The Usual Suspects

by Maurice Broaddus

  Nehemiah bounces his Teddy Grahams package off my chest. He hates them because he “never trusts anything that smiles all the time.”

  “Hey, T. What you no good?” We clap our hands, fire our guns, and snap our fingers as usual. From the jump, I liked Nehemiah. His confidence, his strut, his energy. Nehemiah knows who he is: one note, full volume, always. He has no pretenses about it. Sometimes I envy him that. Nehemiah glances from the unopened yogurt to my face. Twice.

  I toss him my yogurt and open the second package of Teddy Grahams.

  When he gets to his locker, he tugs the handle and it opens. He presets his locker so he can just open it when he’s ready. It doesn’t save him any time since he has to set the combination when he’s done and he still manages to arrive to class late. Books and folders tumble out of his locker like they’re doing a prison break. A tattered picture of Kevin Durant is glued to the inside of the door.

  I check for any prying eyes before I reach for the metal bit and hand it to him. “I think I found something.”

  “Where’d you get this?” Nehemiah examines it in his palm.

  “In the bushes. By where they say they found the gun. What do you think it is?”

  “A tie clip, I think,” Nehemiah says.

  “Let me see.” I snatch it back. Now that he said that, I can see it. A cheap tie clip.

  “Ain’t but one dude round here that’d wear something that corny.”

  “I’m just wondering what our next move should be,” I say.

  “Doesn’t matter why. Like you say, they just going to blame us anyway.”

  “Yeah, well, just ’cause it’s so don’t mean it’s got to sit right with me.” I say, biting the head off another bear.

  “Besides, what they going to do? Kick us out so we have to stay home and watch TV all day?”

  “Mrs. Fitzgerald wasn’t bluffing. She’ll send us to Banesford, and that school don’t play.” I rub my eyes like I’m still sleepy. “We still got ten minutes before the bell rings. Want to chat with Pierce?”

  “Man, I don’t know if I’m up for his brand of weird first thing in the morning.”

  On our way to Pierce’s locker, I notice all the attention on us. Eyes too careful not to make direct contact but still keep us in view. People moving out of our way. Nehemiah puffs up as we walk through the hall, but I don’t enjoy it. Suspicion is one thing; fear of us is another.

  The sixth-grade locker bays are on the first floor, as is the Special Ed room. Filled with the usual bustle and banter of, well, sixth graders. Excitement about an upcoming camping trip. Who’s going to sit by who on the bus ride. The latest YouTube videos. The desperate panic over missing homework. Some still go on about the hottest Pokémon cards. They are so sixth grade.

  It is no coincidence that Pierce has the last locker in the corridor. He paces in the center of the hallway. He walks around like a cowboy waiting on a duel partner. It is best to confront him before class, mostly because one never knows how he is going to react. I hear the teachers whisper about him when they think no one is listening. I know he has some “neuro” issue, and they’ve slapped him with every label they can think of, from ADHD to spectrum to initials I can’t even guess at.

  But he’s in Special Ed. One of us.

  “Hey, Pierce, hold up.”

  Pierce freezes in place like a statue, a knowing grin on his face. I step to his side, but he keeps staring straight ahead. His face is all hard angles and his skin ghostly pale. Up close, his lips are too pink and the edges of his eyes appear watery, like he suffers from allergies. The thing about Pierce is that he owns who he is. I am pretty convinced that he plays up his tics for effect. He’s not dumb and knows that it gives him an advantage. People see them and think one way about him; meanwhile, he’s really studying them.

  I show him the tie clip. “Is this yours?”

  I wait for him to pluck it from my palm. Instead, he tucks and withdraws his hand from his pocket and opens his hand, only coming up with lint.

  “I think that’s Pierce talk for ‘It’s mine,’” Nehemiah says.

  Frustrated, I run my other hand through my hair. Pierce mirrors the gesture. When I step back and exhale slowly, he does the same.

  “One can play at that game,” Pierce says.

  “Right. So were you behind the bushes?” I say.

  “Let me think.” Pierce strikes a new pose and taps his lip as if in deep thought. “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “Last week. No, tomorrow. Sometime recent.”

  “Why we talking to this fool?” Reading my face, Nehemiah opts to provoke him. “He don’t know nothing.”

  With those words, Pierce glares at Nehemiah, his eyes clear and focused with laser intensity. “I know many things. I’m not stupid.”

  I put up my hands like I’m surrendering. “No one said you were stupid. We just want to know when you were behind the bushes and if you saw anything.”

  “Or anyone,” Nehemiah added.

  “Only RaShawn,” Pierce said.

  “RaShawn?” I ask. “Why there?”

  “It’s where we meet. He gets me things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like noneya.”

  “Noneya?” Nehemiah asks before I can wave him off.

  “None ya business.” Pierce cackles, amused by his own joke.

