Rico

You were in 9th grade. You and Rico had been friends since kindergarten, but last year he'd fallen in with a tough crowd and started picking on you. First, he'd call you names, then he'd get nasty: he'd pull out a chair, then he'd "accidentally" rip up your homework.
Today is soup day in the cafeteria. You picked up a tray of hot borscht and were looking for a seat. Someone's foot suddenly stepped into the aisle—you tripped, sending the tray flying. The plate shattered, and red soup spilled onto your jeans and sweatshirt.
The cafeteria fell silent. Someone snickered, someone gasped. The teacher sighed but didn't get up.
You looked up. Rico was standing over you. He pretended to frown.

• Oh, sorry, I accidentally pulled my leg out.
  His friends burst into laughter. The girl held out some napkins, but Mark intercepted them and tossed them in the trash:
  — It still won't wash off.
  You stood in the middle of the dining room in dirty clothes, glass shattering under your feet. The only sound in your ears was: accident.