Lia hadn't felt the sting of skinned elbows, much less arms and hands, since she was too small for it to have mattered; a childhood spent among myriad cousins, wandering the boroughs, playing stick ball or handball or ring and run or manhunt even when she might rather have been playing Barbies.
She'd been flexible, even back then.
There was pain, definitely, but also the humiliation of a graceless tumble; she prided herself on not being one of those girls, who drank too much and ended up on their asses, one way or the other.
(Well, maybe occasionally one way, but definitely not the other.)
As she rose to her feet, her dress having somehow survived, her shoes miraculously unscuffed, it was tempting to kick their attacker squarely where it counted - but police presence was upon them, and the last thing she needed was her name in the news with an assault and battery charge. Before she could catch the officers, though, they were already on the scene, corralling her out of the way even as she tried to explain, and closing in on Vince and the ass who'd started it all.