We are the brotherhood of the flinch.

One way or another, we carry that fear with us. Every one of us. You can see it in the eyes of folks when you walk the school hallways. Always on guard. Always on the lookout. Never knowing where the next hit might come from. Never knowing who might roll up on you. We live in a state of shock, being worn out from always having to be on guard 24/7. We live with that sense of resigned relief when the punch finally lands and we think “at least now it’s over” until the cycle starts all over again. Sometimes it’s playful. Nehemiah wants to make me jump, and I have to live with never knowing when I am going to get caught slipping. There are other times, though, like the way Nehemiah flinches at his mother’s touch. Tiny, almost imperceptible, it would have been easily missed, but I saw it.

The flinch.

Brushing off Nehemiah’s hand clap on the shoulder with an exaggerated sense of bravado, Jaron plays off him, flinching with a shrug.

“Don’t sneak up on me. Never sneak up on a brother,” Jaron says.

“My bad. Didn’t realize I was in full creep mode,” Nehemiah says.

“I’m just saying. I’m a beast.”

“All right, all right.” Nehemiah holds his hands up.

The way Jaron scans the recess playground tells me a different story. I’ve never seen this side of Jaron. Actually, other than noting him being a big dude, I’d never actually “seen” Jaron before. Up until now, Jaron’s just been another nameless plaything. Some dudes just have “mark” written on them and you just have to mess with them.

Still mad about being provoked into blowing up in music class, Jaron keeps his back to me, an intentional disrespect, which I let stand without saying anything. He probably had a session with Mrs. Fitzgerald and a detention day or two. It wouldn’t take a genius to piece together that I wound him up on purpose. I was just messing with him; it wasn’t personal. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time when I needed to vent. I mean, I’m sorry he got caught up or hurt or whatever, but he had to see that he wasn’t the only one I gassed that day. I can’t figure out the words to say and it’s not like we’re going to hug. That’s not how we do things. I can’t show softness and neither can he.

The silence builds between us until it demands an action.

I shift noisily and clear my throat. Jaron rotates on his heel, slow and deliberate, until he faces me. A mild sneer crosses his face. He stares me up and down as if I’m small. “What you need? Nehemiah says you wanted to talk.”

“Why you so mad? I do something to you?” I play ignorant to draw out Jaron’s thoughts.

“I just don’t like . . .” Jaron breathes hard through his nose. His face twists a bit like waves of conflicting emotions hit him all at once as he searches to attach a name to one of the feelings that trouble him. Resentment. Being used. Feeling burned by a supposed friend. I can only guess. I give him a chance to name them, because I’m sorry for them all. “Nothing. Forget it.”

“Look, dude, I’m sorry about the other day. I got you in trouble in music class. It was a . . . misunderstanding.” I glimpse Nehemiah waving me off. “Anyway, I been letting a lot of folks down lately and I needed to step to them like a man and apologize.”

“For real?” Jaron’s large shoulders relax, if only slightly. His walls lower, if only a bit. “Yeah. We cool.”

I swoop on the opportunity to press in a bit. “Look, I was talking to some folks. I was having a problem with Kutter and they sort of pointed me your way.”

At the name, Jaron’s face lights up with full interest. “What sort of problem?”

“He came after me. Except he didn’t come direct. I think he went after Nehemiah to send a message to me.”

“What did he want with you?” Jaron asks.

“I don’t know.”

Jaron arches an eyebrow with skepticism and distrust. His eyes harden about the edges. His walls prepare to rise again.

“I have a theory, though.” I scramble to keep Jaron open to hearing me out and talking. “I think it had something to do with Marcel.”

“It always does.” Jaron wipes his palms along his pant legs.

“I’m not even sure what I did to rub her raw.” I chance a step closer to him.

“You get in her business?”

“Not really. Just let her know that I knew.”

Jaron laughs, a dry, bitter cough. “You might as well have threatened to make a run at her. She’s paranoid. And ruthless.”

“That how you got on her radar?” I ask.

Jaron starts telling his story, which might as well have begun “once upon a time. . . .” I picture his story in my mind as he speaks, a scene opening with how . . .

