All lessons come at a cost.

An Indianapolis Metropolitan Police Department squad car squats out front of the school, its lights flashing. Kids press themselves against the windows to get a better look at it, like it was some new exotic animal at the zoo. The other students fill their doorways, ignoring the severe warnings of their teachers to take their seats. Bathroom passes run at a premium since suddenly everyone has to go at the same time. The hallways bustle with the few students allowed out, now burdened with being the eyes and ears of their classes, fully expected to come back with as many details as they can ferret out. They linger at the water fountains for any possible view.

A lone IMPD officer escorts Marquess Neal, aka Kutter, through the halls. Stragglers in the hall too close to the action flatten against the walls, afraid Kutter is patient zero and they might catch a case of being hauled to Banesford Accelerated Academy. Kutter stands tall, walking without cuffs, delivering the perp walk everyone expects. Mrs. Fitzgerald appears heartbroken. Rings settle around her eyes. With fine cracks around her lips where makeup had been judiciously applied, she stifles a yawn but pauses to stretch. With bits and pieces gleaned from careless whispers and carefully worded reports, she constructs a narrative to share with everyone.

The school assembly convening today would be about bullying as well as a discussion on school safety. Kutter was a bully. He terrorized all the kids at Persons Crossing Public Academy. In order to further build his rep, to take it to another level, he brought a gun to school. Not to actually hurt anyone, just scare them. Show them that at any time he not only had access but the will to bring it. However, Persons has a zero-tolerance policy. The school administrators removed the threat and would use this opportunity as a teaching moment. That was a story Mrs. Fitzgerald could sell. I muffle a thin smile at that. My way out was to provide and stick to this simple story.

“There was no need for things to go this far.” Mrs. Fitzgerald folds her arms. “I’ll give you one last chance to tell me why you did it.”

Kutter stops in front of her. He faces her with that empty expression, eyes haunted by the ghost of having given up or given in to what everyone thought of him.

“Like you taught us: Say the problem, Think of solutions, Explore consequences, Pick the best solutions.” Kutter’s dead and hopeless tone chills me. Inspecting me up and down, he glares at me with hollow malevolence. Mrs. Fitzgerald catches the stare down and guides me toward her office while the officer escorts Kutter to the cruiser.

Mrs. Fitzgerald has me stew outside her door while she deliberates. The waiting is still the worst part. The “go and think about what you’ve done” technique is standard for teachers and parents alike. In practice, it amounts to “worry about what kind of punishment you’re gonna get.”

I consider how long it has been since I’ve done an actual turn at detention, but my gut assumes that my detention-free days might be nearing an end. The wait allows my mind to play out every way the conversation might go. I come up with counterarguments and strategies. Should I plead for mercy? Play up being contrite? Go for pity? Cry? Go on the offensive with righteous indignation and anger? This is what they want: have us wear ourselves down with impotent worry.

Marcel walks into the outer office, brandishing a broad smile for each of the office assistants. She delivers some paperwork from Ms. Erickson. She twirls her hall pass around her finger like a prison guard playing with the keys for the cells while they count the inmates. Marcel’s smile turns brittle as she faces me. Sliding into the seat next to me, she stares straight ahead.

“Getting your sentence handed down, Felonius?” Marcel asks.

“I’m not guilty of anything,” I say.

“You don’t honestly believe that, do you?”

“Then I’m as guilty as you,” I say.

“If you truly believed that, then you have nothing to worry about. But here you are, looking all worried. Like they’re going to haul you out the way they did Kutter.”

“You ain’t worried?” I ask. “About . . . anything?”

“That Kutter might turn snitch? Nah, I told him as soon as those bullets came spilling out that he wasn’t riding with me.”

“You’re cold. You’d cut your people in a minute,” I say.

“It’s cute the way you think we’re so different. I’m not worried about Kutter because he’s a soldier. He’ll stand tall because it’s in his best interest. Even without copping to anything, the accusation hangs over him. Having the rep of bringing a gun to school will serve him well over at Banesford, if that’s his fate. Just like it would have Jaron.”

I rear back in my chair, but catch myself and struggle to regain my cool.

Marcel straightens a pleat in her skirt. “Don’t act like that was supposed to be a secret. You know I hear things.”

“I see you for what you are,” I say. “Pure gangsta. You prey on and eat your own if it suits you. In the end, you’re all about you.”

Mrs. Fitzgerald’s door opens a fraction, expectant, letting me know that she’s ready for me.

Marcel knows to make herself scarce, leaving after one parting comment. “If I look familiar, it’s because game recognizes game.”

I accept her hat tip of respect, but she’s wrong. I’m not like her. I won’t be.

Mrs. Fitzgerald waves her hand for me to sit down. There’s no play in her tired eyes.

“You can wipe that smugness off your face,” she says without preamble.

“Why’re you so mad, Mrs. Fitzgerald?” All my charm lands like a raw egg thrown at a wall: it splatters, useless, and slides down leaving a mess.

