My untied tennis shoes squeaked on the tile as I shuffled over to the patient’s table. The nurse greeted me with a sigh, “So, what’s the deal with the blood, kid?”  
       “This boy Jacob, sort of, touched my nose quite aggressively - with his fist,” I mumbled, my tissue becoming increasingly soaked with crimson fluid.  
       Ms. Sarah blinked at me, “He punched you? Oh, I see,” she chuckled, “what a lucky lady. Sounds like someone’s got a crush on you.”  
       “Uh, could I please have some ice or a towel?” I began, but was quickly interrupted by her raspy, monotonous voice. 
       “Here’s the thing. Ten-year-old boys don’t know how to deal with a little arrow from Cupid. Girls use words to express their feelings, but boys tend to prefer force,” she explained nonchalantly, with a loud pop of gum. 
       The blood was beginning to dry in a sticky mold. Delicately touching the bridge of my nose, I responded, “It certainly doesn’t seem like nice feelings. What should I do?” 
       Ms. Sarah’s penciled eyebrows nearly evaporated from an intense raise, as she huffed, “Well dear, I would start with the outfit.” Her acrylic nail pointed to my skirt.  
       I peered down at the sparkly material in my lap, “What about it?” 
       Squinting at me in condescending disbelief, she spat, “Come on honey, you can’t expose your knees like that and expect Jacob to not punch you.” 
       “Oh yeah. I guess so,” I conceded, a metallic taste beginning to invade my mouth.