bullying violence
They've called your parents in. Both of them. It doesn't really surprise you. They've been threatening you with expulsion since the last fight you'd gotten into, and you suppose that expelling a kid takes both his parents, if he's got them. You sit outside the office while they talk to the principal, slouching down with gangly legs spread wide, your knuckles swollen and bleeding slightly from where they'd caught teeth. Teeth, then nose, just two shots was all it took to put the kid on the floor. Some asshole from the football team whose daddy has more money than half the town. Not that your family isn't well-off, but at least you don't shove it into people's faces.
And at least you don't think it gives you the right to go around pushing kids into lockers. Especially small sophomores that maybe like to wear nailpolish and black tshirts. You'd heard the words echoing off the lockerroom tiles, calling the kid a fag, calling him queer, telling him he was a girl and how certain they were that he wanted to suck all of them off. You'd heard the sound when they started slapping him, not even punching, but stinging skin against skin. The taunting had been enough to make you angry, but the hitting took it too far. The kid had looked up in fear when you'd rounded the corner of the lockers, certain that you were there to join in his abuse, but you'd crossed the space and punched the leader of the sick little group without any warning. When he'd fallen to the ground, blood pouring from his broken nose, you'd just looked down at him, fingers on the button of your jeans. "Why you so interested in dick sucking, Tyler? Maybe you want to give it a try yourself? You're awful pretty with that blood on your face..." Whatever had been in your expression had made him scramble back, hand cupped in front of his nose, to escape the narrow row of lockers. The sophomore kid had looked at you in awe as the rest of the group rushed off to check on their friend and likely tell the gym teacher what had happened.
Your parents come out of the office, both of them with stormcloud expressions, and your dad pulls you to your feet with a bruising grip on your arm. You're taller than him by at least a few inches, but he's still your father, and he also outweighs you by about half your body weight. The exit from the school and the drive home are filled with silence, but you know that it won't last.
The shouting starts once the front door is closed and locked behind you. It's anger and disappointment in equal measure, and you'd rather have the former than the latter. They'd never hit you, have never even spanked you or your siblings, but your dad looks like he wants to. Instead, he fights with words. You've always been trouble, why do you do it, don't you know what this means? The information from the boarding school is slammed onto the table by a heavy hand, even as you shake your head. If you straighten up and stop the shit, maybe you can be part of this family again, he says. It sounds a lot like you aren't right now. But you're not going to that school. Never. You try to shout back, to explain about the kid you were helping, but they don't listen. Your mother cries, and that's the worst of all, seeing the tears on her face. Why can't you be more like your sister, she asks. Don't you know this ruins your chances for getting into a good college?
You're seventeen, months away from graduating high school. You don't want to go to college, and you sure as hell don't want to go to boarding school. You've got a little bit of money in your savings account, and only a few things in your room that you consider irreplaceable. When they send you there after they're done yelling at you, you start packing the things you can't leave behind. They don't call you to dinner, don't let your younger siblings talk to you. When the house finally goes dark and quiet, you leave a note on the kitchen counter and slip out the back door.