Tara was using too many pronouns, so I wasn’t sure which injury belonged to whom, and which guy had done most of the swinging, but my stomach lurched at the mention of “the Indian kid.” That could only be Samuel.
“Where are they now?” My eyes scanned the area where the circle around the fighters had formed, not seeing Samuel, Joby, or Mr. Bracken, for that matter.
“When someone yelled that the principal was coming, Joby and his friends took off towards the junior high. The indian kid picked up his backpack and headed this way with everybody that was running towards the bus. I don’t know where he went…” She looked around, jumping up and down to gain enough height to see over the swarm of kids. “I don’t know if Mr. Bracken was actually even coming - somebody might have yelled that just to stop the fight.”
“So you never saw Mr. Bracken?” I hoped Samuel wouldn’t end up expelled. Word usually made its way around, news of the fight would fill the halls tomorrow, but maybe if he made it home without being caught, the principal might not get wind of it until after the fact, making expulsion less likely.
The bus had quickly inhaled her anxious passengers, and Tara and I climbed up the steep steps, Tara chattering all the way.
“There was so much blood! The indian kid -”
“Samuel! His name is Samuel,” I interrupted her.
“Whatever!” Tara gestured impatiently, obviously not caring what his name was.
When I climbed to the highest stair and was able to see down the aisle, my eyes rushed to my seat. Samuel was there, eyes glued out the window, probably watching to see if he’d make it home free. Tara continued talking, but I was no longer listening. I wondered how he’d gotten past the bus driver without detection. I teetered down the aisle and swung in next to Samuel, my heavy pack sliding to the floor.
“Are you okay?” I asked breathlessly. Samuel had pulled his arm out of the sleeve of his t-shirt, and buttoned his coat over his t-shirt. I could see blood on his pants, and as I tried to get a good look at his face, I realized his lip was swollen and split as well.
“I’m fine,” Samuel said tersely, keeping his face averted.
“If you don’t stop the bleeding you’re going to give yourself away,” I insisted.
Samuel sighed in exasperation and, with one hand, unbuttoned his jean jacket. He’d wrapped his hand in the bottom of his t-shirt, baring his toned brown stomach. The light blue cotton was completely soaked through with blood.
“Oh my gosh!” I sounded like Tara, but I couldn’t help it. He must have laid his knuckles open. “I’ll be right back!” I headed back up the aisle. The bus was now in motion and Mr. Walker barked at me to sit down. I ignored him, walking purposefully, holding onto the seats to stay upright on the swaying bus.
“Mr. Walker, the kid sitting next to me has a bloody nose. Do you have a first aid kit or some paper towels?”
“Why is his nose bleeding?” Mr. Walker looked at me suspiciously.
“I don’t know - it just started bleeding,” I said nonchalantly, and felt ridiculously obvious. I was a pretty pathetic liar. Acting was definitely not in my future.
“Harrumph,” Mr. Walker grumbled, pointing to where a small tin box with a red cross emblazoned across the front was velcroed above the big front windows.
I unstrapped the box and made my way back to Samuel. He’d put the jacket back up over his hand, hiding the bloody state of his t-shirt from the nosy kids around him. All it would take was one kid seeing the blood, shouting out to Mr. Walker, and Samuel would be ousted.
I slid down next to him, pulling the little first aid kit open and rifling through the contents. There were several good sized band aids and antibacterial wipes, as well as some gauze and some white surgical tape. I pulled my backpack up onto the seat behind me, scooting forward until I was barely sitting on the seat. I turned sideways and effectively blocked Samuel from view. I stacked his backpack on top of mine and made a little wall that would be useless if someone in front of us or behind us stood up and looked over the seat. But it was the best I could do.
“Let me see your hand,” I insisted softly.
Samuel unwound his right hand from the bloody t-shirt and held it out to me. Fresh blood immediately rose from the deep slice across his knuckles and spilled onto his fingers. I slapped a thick white gauze pad over it, pushing it down into the cut to stop the flow.
“Hold that!” I ordered him, grabbing some little butterfly sutures that I’d seen Johnny use when he’d split the bridge of his nose during football practice. I pulled the tabs off and at my command, Samuel lifted the gauze pad and I swooped in, pulling the side of the gash together with the butterfly band aid. I put another one on, and the blood slowed to an ooze at the slit. I put the gauze pad over the top and again asked Samuel to hold it there.
“What happened?” I questioned lightly as I wrapped some stretchy gauze around the pad.
“Joby Jenkins needed a fist in his face,” Samuel replied shortly.
“Why?” My eyes flickered up to his.
“I got tired of his half-breed jokes.” Samuel’s well-shaped mouth was drawn into a tight hard line. “What is it with some people?”
I yanked off a piece of surgical tape with my teeth and proceeded to secure the gauze. I wasn’t very good at this, but at least he wouldn’t bleed all over himself.
“What do you mean?”
“Some people just can’t keep their mouths shut. Joby is constantly shooting his mouth off.” Samuel watched as I cleaned the blood off the fingers poking out from my makeshift mound of gauze and tape.