a beached whale to draw breath. His chest hurt. His head, his back, behind his knee, where apparently he’d been slugged with the complete set of Encyclopedia Britannica. Holy crap.

Mrs. Lizbet was looking down at him, worry creasing her brow. “Are you okay? Don’t move. We’ll call an ambulance.”

No, he tried to say, but the word didn’t come out. He finally managed to inhale, his chest expanding with a grateful rush. He managed the word better on the exhale, low and pitiful as it sounded: “No.”

“Don’t be stupid—”

“No!” He rolled back over onto his hands and knees, his head hanging down, his skull still ringing. Leg hurt. Face hurt. Chest was better. See, real progress.