I have ten seconds. Or at least that’s what it seems like. I reach for my backpack, but it's far off on the other side of me. It’s too late and it’s bone against bone.
The punch doesn't hurt nearly as much as I thought it would. It turns out Mark Lawson has fat, squishy hands.
“Fuck you, Lisbon!” Mark yells at me. I sit up and rub the side of my face. Who the fuck names a kid ‘Lisbon’, anyway?
“It’s a beautiful name for a boy,” my mom had told me. “Don’t you love the sound of it?”
My grandma ended up telling me exactly what kind of person names a kid ‘Lisbon’: a twenty- something-year-old who had just given birth to the love child of some music festival smack down of bumping uglies.