. . . the sun beamed down on them from a clear sky. School had been in session only a few weeks, but the way the warm days kept coming, summer threatened to never end. The playground was a roiling sea of red or navy blue polo shirts and khaki shorts. The sixth-grade teachers struggled to wrangle their students, still not used to the discipline of the school routine. The middle schoolers poured out of the double doors, erupting onto the courts with yelps and furious intent. Ms. Erickson had recess duty. She swung a set of jump ropes with a sixth grader as Brionna traded off with some of the girls doing double Dutch. A substitute teacher wandered the periphery of the basketball court, making time to chat up Mr. Blackmon. He hovered about, not daring to take his eyes from his charges who walked the line.

Three teachers covered the playground, but the playground can be a large place, full of shadows. For those who knew how to stalk, there was plenty of room for predators to hunt.

A group of girls stood in a semicircle. The twins held court at the double doors as if they couldn’t wait for recess to be over. An alcove over by the kindergarten wing of the building hid another set of double doors. Like the main double doors, no one could enter without a key card, but Marcel haunted its shadows, keeping a careful eye on the recess activities. From her vantage point, she couldn’t see the domain of the gossip girls: the swings or the picnic-bench area where clusters of girls congregated to gossip. However, she could see the basketball court and, more important, the games that went on behind the mammoth playground equipment.

The massive fort divided the yard: wide ramps, steel decks, a maze of tubes, an enclosed double slide, a bridge that led to a tower, and a rock wall. All recycled plastics surrounded by a mat of wood chips and cut-up bits of tires. Safety first. Behind it was a whole other world as kids could play as rough as they wanted out of the sight of the teachers. Only the screams of raised ruckus drew any notice.

Marcel smoothed out her khaki skirt. Her mother insisted on her wearing a white blouse rather than a polo shirt. The look helped her play her part. Dutiful daughter. Prize student. Unlikely hawk. A lollipop dangled from her lips. She monitored her business. Candy sales, mostly, money changing hands. She had five boys selling for her now. With Kutter making sure all funds managed to get where they were supposed to.

Enter Jaron.

His parents prepaid his lunch enough for a single meal per day, but Jaron was a big boy who enjoyed his share of snacks. Wanting to duplicate the success Marcel had with her entrepreneurial enterprises, he took the birthday money his grandmother had given him and invested it in candy. There was a specialty candy shop over in the Lafayette Square Mall and he bought candy not found in Dollar Tree. He charged more than any of Marcel’s sellers, but his was a premium product. Soon he found himself flush with cash, cutting into Marcel’s then-budding racket. Placing him firmly in her sights.

“How’s business?” Kutter eased up to him. He growled more than spoke, and his words had the ominous cast of storm clouds. The boy couldn’t even ask about the time without it sounding like a threat.

“I’m doing all right,” Jaron said.

“You know this is my yard, right?”

“It’s a big playground. There’s room for all of us.” Jaron smiled. Innocence was a dangerous thing. He genuinely believed that there was a big enough pie for everyone to get a slice and be happy.

He underestimated how much some people enjoyed pie.

Kutter knew how to use his size. He stepped into Jaron’s personal space, making sure the intrusion wasn’t lost on the bigger boy. Kutter was smart, an eager student of Marcel’s, and was careful not to lay a finger on Jaron. “It’s not as big as you might think. There’s only room for one candy dealer out here.”

“I . . .” Jaron began to backpedal, away from the weight of Kutter’s hot breath, but stopped when he bumped into RaShawn right behind him. “I get it. I’m through.”

“That’s not good enough.” Kutter patted his pockets. “Now see, my pockets feel kind of light. If only a good Samaritan could help me out.”

“How about . . .” Jaron tried to hide the stammer that crept into his voice. “I give you ten dollars? Would that help you out?”

“That it? That’s not very charitable.” It was Kutter’s turn to smile. It was ugly and jagged, like someone took a broken bottle and carved a slit where a mouth should be.

“How much would . . .” The question died on his lips. A wall of boys gathered, cutting them off from all prying eyes. He knew how this dance was meant to end. He began to dump out the sandwich bag he’d tucked his money into, but Kutter held his hand out. Jaron placed the entire bag into his greedy palms.

Kutter turned to Marcel. She shook her head.

