I’m so absorbed in my own thoughts that I’m almost late for history. I’m not the last one through the door, though—Danny Yao is. My blood freezes as he brushes past me. The image of the bike shed presses against my mind. I imagine him cursing my name, scribbling the words over the wall, laughing about it with his friends. But then my attention goes to his face, and I stifle a gasp. His entire left eye is swollen shut, the skin around it a vivid purplish-blue. The bruise wasn’t there yesterday afternoon.
OH MY GOSH AHAHHHAA