  I forgot how much that joke still circulated among the sixth graders. I step between them, hoping Pierce will refocus. His attention span lasts until the earliest distraction. “How’d you lose your tie clip?”

  “RaShawn got mad at me. Grabbed me by my shirt.” Pierce imitates the action. He even reenacts the moment, mean mugging and staring us down with all kinds of evil eye. Well, as evil as Pierce is capable of looking. “Said I was making him look ridiculous and wasting his time. All I wanted was a frog.”

  “A . . . frog?” I ask.

  “Yes. I would name him George. I’d get him a collar and a leash and take him for walks.”

  “I think we’re about done here,” Nehemiah said.

  “Ribbit,” Pierce says as we turn to leave.

  We barely get out of earshot when Nehemiah asks, “What was that?”

  “Pierce in full Pierce mode.”

  Pierce trails behind us, stopping with each passing girl to shout “Ribbit.”

  “I know he seems like he should be a suspect, but I don’t know. He don’t need a gun to get folks to leave him alone.”

  “Did he seem agitated to you?”

  “He’s always agitated.”

  “Maybe I’m imagining things. Still, he did tell us one useful thing. That the bushes are RaShawn’s regular spot.”

  “You believe him?”

  “It’s something.”

  The late bell for homeroom rings. We spare a glance at each other before dashing to class, hoping to make it to our room’s door before the echo fades.

  Mrs. Horner scribbles the words “Do now” on the whiteboard along with instructions for the morning’s busywork. She wants us to write a reflection essay on yesterday’s events or, as she refers to it, “our dilemma.” Someone must’ve gotten in her ear about it. And us. She doesn’t name which events in particular, but Mrs. Horner rarely comes at things directly. She keeps things vague, saying that she doesn’t want to limit our creativity. It’s more likely that she wants us to accidentally tell on ourselves. Either that or she doesn’t want to wind us up too much first thing in the morning. Like I said, busywork.

  “What are you thinking?” Nehemiah leans over to ask.

  “The way I see it, someone has to have a reason to bring a gun around here.” Mrs. Horner hasn’t taken notice of our conversation. I don’t dare turn around to check Mr. Blackmon.

  “Mrs. Fitzgerald named the reasons.” Nehemiah began to quote: “‘There isn’t any reason to bring a weapon near this building. Not to impress anyone. Not to scare anyone. Not to threaten anyone.’”

  “That’s just it: impress, scare, or threat
en. If Pierce was threatened, RaShawn may know something.”

  “That’d be a first. I’ve seen his grades.” Nehemiah stifled a snicker. He spends far too much time hacking into the administration’s database. “Still, I don’t think he’s going to be in a talking mood after yesterday.”

  “Let me worry about that. Can you arrange a meet?” I ask.

  “For when?”

  “Nine thirty. Middle of second period shouldn’t be suspicious. So can you?”

  “Let me worry about that.” Since phones aren’t allowed in school—if teachers see one they confiscate it and a parent has to pick it up at the end of the day—we have to get creative. Nehemiah scribbles on a piece of paper, folds it, and writes RaShawn’s name on it before tucking it in his pocket.

  I lower my head and pretend to work while he raises his hand.

  “What, Nehemiah?” Mrs. Horner says without humor.

  “I need to go to the bathroom.”

  “You just got here. Why didn’t you go on your way to class?”

  “It’s an emergency.” Those were the magic words. Teachers have to relent if the situation is an emergency. Even if they are suspicious, they can’t risk a nervous bladder. All it takes is one student leaving a puddle under a chair for that teacher to visit Mrs. Fitzgerald’s office to conference with angry parents.

  “Fine. Mr. Blackmon? Can you escort this upstanding young gentleman to the bathroom?”

  Mr. Blackmon slowly rises out of his seat, passing a skeptical glance from me to Nehemiah back to me. Twirling his water bottle once, he holds the door for Nehemiah.

  Now, I’ve seen this play of Nehemiah’s before. He’ll go to the bathroom, waste a few minutes, and come out to grab a drink at a water fountain. Then without warning, he’ll take off running, whooping and hollering. There’s no way Mrs. Horner would ever catch him, having learned that the hard way, so she now has Mr. Blackmon do the escort. Nehemiah only needs a couple dozen feet to be able to duck into a room, stir up a distracting ruckus, and slip the note onto RaShawn’s desk. Since Mrs. Horner will end up across from Mrs. Fitzgerald over it anyway, the cost of this stunt usually is detention for Nehemiah. And he won’t be able to pull this again for a while because they’ll be on guard against it for at least the next month.

  Nehemiah’s yelps echo down the hallway. I hide my smile by focusing on my work.