“Here’s the thing: here at Persons Crossing Public Academy, we employ a teaching method that’s part lesson and part practice.” Kutter attempted to imitate the voice of Mrs. Fitzgerald. It would have worked, if she had laryngitis, fake gold fronts, and halitosis. “We like to foster a sense of community and leave no child behind.”

RaShawn tittered.

Jaron’s attention went from Kutter to RaShawn to the boys crowding in on him back to Kutter.

“What does that mean?” Jaron stammered.

“It’s recess. We’re about to play a game and we don’t want to leave you out.”

“What game?”

“Liftoff.”

Kutter grabbed Jaron under his right arm, RaShawn under his left. As Jaron struggled, two more boys grabbed each of his legs. The boys held Jaron aloft and powerless no matter how much he wriggled. He yelled, begging them to stop. To put him down. Calling for his mom. The boys achieved a full gallop, running in a circle, and drawing a crowd of curious kids. Their cheers drowned out Jaron’s cries.

One of the boys carrying a leg stumbled, losing his grip. Once that leg hit the ground, the boy on the other leg released his burden. Jaron dangled from Kutter and RaShawn, his dragging legs kicking up rocks and wood chips, leaving a sputtering dust cloud in their wake. Kutter and RaShawn counted off.

“Three, two, one . . . Liftoff!” Kutter and RaShawn yelled in unison and let go.

Jaron went tumbling forward. His body crashed into the ground, his momentum spilling him behind over head. All to wild peals of laughter and screams.

“What’s going on back here?” Ms. Erickson yelled, drawn by the suspicious crowd and noise.

“Nothing, Ms. Erickson. We’re . . . just playing,” Kutter said.

Jaron stood up slowly, swept the wood chips from his pants and shirt. The stains on his pants smeared further with each swipe. He brushed tears from his face. The dust on his face blurred into a sad, muddy streak.

“You all right, Jaron?” Ms. Erickson wrapped a concerned arm around his shoulders.

Jaron’s eyes went from Kutter to the crowd of faces waiting to see what he’d say, back to Kutter. “Yeah, I’m good. We’re just playing.”

“Well, play nicer. Your parents spent good money on those clothes and I’m willing to bet they don’t want to see them torn up.” She paused, not quite buying their act. “You sure you’re okay, Jaron? You look a little shaken.”

“I don’t feel well. I think . . . it’s something I ate.”

“You all play too rough, especially so soon after lunch. Go on to the nurse’s office.”

Jaron hung his head low, not wanting to meet anyone’s eyes. Embarrassed. Ashamed. Angry. Scared. A swirl of feelings surged in him all at once, each one a punch to his belly threatening to send him to the dirt again.

That was Day One.

Marcel decided to make an example of Jaron. A continual reminder of what it would cost someone to cross her. Jaron never knew when something would happen. Cornered in the bathroom. Isolated or, worse, surrounded, at lunch. The constant whispers and taunts. Or in the park, where there weren’t even any adults within earshot should things get out of control. When he was truly on his own. Despite his size, the boys were emboldened, especially if there were four or more. Jaron lived with the fear. With the constant undertow of threat.

He lived in the flinch.

With dawning realization . . .

I think back to my own actions, provoking Jaron just because I was upset. Something ugly twists in my belly. I find that I can’t meet Jaron’s eyes. I’m no better than them. At my bullying, Jaron had snapped. Determined not to take it anymore, he charged across the music room. I know the answer to the question before I ask.

“Jaron, who brought the gun to the park?”

“Thelonius, you don’t understand what it’s like. You all but run this place. Who’s going to mess with you?”

“You’d be surprised.” That was the lesson Marcel wanted to teach me. That anyone can be messed with. “Jaron, who brought the gun to the park?”

“Thelonius . . . don’t make me say it.”

“I have to hear the words.”

“I . . . I was so afraid. The more dangerous you seem, the more likely they are to leave you alone. With it, I had the power for a change.” Tears stream down the big boy’s face. His hand, which seem too small for his body, wipes away his tears. I hate seeing big people break down, but it has to be done. I have to know. Jaron fishes into his pocket. He holds out his fist and waits for me to open my palm to receive its contents. When I do, bullets rain into my hand.

“I didn’t even know how to load it,” Jaron whispers.