Jumping the . . Brass Knuckles

Jumping the… Brass Knuckles?
Blood cascades down from Mike's nose, running down his jugular. Raging fury is in his eyes as he struggles to get up. His opponent, Drake, hit him to the ground before he could get up, while Drake's brass knuckles glistens in the light, dripping with a bit of blood. Drake took off into a sprint so he wouldn't be caught, leaving Mike. That's where I decide to step in.
Pretending I just came upon the scene, I run up to Mike and made sure he was all right. "Mike, I'm going to go get the nurse, okay?"
He grunts then starts to shake his head. "No. I'm fine."
"Fine? You look like your face went through the washing machine!" I say with exasperation.
"I'm just going to go home and get some rest," he replies weakly. Mike then sits up and begins to limp away.
Later on, in the high school's halls, I see Mike getting his stuff from his locker. I go up to him and ask, "Hey, I thought you were going to go home?"
He narrows his eyes—like I'm the enemy—and responds, "I didn't get my homework yet. Back off." I see Brant, someone who sits next to Mike in English, coming through my peripheral vision; Mike uses this as an excuse to turn away.
I decide now is not the best time to question him and leave. But as I was walking away, I hear Brant give Mike some of his "miracle cream". Brant says it's should help alleviate Mike's wounds, which is like what it did to Brant when he was sick and injured.

I sigh and try to get through the school day, like every other student—it's been almost five hours since I've last seen Mike. Then, I see Drake walking through the hall. He seems to be scoping out the area— looking out for teachers, perhaps. He's pretty tall—being about six feet—and his hair was cut recently; the T-shirt he wears has a few dirt stains, while his jeans look like they're too big even with his burly build.
All of a sudden, he grabs the kid—I don't know his name—rummaging through his locker, and he punches the poor kid's face—I see a glimpse of light as he does so. His hand connects with his victim's solar plexus, and while a smirk appears on his face. The guy's face has blood all over with bruises starting to form, which is when Drake sees this an opportunity to go to his next class, impassive. Brant comes up from behind, seeming out of nowhere, and runs to give his ointment. I go up to ask a question, but Brant pushes me out of the way, getting some ointment on the sleeve of my shirt. I cringe and decide to just go.
Mike hasn't been back since a month ago when I saw him getting beat up. His parents say he's sick with Staph, but that seems odd, considering he was fine (other than his broken nose) last I saw him. And the other guy I don’t know the name of has been apparently out sick with the same thing, too. So have other Drake's victims….
I decide to sneak into Drake's place while he's going out for a party (like he usually does on the weekends). I shimmy my way into his room through his window with some tools my dad had lying around. His room smells like old food with some Frebreeze—as if someone's trying to cover the stench. I scrunch my nose and start rummaging through his stuff. Seeing as though his past victims have been sick, I assume he has not only been beating them but perhaps poisoning them, too. I come up empty, but as I am biking to my house, I see Drake. He narrows his eyes at me while plodding along the sidewalk. I slow down and make a split second decision: question him.
I smile and say, "Drake?" He hesitantly turns his head towards me. "Can I ask you something?" He doesn't reply, but I continue, "I've been wondering why you choose to hurt those people."
"Look," he says, "I don't want to talk to you, but I'm not in a bad mood—the party I came back from was great. So I will they say that they deserve it. For reasons that are none of your business, of course." He then snickers and says, "But if you think that I am the cause for them being all sick… well, that's just not me." He treads away, leaving me in a little confusion. But he had to be the cause of it. I head back home to figure everything out and get a clear mind.
I look for patterns in Drake's prey, and all of them seem to have Staphylococcus, or Staph, which is a bacterial infection. I research more about it and look at the causes: pneumonia, food poisoning, skin infection, toxic shock syndrome, and—blood poisoning. That has to be it!
My mind starts to rush with emotions and ideas; it's very overwhelming. I take some deep breaths to calm myself, but that doesn’t help. I've figured this out! My first "case": solved!
Drake has been hitting his victims with his brass knuckles, and they always cause blood wounds. His brass knuckles must have Staphylococcus on them, and they're not clean so it keeps on spreading to Drake's prey. A smile twitches on my face, and when I look at my reflection on my computer screen, my grin beams and stretches further. I leave my things and head to the hospital, where Mike is to tell him my discovery.
It felt like a lifetime to bike all the way there—I didn't pass my drivers license test yet. I feel a wave a relief as I see it's visiting hours, and I start my way to Mike's room. Brant's in there as well, but he's sitting on a chair reading a magazine. The room smells sterile and like ammonia, which is not a surprise. Everything is white—walls, floor, ceiling, bed, sheets—, but Brant's blazing red shirt contrasts with everything.
"Hey, Mike!" I pronounce with elation.
He groans and asks why I'm here. I see that he's looking at some papers about his medical evaluation and inquire if I can see them, while pointing at the papers.
"I guess," he answers, handing me the papers. I scan through, confirming that what I thought was right. I look at the cause for the Staph that Mike has and gasp. Brant leaves to room and says he's going to get some food, and I run to my bike and go home, leaving the papers in Mike's room.


