A funk settles on the Special Ed room.

Everyone acts restrained, like someone has died. The mood matches the awkwardness of settling back into anything approaching discipline and self-control. Like a bunch of zombies, we quietly stumble through the day, barely going through the motions of getting our afternoon work done, powering our way to dismissal. Nehemiah being absent doesn’t fully explain the lack of energy. I struggle to find a word to describe the emptiness.

With Pierce off in art class, Rodrigo drags his desk to the back corner to distance himself from Twon. They both read to themselves. Rodrigo opens a book on his desk, but plants a comic book within it. He’s so committed to beating the system that he forgets that he could have just chosen to read the comic out in the open, because no one cares what he reads as long as he’s reading. And more important, quiet.

I tilt my chair on its back legs. Tossing my book so that it spins in the air, I wait for it to slam when landing spine-side down against my desk. The clatter breaks the tranquility of the room. I’m mad because I’m frustrated and humiliated. For all my talk and rep, I got caught cold when it was time to fight. I felt powerless because everything was overwhelming. It occurs to me that Nehemiah may feel that way a lot. The feeling fuels his anger. But when my mind drifts to my friend, my mood spirals farther into a dark place.

The events of recess and the aftermath play like a movie on a loop in my brain.

After the bell, me and Twon have to walk back to the Special Ed room with no escort. The other middle school classes line up, waiting for each of their teachers to lead them inside. They allow me and Twon to enter first. I step between the lines. The big kid from music class, Jaron, plows his shoulder into me when I walk by. I turn to glare at him but spy the wall of kids behind him. There’s no warmth, and barely any recognition, in their faces. I stand accused. Twon scurries off to class, but I stop for a drink of water. I refuse to let them think that they are getting to me. When the other classes catch up to me, another wall of glares meets me. The whispers soon start.

“Snitch.”

“Snitches get stitches.”

“Principal’s boy.”

“Snitch bitch.”

They have Marcel’s fingerprints all over them to keep me from finding out what happens and why. The rumor will carry weight because you never side with administration. Ever. There are rules to this game. Kutter and RaShawn especially enjoy spitting out the words. The other boys rise in chorus, not bothering to whisper.

I have to poop. The door to the bathroom opens, its light orange walls visible before wrapping around a blind corner. Teachers rarely enter the student bathrooms. The wall blocks the casual observer. Peals of laughter or muffled cries echo like the same brand of bathroom shenanigans. I decide to hold it rather than chance literally being caught with my pants down.

“You going in or just standing there sightseeing?” some kid asks on his way in.

The door opens again. The flash of brick walls. The choking of the sounds when the door closes. I picture myself outnumbered and overpowered out of the protective sight of a teacher. I remain rooted to my spot, just like I was when Nehemiah was in trouble.

Later I find the note on my desk, and I feel like a coward all over again.

Someone scrawled the word “snitch” on it, with a drawing of a decapitated head beneath it. Pencil shades in a black eye and scars along the face. I fold the note back up. The thought of throwing it away makes me mad. I might as well toss my hands in the air in the final act of surrendering. To admit I am weak, vulnerable, and soft. But they’re right. I shove the note into my pants pocket. I know it’s not just my name I’m trying to clear and keep anyone else from being hurt with this gun business, but this cuts deep. Every so often I scrape my hands into the pocket, tracing the note’s edge. It reassures me that all of today’s events were real. It’s like a scab I can’t help but keep picking.

I’ve never felt so alone.

But I’m not. I hear Marcel’s voice. “Just as long as you understand that you aren’t untouchable.”

“Thelonius, you all right?” Mr. Blackmon drags a chair over to my desk. He turns it around so that he can rest his arms on its back. “You awful quiet.”

“I thought that’s what you teachers wanted. As long as we shut up and do as we’re told, you collect a check and feel like you’ve done something.”

Mr. Blackmon purses his lips, the way a doctor might when struggling to come up with a diagnosis. “This doesn’t sound like you.”

“Just leave me alone.” I fold my arms and stare at my desk.

“Is this how you want to operate: anyone who sticks around, you show them the door?”

“Nehemiah’s hurt because of me.” The words tumble out of my mouth before I can catch them. Accidental truth, letting people know what you are actually thinking, is another rookie move.

“You want to tell me what’s going on?” Mr. Blackmon performs his trick again. Most teachers ask a question but can only wait a second or so before they answer it themselves like they’re afraid of the silence. He waits. And waits. He lets the space where I am supposed to answer grow until the silence demands a response.

“No.” I manage to say.

“Oh, that’s right. I forgot. If you talk to me, folks will think you’re snitching.” Mr. Blackmon checks over his shoulders in exaggerated precaution. “Some of them may be watching us now.”

