Erasmus Hall High School sits on the corner of Church and Flatbush avenues in Brooklyn. Its ornately carved limestone facade is adorned with friezes and frescoes of great philosophers. Wrought-iron gates worthy of St. Peter lead to a spacious cobblestone courtyard centered within an old Dutch farmhouse, all built across the street from the oldest Dutch Reformed church in Brooklyn, a stone time capsule surrounded by a centuries-old graveyard laced with bare wintry trees. The school is Barbra Streisand’s alma mater. It used to be known as a model high school with a large population of honors graduates.

Today, it’s characterized by metal detectors, a massive police presence, and small knapsacks devoid of books. My partner Bronson and I get out of our ambulance, responding to a call for a girl-fight. We pass security, sign in, give the guard our badge numbers, and make our way up the gorgeous stone staircase to the principal’s office on the second floor. The banisters are wrought-iron and the doorknobs are the original oval ones embossed with carved ribbons proudly bearing the words “Public School.” This is no modern cinderblock eyesore from the 1960s. This is a castle.

Our patient is a 16-year-old girl, seven months pregnant, who got into a fight with another girl who called her a fat slut. Bronson takes the other girl – from where I stand I can see an abrasion to her left cheek and disheveled hair – and I take the pregnant girl, Tawana.

“Tawana?” I ask. “What happened?”

She snaps back. “What happened,” she points, “is that b— tried to jump me.”

I see no visible injuries anywhere on her face or arms. She’s definitely pregnant, her belly protruding from a cropped T-shirt and hip hugger stretch pants. There are no uniforms at Erasmus, nor, apparently, any kind of dress code. Other girls pass down the hallways in tight jeans with visible thongs, and peer through the open door.

“Are you having any pains?” I ask.

Tawana shakes her head. “Nope.”

“Any bleeding? Discharge?” She looks at me like I’m nuts. “How should I know? They grabbed me and put me in here, it’s not like I had a chance to go to the bathroom!”

She’s aggressive and – pregnant or no – I wish she was handcuffed. I’m afraid that if I ask one more question she might slug me.

“So you feel nothing out of the ordinary?” I venture. “No cramps?”

“Nope.”

“Did you hit the floor at all? Get punched in the stomach?”

She stares at me.

“Do you want to go to the hospital to get checked out?”

“Nope.”

“They’ll make sure everything’s okay.”

She makes it clear. “I’m not going to no hospital.”

I sigh. “It’s really the best thing.”

She looks at me with steely eyes and curses.

I don’t even take a quick set of vitals. I visually assess her skin color and temperature, her pupils, her rate of breathing, and determine she’s stable. I leave her under the watchful eye of the school safety police officer and go to speak with the principal.

“She doesn’t want to go to the hospital,” I say, “and since she’s a minor I’m going to need to speak with her mother to secure the RMA.” That’s the refusal of medical assistance form she’ll need to sign before my partner and I can be on our way.

The principal, a tired-looking woman with half-moon glasses and a perma-press wool suit, says, “She’s emancipated.”

I blink. “She’s what?” She sighs. “She’s got a 5-year-old son at home.” Tawana is 16. That would have made her a mother at 11.

“Does she live with her mother?” I ask. The principal nods. I look at Tawana. She’s cursing out the police officer.

“I see,” I say, and gather up my paperwork. “So I guess that means Tawana can sign her own RMA.”

Ms. Klopsis is an emergency medical technician for the FDNY. This column details her observations and experiences on the job. Some names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of patients.