Mrs. Fitzgerald bridges her fingers in front of her. “You kids are so darn clever, aren’t you? All of you think you’re smarter than us stupid grown-ups. That we have no clue what pressures you’re under, what problems you face. As if we’ve never been you or done all the nonsense you haven’t even thought of yet. You’re in seventh grade, Thelonius. You are twelve years old. You think that you have it all worked out.”

“Times are different.” Out of instinct, to lighten the mood, I almost make a joke about her age. Staring into her stony face, I decide to bite my tongue rather than risk riling her up any further.

“The more things change and all that.” She sighs. “What am I going to do with you?”

“I haven’t done anything wrong.”

Mrs. Fitzgerald unfurls her fingers. She slaps the desk like someone struck with a good idea. Startled, I jump. “There you go again, being the smartest person in the room. Your mind is always ten steps ahead of your behind. Now I know you know everything, but our job—mine, your teachers’, your mother’s—is to see the big picture.”

“I still don’t see what this has to do with me.”

“Here’s what I think: though he’s fully capable, I don’t think Mr. Neal brought the gun to school. I don’t think you did either. I do think Kutter has been a problem for a while.”

“He a straight-up bully.” The words leap out of my mouth, my heart eager for her to believe this.

“I’m stuck with the evidence and will have to think about his future here. I also think that you know more about what’s been going on than you’ve let on.”

“I ain’t a snitch.” I know there’s some truth to it. There’s a line I have to walk. I know Mrs. Fitzgerald and Mr. Blackmon. I like them. I think I even trust them. But they’re still—I don’t know—the system. I can’t trust the system to do right by us. They created the prison; we try to live by prison rules. We have to protect our own. Do right by the community. Me and Mrs. Fitzgerald lock in a chess match, but I hate the game. I’ve been told that I’d be good at it, but I never had the patience for it.

“I understand that. But you need to understand that no one in administration can do much unless we have help. Kids have to be willing to trust. To talk.” Mrs. Fitzgerald sighs again. Scooting out of her chair, she paces behind her desk. “So you do things your way. Let’s see how that’s worked out: Pierce hurt. Rodrigo and Twon in detention for fighting. Nehemiah in detention for disrupting class. Marquess expelled. And with all of that, do you think we’ve caught all those responsible?”

I imagine Marcel’s grin and say, “No.”

“I don’t think so either. But we can learn, even from our mistakes. How could you have handled the situation better? How could you have made some better choices?”

“We don’t make choices, we make impulses.”

“Your impulses.” She paused. “Your actions put you and those around you at risk.”

“When we got nothing but bad choices and poor options in front of us we just do the best we can in the moment.”

“We need you to do better.”

“We need you to make a better world, then.”

Mrs. Fitzgerald sighs. She rubs her face like she is tired. “You know, in your own way, you followed STEP, too. You said the problem and thought of a solution, and—I’m just speculating—all the subsequent shenanigans were your attempt at picking the best solution. You’re more resourceful than I think you’re given credit for. But, still, you didn’t explore the consequences. So again I ask, what am I to do with you?”

“You’ve got to punish me.” I hate the high pitch that crept into my voice.

“What for?” Her eyebrows arch in surprise.

“I . . . deserve it.” I slump in my chair. I let down Nehemiah. I bullied Jaron. I’d gotten my people hurt or in trouble. My face flushes hot. I wipe at my eyes.

Mrs. Fitzgerald softens, as if she’d waited on this moment from me. “Here’s what I think: you found out what was going on, but by not coming forward, you violated the spirit of the school’s honor code. We value character in our leaders.”

“I’m no leader,” I whisper.

“Mr. Mitchell, a leader takes responsibility for the people they lead. A leader sees a problem and acts to fix it. You’ve highlighted some issues. We do need to do something different with you. I told you from the beginning that I was reassessing how the Special Ed room operates. It’s a relic of the previous administration whose time I think has passed. What do you think?”

“What’s going to happen to Nehemiah, Twon, and Rodrigo?”

“There you go again: worrying about your people first. I’m afraid despite your best intentions, you’re shaping into a leader. What do you think we ought to do with you all?”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. If you were in charge, what would you do?”

“I’d transfer us back to regular classes.” I thought about it for a little longer. “Maybe have Mr. Blackmon, I don’t know, help supervise us in class.”

“He does seem to understand your class well.”

“He a’ight, I guess.” I couldn’t just leave him out. In a perfect world, he’s not a complete pain to have around.

“As it so happens, I’m thinking through exactly that sort of reorganization. Starting the next quarter, you’ll all be transferred back to regular classes. I picture the Special Ed room being more of a resource room. A place where students can go when they need extra support.”

“Extra support?”

“More time to take tests. A pullout space for teachers to provide specialized help. A place where students can calm down when they get amped up.”

“So one big Scream Room?”

“More like one big specialized study hall. I think we’re squandering some of our most talented and creative assets. Do you know what ‘squandering’ means?” She winks at me.

“Yes, ma’am.” I smile despite myself.

“I’ve got my eye on you, Mr. Mitchell. Tomorrow is another day and another opportunity to make better decisions.”