With tightly squeezed fists, she extends her arms. One, two, three steps forward. Laughing, the boy clicks his tongue, winks. His knuckles rise, crash against hers. Hollow knock, bone striking bone. She doesn’t blink; he doesn’t notice flint distilled in her eyes. He curses, tries again. This time, pink flesh exposed—blood, dirt, sun-browned skin—she lifts her chin. Fists clenched tighter, nails digging into palms. Steady. She bites the meat of her inner cheek, glares as the next boy assumes his position before her. The first boy shakes his head. "This chick’s all right." Her small smile, an invisible rift.
Adrianna Sanchez-Lopez is a lover of words, trees, cats, and lavender tea. When she is not writing, she is reading, teaching, and learning. Visit her website www.adriannasanchezlopez.com and @a.drisl on Instagram.