"He just attacked me, Mr. Higgins!" Trent whined from the floor, peering up through tear-filled eyes. His acting was Oscar-worthy. "I was just asking if he had dropped a textbook in the hallway, and he hit me with his tray!"
Higgins didn't even look at me to ask for my side of the story. He grabbed my left arm, his heavy fingers digging painfully into my bicep. "My office. Now."
He dragged me through the sea of staring faces. I could hear the harsh whispers slicing through the air. Psycho. Trash. What's wrong with him? They looked at my cheap, worn-out denim shirt and saw exactly what Trent wanted them to see: a volatile, unstable outcast who couldn't control his temper. Even the lunch ladies, who usually gave me extra fries, looked at me with disappointment and fear.