They hovered around us unsure of what was going to happen but knowing that they wanted to see it resolved.
So I punched him. Just hauled back and bottled up my fist (did remember to tuck thumb away) and punched him square in the gut. I swear his eyes grew to the size of lunch plates. I could tell what he was thinking.
“Yeah, a girl punched you. Now leave my section alone.”
He mumbled a bit, doubled over a bit, and stumbled back toward the practice rooms.
It felt good to see his usually sneering face transformed by pain.
I looked around at my boys and noticed they seemed more surprised by my short brutal act then the bully I had just stood up to on their behalf. “Remember boys,” I looked around my fellow trombonists with my new menacing glare. “Brass players don’t take shit from woodwinds.”
“We didn’t think you’d hit him.”
“Two years of talking hadn’t stopped him. What else was I supposed to do?” My second was standing next to me. “Remember,” I told him. “Next year you’re in charge of the section. I expect you to take care of them just like I’ve taught you.”
He gulped and wondered when high school orchestra had gotten so dangerous.