The room was so white, you'd swear you were trapped under an avalanche. I shuffled over to the bench as sat, by bookbag tossed into a corner. I layed back and let one leg hang over the bench, one arm over my face. It didn'thelp to remember at that moment that the blood was drying up on my hand and itched terribly. I took away my arm to examine the wound. It still stung. I flexed my hand, frsh blood shmoozed out over the dried platelets. From the corner of my eyes, I saw Mr. Dicky talking to the secretary. One hand was deep in his pocket, the other eccentuated what he was saying. Mrs. Fibble said something and Dicky nodded with a blink, then brushed his bangs behind his ear. He mimed a wrapping motion around his hand and jerked his head in my direction. he hadn't forgotten after all. He suddenly turned to face me, and I quickly looked away. I brought up my legs and fiddled with my shoe lace once I was sure he was going to leave me alone. They felt oddly dirty. I was picking at some sticky gunk on the top of my shoe when the heavy door clicked . Ebbit cam ein , her shoes made a quiet shiffling sounds on the linolium. she stoped in front of me but didn't speak. She got new shoes it seemed. They looked strangely masculine.

"Don't nurses have to wear booties?"I asked without looking up.

One foot tipped a little as she looked at it, "I wouldn't know. I'm not a nurse." said a clearly male voice.

Definatly not Ms. Ebbit.

I jerked by head up and, surprise! It's Mr. Dicky! He held up some cloth and alcahol, "But I can give it a shot." he said without a trace of annoyance from earlier.

I looked away and stopped fiddling with my laces.

"Let's see your hand."he said gently.

I began to move my hand, but stopped. It's fine. Just blood flesh and bone. Nothing huge. I looked down at my fingers which idly grazed my shoe. From my peripheral, I saw him dab the cloth with the alcahol. He crouched and looked up at me, raising his brows.

"Your hand?"
Hesitantly I held out my hand and he took it. I swear I turned as red as an apple and I could feel my flesh burn. His thumb pressed into my palm, his toher fingers pressed gently on top of my hand. He dabbed gingerly at y gaping wound. The fried blood disapeared and the sting was refreshing. When the rag was nearly soaked in blood, without a second thought, he folded the rag and set it on his knee, but he still held my hand for a moment. He looked at it closely as if to scrutenize my cells. He then sandwitched my hand in his, careful to not touch my wound.

"That's gonna need stitches." he concluded as he looked up at me.

For a breif moment, he just looked at each other, but he suddenly stood up, picking up the rag.

"Uhm, well, "He half turned towards the door, "I'll contact your home."He said importantly, then stood for another moment.

I looked over my hand, and he left. As soon as he turned the corner, I ran my finger along where his fingers pressed into my hand. even if I was about ot get a needle in it about ten times, I felt like I was stuffed with cotton. Then it hit me like my horses kick. What the hell am I thinking? I'm a junior in highschool with an over active attitude and serious etiquite problems. He's a tidy, gently twenty something year old school conselour. Tottally inmoral and tottally not going to happen.

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