I shut my locker and lower my head against its door. Oh, great. I cannot believe I was so quick to judge. I then exhale and trudge to English. I can't seem to look at Drake because he was right when I questioned him.
"Okay class, we're going to have a workshop day in English today. I will make you all into groups of three or four, and you will all have to write a short essay on the topic I choose for you…." Mr. Sharpe goes on, but I tune his voice out of my mind. "Riley," I look up when he calls my name, "you will be with Brant, and your topic will be about impulsiveness." I try to hide a grimace and go to my group. What an ironic topic for us; it's still silly though.
Everything became a blur after that because for some reason, I start to yell. It's mostly at Brant because I accuse him for infecting everyone, but he deserves it. Next thing I know I'm over at the principle's office with Brant.
"Now, Riley, calm down. Please explain why you're upset," Principle Adams says calmly. Her face shows annoyance, but it looks like she's trying to hide it.
"Okay," I utter. "Brant—over there—has been the cause of the Staph infections. I'm not sure if it's intentional or not, but it's him. I know it. After every time each victim has been hurt, Brant's always there to give his 'miracle cream'. This 'cream' is infected with Staphylococcus, er, Staph, and it's been spreading because of him. You can check the medical records because the causes of everyone's Staph is a skin infection." Principle Adams considers my theory. I smirk.
Brant's body looks as if he's in shock. "W—wh—wha—,"he stutters, trying to defend himself. I give him a smug look, while he says again, "What the heck are you talking about? How could you accuse me like this? I didn't do it!" Sure he didn't.
I smile and hand some papers to the principle. "Look at these," I start. "They are results of the cultures of Brant's ointment. I had them medically examined after Brant accidentally brushed some ointment on my sleeve."
Principle Adams' thin eyebrows arch up, and she excuses me. I hear her calling Brant's parents on my way out. My smile looks like the Cheshire cat, wild with excitement, but I can't help it.

I'm glad I didn't blurt out my first idea about Drake being the culprit—I should apologize to him later—, but it's always good to make mistakes. Well, to learn from them at least.


In English class, I relax and smile—it's been about a month since what Brant did, and he hasn't been back in school since. No more people he can harm anymore. In fact, there haven't been any more cases of skin infections since I caught him. The only sick cases so far have been with a couple of teachers in the hospital last week, but that was just food poisoning.
Class is almost over, so I go over to Mr. Sharpe to talk about the assignment, and a half-eaten sandwich is on the side of his desk. He started it about an hour ago when class started, so why hasn't he finished it? He always devours his food in the first ten minutes of class. His hand is clutching his stomach, and his face is pale.
"Mr. Sharpe, are you okay?" I ask with worry in my voice.
"Hmm? Oh. Yes, I'm fine. Nothing for you to worry about," he responds weakly. His face turns a sickly green, and he buries his face in the trashcan. I can hear him retching.
"Mr. Sharpe, do you want me to get the nurse?"
"It's just food poisoning—I guess I caught it from the other teachers, eh?" he tries to joke about that, but I don't smile. He doesn't even talk to the other teachers. I know this because when I asked my History teacher if she knew where he was, she said that she had no idea and that he was sort of a recluse. I knit my eyebrows together.
"Do you know any of the other teachers that have been sick?" I start to interrogate.
He bites his lip and replies, "Not really, I guess. They don't talk much… like me, I guess." I consider this for a moment and ponder. How could all the teachers have been food poisoned if they don't even interact with one another?
Realization kicks in. That means that this is not accidental. What's going on?
~ RandomGirl KMC
What special trait about yourself made you want to write your short story?
I wanted to write this short story because I am interested in science, and I thought that it would be interesting to write a "medical mystery". I also enjoy watching TV shows that have to do with solving cases ("Bones", "Psych", etc) and reading books about similar topics as well, which is where the mystery idea comes from.