“Mr. Blackmon, seriously, why are you always up in my business?”

“I can’t afford cable, and this is all the entertainment I have.” He tips his water bottle to his mouth.

I attempt to cross my arms even harder to let this dude know to move on. If he won’t take the hint, I’ll have to go all in. “You know, there’s been something I’ve been wanting to tell you for a long time. These little heart-to-hearts aren’t as helpful as you think.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way.”

“I mean, is there a class you teachers take or something? Trying to be relatable to students?”

“Let me let you in on something: we’re told to be what they call friendly allies. Supports that you feel safe coming to.”

“Let me let you in on something: you just so extra. I have a mom. I have friends. You don’t need to be either. So a little less friend and a bit more ally.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

Mr. Blackmon scoots away from me. He’s hard to read. I can’t tell if he’s upset, about to pout, or get in his own feelings. He hovers over his desk like he’s thinking about something. I close my eyes to clear my head a bit. I may have been harsher than I intended. After a few minutes, he circles around to the desk behind me. Maybe he wants a better angle to watch the rest of the class. With his notebook open, Mr. Blackmon speaks in a low, conspiratorial whisper. “You know, I remember when I was in seventh grade. . . .”

“Didn’t you hear me?”

“I heard you. I’m not talking to you.”

“Is this going to be one of them old people stories?”

“I’m only thirty-two. And like I said, I’m not talking to you.” Mr. Blackmon makes a show of flipping through his papers.

“Who you talking to, then?”

“Not you. We wouldn’t want anyone thinking we talk. Anyone could just pop in. And I wouldn’t want anyone to get the idea that we might be friends.”

That stung more than I thought.

As if on cue, the door opens and Brionna strolls in. She pauses at my desk, turns her head away from me as if she sniffed something foul, and wanders to Mrs. Horner’s desk. She tosses her meds back in a quick swallow, grabs the remote, and flops on the couch. Once the screen burns to life, Twon and Rodrigo immediately sandwich her.

“Now that See No Evil, Hear No Evil, and Speak No Evil are all accounted for, I can keep going.” Mr. Blackmon buries his nose in his paperwork. “I’m not going to run a line of bull by you. I had a dad. Big dude. His hand was the size of my butt. I know because he spanked me. Once. Most times he only had to give me that look and I knew he meant business. He and I were never close, not in the way I wanted. We didn’t talk. He didn’t know anything about me. Not the music I listened to, not the books I read, not even the teams I was into. It got to where I thought not only didn’t he like me, but somehow, by the very fact of me being born, I inconvenienced him.

“On the other hand, however, I did have a teacher, my Sunday school teacher actually, who did take an interest in me. He was into comic books and horror movies and basketball. Things I’m into even today.”

“Uh-huh,” I say absently.

“Who you think keeps Rodrigo supplied with comics?”

“So you trying to pay it forward or something? ’Cause you know, this story’s really touching me.” I tap my heart. “Right here.”

“Yeah, that was starting to sound corny to me, too, but you know I can’t stop once I get going.” Mr. Blackmon glances up from his notebook. “But seriously. I heard you. You’re right. I do try a little too hard because I want you all to know you have someone on your side.”

“I think we get that. You just need to give us room to do our thing, too. Some of this we have to figure out on our own.”

Mr. Blackmon lets that sink in for a minute. “Anyway, you may be interested in knowing that Nehemiah’s grandmother is coming to pick him up from the nurse’s office. He’ll be all right. His wrist may be sprained; otherwise, all the damage was just bruises and scrapes. Strictly superficial.”

“I was supposed to have his back, but . . .” My voice trails off before anymore accidental truth slips out.

“I know you think you can’t tell me what’s going on. Why Nehemiah got jumped. Why folks are giving you the stink eye. Perhaps you know a bit more about the . . . situation than you let on.” He halts just long enough to see if I betray myself with a reaction before pressing on. “I know things have been tense in this place lately, but not everyone is against you. You need to know you have people you can talk to. You have caring folks around you. Mrs. Fitzgerald. Your mom.”

“You?”

“Let’s not get crazy now.” Mr. Blackmon closes his notebook and fiddles with his water bottle. “But even if you can’t trust anyone grown, you do have something else going for you.”

“What’s that?”

“You’re smart. Try and hide it all you want behind being cool or bored, but you are. So be smarter than your problem. Whatever, or whoever, it is. If they’re bigger, don’t come at them direct. Outmaneuver them.”

“And if they’re smarter?”

“Use your weakness as a strength. And don’t let them see you coming at all.”