Education is a full-contact sport.

The students in Ms. Erickson’s class crowd around books. They arm themselves with rulers and calculators like they were gearing up for war, not just checking their work. Another group huddles along the carpet in the rear as Ms. Erickson illustrates problems on a whiteboard. The excitement charges the room. I wonder if this is what it’s like to be just another drop in the sea of different shades dotting the landscape of the room. A couple of girls wear hijabs, which shake as they nod in agreement with their teacher’s words. The kid in front of me taps his pencil against his notebook. Studious gazes track Ms. Erickson’s every move. It all feels so . . . normal.

“Today we’re going to review percentages.” Ms. Erickson walks between the clusters, more bird of prey than protective mother hen. I check the time. There are about twenty minutes left in fourth period. Lunch is up next. If I know Mrs. Horner, she’ll wait until lunch to collect us and enjoy the extra moments of peace and quiet alone in the classroom.

Wearing a bored smirk, Marcel notices us as soon as we enter. “Ms. Erickson? We have some . . . visitors.”

“What can I do for you fellas?” Ms. Erickson examines our hands for a pass or paperwork of some sort.

“Mrs. Horner sent us down here. She had to . . . step out,” I say.

“I see.” She rumples her face, weighing our answers, already planning to verify our story. “Can you handle quiet time?”

“We’ll see,” Nehemiah says. I elbow him in his side. “I mean, yes, ma’am.”

Nehemiah takes the desk by the front door while I make my way over to the opposite side of the room, at the rear by the computer station. An elderly woman who volunteers at the school three times a week raises her glasses to her face to get a better look at me. Sniffing with immediate disapproval, she screws up her mouth as if she smelled bad fish.

“Before we get into our lesson,” Ms. Erickson announces, “we need to back up. We got off track this morning and have some catch-up to do. Thank you for shifting gears so smoothly.”

Ms. Erickson waits for her students to settle into their seats. Without being told, they each take out a pencil and a sheet of paper. The discussion opens with proper and improper fractions.

“I need to see pencils moving. Stay focused,” she exhorts.

The elderly woman picks up on her cue to patrol the room, helping anyone who seems to struggle to keep up.

Kutter leans his chair back, making a show of not paying attention. He jabs one pencil into the eraser of another, making a two-tiered super pencil. He attempts, and fails, to twirl it around his finger. He sends one skittering across the room, but otherwise isn’t too disruptive. Ms. Erickson obviously lets it slide in order to concentrate on those students who actually want to learn.

“We have seven minutes left until lunch and I want them all,” Ms. Erickson says.

Even with my practiced academic appearance—my head buried in a book I only pretend to read—I know Marcel’s watching. She measures each shift, each twitch, probing for any weakness to exploit. Searching for any hint of what I might be up to, because I have to be up to something. I smile. I can’t help myself. When things are about to break my way, be it a good idea or circumstances lining up for me, I can’t help but be pleased with myself. Besides, I’m not the one she should be watching.

I meet her gaze. Then nod.

“What happened to my pencil?” Nehemiah yells.

“What’s the problem?” Ms. Erickson strides toward him in long steps.

“Someone took my pencil!”

“Who?”

“Kutter.” Nehemiah points.

Kutter freezes. His remaining pencil nearly completes a revolution around his finger but skitters to the ground. Already tilting back, he nearly falls out of his chair with the accusation. He raises his long arms in bewilderment. “Man, you tripping. How am I going to get something of yours from over there?”

“Stop playing and give it back,” Nehemiah says.

“On my momma, Ms. Erickson, I don’t know what this fool is talking about,” Kutter says.

“Who you calling a fool?” Nehemiah stands up at his desk.

“You, fool.” Kutter rises in response. “I didn’t stutter.”

“You want to bump?” Nehemiah steps toward him.

Everyone rises out of their seats, some to clear out of their way, others to get a better view.

“I ain’t scared of you,” Kutter says.

“You must be scared of a toothbrush, though,” Nehemiah continues. “I can smell your skunk breath over here.”

“Whoa!” the class murmurs.

“You must want to be split.” Kutter tromps toward him. He flexes with each step, his movements like a snake uncoiling.

Kutter and Nehemiah face off against one another. Easily four inches taller, Kutter looms over Nehemiah. Not backing down an inch, Nehemiah shows heart, or is plain crazy. Ms. Erickson wedges herself between them. Sadly, every teacher in public school has seen this production a hundred times before. She spouts words encouraging them to settle down, take a breath, reminding them that fighting isn’t worth it and that there are better ways to solve their problems. She escalates to threatening to call Mrs. Fitzgerald and then their parents if they fail to take their seats. Each one alternates chest puffing, half-lunging toward the other. The rest of the students congregate around them.

“You want to go?” Kutter asks.

“Whenever you want. I’m tired of all your crap,” Nehemiah says without any real heat to his words, his voice on the verge of cracking. With laughter. He’s enjoying himself too much and I don’t know how much longer he can stay in character.

My plan puts me in a bit of a moral quandary, if you will. Not that anyone could tell, I’m in the middle of what some might call a crisis of conscience. I’m trying to do better, but I’m not sure what better looks like just yet. I think of it as using my powers for good against a bad guy. I already know that I may need to work on developing new powers, but until then, I’m going with what I know.

I inch toward the rear of the crowd, letting the elderly assistant brush past me as she moves to snatch one of the boys away from Ms. Erickson. I slide next to the cubbies. As everyone watches the pretend fight, each boy puffing their chests but doing little more than preening for show, I find Kutter’s backpack and slip Jaron’s bullets into it. Call me paranoid, but I’d wiped down the bullets and slid them into an envelope and used it to pour the bullets into his backpack. I make my way toward Marcel. With a resigned glint in her eye, Ms. Erickson backs away to grab a couple of reflection forms from her desk, ready to just send them both to Mrs. Fitzgerald. I had to give Ms. Erickson that much: she hates having to resort to reflection forms. She views them as a last resort and a failure on her part.

“Enjoying the show?” I whisper to Marcel.

“I’ve seen better.” Marcel chews a piece of gum with the empty expression of watching clothes dry.

“It all comes down to the finale. Watch this.” I wave.

Nehemiah screams and runs around the room. That grabs Ms. Erickson’s attention. She dashes to cut him off. Her assistant moves toward the door. She might be old, but she can block an entrance and prevent a scrawny seventh grader from running down the halls like a madman. Nehemiah leaps over a desk to the oohs and laughter of the class. He reaches into one of the cubbies and started tossing things. He chances an approving peek at me. I motion at him to move to the next cubby over. Nehemiah grabs the next backpack and swats its contents toward Ms. Erickson. The bullets jangle to the floor.

“Ms. Erickson, are those real?” Nehemiah freezes with the suspicious bag held away from him.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Marcel says to me.

“Everyone back away. Give me some room,” Ms. Erickson says. The students retreat in a stunned silence, stepping widely around any of the rolling bullets. She turns to her volunteer. “In fact, can you take them to lunch and send Mrs. Fitzgerald down here? You can leave Marquess here.”

I’m not used to anyone calling Kutter by his government name.

The volunteer cajoles the students into a line. “No one touch anything.”

Ms. Erickson stretches her arms out to stop us. “Nehemiah and Thelonius, you stay here also.”

“Why me?” I protest.

“I just know you’re involved in this somehow.”

I don’t know whether to be insulted or impressed. Because either even Ms. Erickson blames me when things go down, or she saw through our little performance.