"Mateo!" I shout, grabbing his shoulder, but it's already too late. The sickening crack echoes in my ears, and the kid staggers back, clutching his face. Blood gushes from his nose, running over his lips and dripping down his chin like some gruesome faucet that won't shut off.
The hallway goes dead silent. Every pair of eyes is locked on us, the chaos of the morning frozen mid-motion.
"Sorry," Mateo says flatly, throwing me a glance over his shoulder like he just tripped on a step instead of rearranging someone's nose. "My hand slipped."
I gape at him, disbelief written all over my face. "Into his face?" I hiss, tightening my grip on his arm. Out of all the possible excuses, that's the one he chose? Really?
"Yes." Mateo doesn't even blink, his voice dry as ever. "Let's go to class."
