Baby; he's been calling me that for most of this year. He doesn’t use my name. He smiles when he does it. I detest it. Being called an infant infuriates me. I’m not a helpless victim, but he keeps calling me one. He could have called me anything else; others did. I’ve repeatedly asked him to stop. At first, I was polite; it had no effect. I tried impolitely. Still, he didn’t stop. He added another word for a victim: Babe. Next, I got downright rude. Nothing I have tried has had any effect. More than the names are provoking my anger. I can't stand his thinking that he can do whatever he wants, thinking I can’t do anything to stop him. I hide what I am; the training I have had. Choosing not to react to the degradation and bullying doesn’t make me a victim. Reacting to those things would land me in jail. I slipped out of that consequence when I put three in the hospital at my last school. I won't be so fortunate if it happens again.

I signed up for the cooking class to get out of taking the gym class; something I intended as a break for me that wouldn’t increase my homework load. It became a trial in patience when I got paired up with him. Today's assignment is beef stew. We're all given the same ingredients, but no recipe. It’s a lesson in perception. One set of ingredients will yield sixteen different results, in theory. Reality may be different. Breaking into our assigned pairs, we move to our separate kitchen alcoves. As was common, our teacher disappeared into the staff section of the building.

I’m chopping carrots when I hear him behind me say “Baby, hand me the frying pan.”

That imbecile called me Baby when I’m using a knife! My patience with him is gone. He thinks there are no consequences for his endless antagonism. He’s going to learn how wrong that assumption is. Large kitchen knives weren’t designed with fighting in mind. Their balance is wrong, as is their grip. Suitable or not, it’s the weapon already in my hand. Time slows as my awareness shifts. My grip on the knife tightens as I pivot with it in my raised hand. He backs up a few steps, not yet afraid. Advancing, I move the knife to center. Apprehension creeps into him with the realization that the knife isn’t accidental; I’m threatening him with it.

What stupid prey he is. Rather than back into the room’s center, he’s backing into the corner of the counters. Following, I block his escape routes. The shift in my awareness pushes my anger down. No one has realized anything is amiss. His eyes focus alternately between the knife and my face. Tunnel vision; he can’t have been in a real fight in his entire eighteen years. Terror drains color from his face. Now that I have his attention, I reverse my grip on the knife. Flipping it, so the blade is parallel to my forearm. Our height difference isn't an impediment to shoving my bladed forearm against his neck; forcing him up against the cupboards. Everyone in the room is silent. Wanted or not, I have their attention too. The pressure I'm applying to the blade will slice him open if he moves. No sign of the teacher. I have to finish this before someone gets ultra stupid.

My voice is a low growl. “I have repeatedly asked you not to call me that. I have asked politely, impolitely, and rudely. Nothing makes it through that thick skull of yours. I’m done asking. If you ever call me Baby or Babe again, I will not hesitate to slice your throat open and watch you bleed out. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” His voice is higher than usual.

His understanding is enough. Before he does something stupid, I’m backing away from him. When I have a few feet between us, I lower the knife. Turning towards my workspace, I take in the shocked faces of the other students. They've seen what I did and heard what we said. I have to get things back to normal before the lack of noise draws our teacher.

“Anyone got any tomatoes they aren’t going to use?”

Jesse, another loner, says yes. Depositing the knife on the cutting board, I ask if he requires anything in return, he doesn’t. Students return to their stew making now that the spectacle is over. Some whisper as I cross the room.

“Are you going to slice his throat open if he calls you Baby?” Jesse asks as he hands me the tomatoes.

“There’s no point in making a threat if you aren’t willing to carry it out, Jesse.” My voice sounds dead.

“Oh…” His eyes widen.

I hear this exchange passed through the room as I walk back to my cutting board. He’s staying as far away from me as possible in our kitchen alcove. My pushover facade is blown to smithereens. The noise level has returned to normal when our teacher pokes her head into the room. She glances around before disappearing again. It’s like nothing happened, but something outside of acceptable did happen. How long will it take them to forget I wonder?