ARC: Crushed by Eliza Crewe

storyline. Curiosity turns my head. We’re close – kissing-distance close. Or biting distance, in our case. He must realize this and pulls back slightly, but keeps his smirk. His eyes spark, like I suspect mine do right before I deliver a death-blow.
    “Because the dumb slut slept with him, and he’s too nice to–” WHAM, out of nowhere he nose-butts me in the fist!
    Yeah, I don’t think Jo’s gonna believe that either.
    I wince, imagining Jo’s response. My arm’s still outstretched from where it slammed into his face and I whip it back to my side. Isaiah’s on the floor, blood bubbling from between the fingers clenched over his nose, the bags under his eyes already darkening. I look from him to the room full of dead-silent witnesses.
    Screw it. In for a penny, in for a pound. As they say, if you’re gonna do the time, you might as well enjoy the crime.
    Suddenly my day is looking up.
    I glare around the room, the ferocity I’ve been feeling all day displayed for anyone to see. A couple kids gasp, and they all step back. “Anyone have anything else to say about Jo? Rope-climbing? Demons?” I snarl. I let a wicked smile curl up my lips. My eyes spark with challenge and I hope someone does. “No one?” I catch the eye of one wide-eyed sophomore and she actually shakes her head before she ducks it behind the girl next to her.
    Isaiah makes a groaning noise as he shuffles around on the floor. He pulls himself up using a table, then moves to place it between us. He pulls his hand down from his nose, so he can shout at me. “You are screwed!” Blood still pours from his nose and runs over his mouth. It sprays as he screams. “When Crusader Grayland gets here–”
    But I am not afraid of ancient Grayland. I am not afraid of Isaiah. I’m not afraid of anyone. But Isaiah should be very afraid of me. The wolfhound has slipped her leash.
    I slam my hands down on the table between us with a loud whack , then throw it into the wall so hard it shatters. I fly at him, whip fast, and he stumbles backwards into another table. I grab a fistful of shirt so we’re nose to bloody-nose. “I’d be careful if I were you Isaiah – he’s not here yet.” I use my creepy, lyrical, tone. The one I reserve for people I’m about to peel apart limb by limb. Like almost everyone, he immediately recognizes it. He pales, white skin behind red blood. “And, as you pointed out, I’m already in trouble” I lean in, my cheek almost touching his neck, as I breathe into his ear. “I have nothing to lose.” I pull back and bare my teeth. He glares back, but doesn’t say anything.
    I was wrong; maybe Isaiah is a bit clever. Because in that moment, suspended, enraged, and free, I can’t say for certain what I would do if he did say something. Delightful options play through my mind in red-splashed tableaux. The vision makes my breath catch, and some of my thoughts must have played on my face, because Isaiah’s breath catches too.
    Then the classroom door opens, and the spell’s broken.
    “What the devil is going on here?” Crusader Grayland asks in his creaky voice. Then he gasps too. “Miss Porter! Release him at once.”
    I don’t. I want the whole class to understand what I could do to Isaiah before Crusader Grayland – or any of them, really – could stop me. They have never seen me as I am, only the tamed, washed-out water-color Jo makes me be.
    I want it to be an image they never forget.
    The tension builds, until Crusader Grayland pops it with a “Miss Porter!” in a stern tone. I hear the cane-tap and shuffle of the old Crusader moving toward us.
    With one more parting glare, I shove Isaiah away, hard enough for the table he slams into to fall over so he lands on the floor once more.
    The class lets out a collective breath. “Miss Porter!” Crusader Grayland says again, this time in a tone that’s half-relief, half-outrage. “This is unacceptable! Take yourself–”
    I cut him off. “It’s Melange. Miss