[This story was submitted for the Not Quite Write Prize for Flash Fiction Challenge. I was required to write a 500-word story that featured the word “punch”, featured the action of “spilling something”, and broke the writing rule of “avoid cliches”.]

***

Trailer trash.

The words were scrawled across my locker in bubblegum-colored lipstick. Sniggers popped off behind me, like crickets warming up for their nocturnal chorus. I didn’t dare turn around — unwilling to endure the smirks and pointing fingers, yet again. 

I used the sleeve of my threadbare sweater as an eraser, but the lipstick simply smeared across the dull gray metal. I scrubbed harder, tears streaming. The stack of textbooks I carried spilled at my feet, adding insult to injury — I scrambled to gather them. A Nike sneaker pinned my biology book to the linoleum. The football quarterback, Silas, loomed over me, his girlfriend, Sasha, on his arm. 

“Oops, my bad. Didn’t see you there, T.T.” Silas kicked my textbook down the hall. 

Onlookers gathered like a pack of hyenas, drooling over wounded prey. 

“Get to class,” Mr. Steward shouted from his doorway across the hall as the bell rang.

Saved by the bell.

Sasha winked, blowing me a kiss with bubblegum-pink lips. “See you at lunch.” 

Mr. Steward handed me the biology book. “You need to show those jerks they’re barking up the wrong tree.”

I gave him a weak smile, shoved the books into my locker, and scurried off to the cafeteria.

The cashier sighed as I slid my tray to her register. “You still have a negative balance, sweetheart.” 

I stared at the blob of mashed potatoes on my tray. “I’m sorry. My mom said—”

Mom said, “We don’t need charity. Pack a lunch.”

A student jutted out of line. “What’s taking so long?”

“Tara, this is the last time you can borrow,” The cashier closed the register. “Remind your mom, okay?”

“T.T.’s trying to get a free lunch ‘cause she’s too poor to pay like the rest of us,” Sasha said from behind me where she had cut in line, waiting to pounce.

I spun around and upturned my tray onto her chest. Mashed potatoes and corn slid off her cheerleading uniform. She scowled at me, astonished, speechless.

“What’s wrong, Sasha? Cat got your tongue?” She opened her mouth to retort. Reeling back, I punched her perfect little nose. 

  ***

The clock ticked in Mr. Steward’s room during after-school detention. Sasha, arms folded over her stained uniform, glared at me with purple bruises blooming around her eyes and bloody cotton balls shoved up her nose. 

When time was nearly up, the classroom door burst open and Sasha’s mom stormed in.

“You’re pathetic,” Sasha crumpled under her mother’s wrath. “Get up before you embarrass me any more than you already have.”

Sasha followed her mom into the hallway like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs.

“You better hope your nose isn’t broken,” Her mother slammed the classroom door. “Your face was your ticket out of this town. God knows you aren’t smart enough to go to college.”

Mr. Steward laid down the newspaper he was reading. “Well, I’d say she’s a chip off the old block.”

Mom said, “Hurt people hurt people.”

***

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