  It takes a long time for Mr. Blackmon to return. Without Nehemiah. He must’ve already been deposited at Mrs. Fitzgerald’s office. Judging from the intensity of their conversation, Mrs. Horner blames Mr. Blackmon for not being able to control one of their students. A twinge of guilt washes over me. By the time the first-period bell rings, they are in their neutral corners.

  I am the picture of a perfect student for the entire period, moving to the computer station to complete my math work without prompting. Teachers are like people: if you annoy them, by the time you need something they’ll automatically say no just to spite you. Do what they want or make their job easier, they are quick to reward you. Checking the clock, I estimate the completion of my work to give me enough time to make it to the bathroom.

  “Mrs. Horner, may I go to the restro—”

  “No,” she cuts me off. Mrs. Horner’s not always like people.

  “But I’ve completed all my work and I have to go really bad.” This next bit costs me a bit of dignity. I bend my knees toward each other and cup the crotch of my pants. Mr. Blackmon shakes his head and upends his water bottle to his mouth.

  “All right, but I’ll escort you. No funny business.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I mean, no, ma’am.”

  RaShawn’s footsteps echo from the hallway. He drags his feet, then stomps them like a zombie. His shirt is never quite tucked in, like he’s always about to do some work. The sides of his head are shaved, but his hair is a series of short dreds in need of tightening that stand nearly straight up so it looks like he’s wearing a fallen crown.

  The bathroom door barely closes behind him when he leans against the wall, bored and impatient. I hate the fact that I’m doing the school’s job for them. Still, it’s my neck on the line and I’m not putting any part of me in the hands of teachers. Time isn’t on my side. I need to do my thing.

  “I didn’t think you’d show,” I say.

  “Because of my sister? That wasn’t on me. See, what had happened was—”

  “I don’t have the time. Consider it squashed.”

  “All right, then.” RaShawn lets out his shirt and stands taller. “What’s up?”

  “You hang out at the bushes?”

  “Uh-uh. You ain’t pinning the gun on me.” He throws his hands up in a “don’t shoot me” pose. “What I need a gun for?”

  “According to your sister . . .”

  “I don’t need a gun to deal with Nehemiah.” RaShawn’s voice thickens with anger.

  With Mrs. Horner just outside the door, I pat the air, miming for him to lower his voice. “All right, let’s say you don’t. If you’re doing business over there, it could be you on the wrong side of Marcel.”

  “Nope, try again. Me and the lady G have an arrangement.”

  “What kind of arrangement?”

  “Noneya.”

  He must hang around Pierce a lot more than I thought. “Fine. You see anything or anyone suspicious?”

  “Nah, bruh. I’m a blind man. If you looking for snitches, I’m out.” With that, RaShawn bounces.

  I wait a few minutes before leaving. While walking out, I fiddle with my belt for Mrs. Horner’s benefit. “No one should go in there for a while.”

  “Your momma!” The words echo in the classroom and draw everyone’s attention to Twon squaring off against Rodrigo. Barely half Twon’s height and maybe a third his weight, Rodrigo is hopelessly outmatched. The whole scene plays out like a rabid rottweiler going up against an angry squirrel, yet Rodrigo can’t help but keep running his mouth.

  “I’m just saying, your feet stink.” Rodrigo positions himself so that a desk blocks a direct route to him. As if a desk meant anything if Twon explodes. “We talked about athlete’s foot in health yesterday. I’m betting that’s what you have.”

  “Rodrigo, let it go and do your morning work. Twon, you’re letting him take you out of your normal.” Mrs. Horner sounds tired, like her own words bore her. Barely managing a glance, she doesn’t bother to get from behind her desk. “You shouldn’t let anyone have that kind of control over you.”

  “Besides, he a chipmunk,” I add, less than constructively.

  “Thelonius, you’re not helping.” Mrs. Horner narrows her eyes at me.

  “At least my feet don’t stink.” Rodrigo studies Twon, waiting to see if he has room to push another button before he has to run. “You probably ain’t got but three toes left. Fungus done ate up the rest.”

  This is what we do, mess with each other, like a battle rap without the rhymes. But the scene doesn’t make me laugh the way it would have even a couple of days ago. Just like the ruckus in music class yesterday didn’t, reminding me of eating candy you were so sick of even the act of chewing it became a chore. We’re all a little on edge. Our jokes a little meaner or said with too much heat.

  My mind shifts into overdrive. Rodrigo runs his mouth more, and in a more hurtful way, than usual. Maybe it’s not as funny because it was one thing to joke when you didn’t know better, a lot harder when you knew the truth. Twon didn’t suffer from athlete’s foot. I overheard Mr. Blackmon tell Mrs. Horner that he was planning on picking Twon up some new socks. Twon’s family struggles. He wears the same pair of socks every day and they can’t afford to do laundry regularly. Embarrassed by the state of his socks, Twon probably doesn’t want to take off his shoes.

  “Tell him he better keep my name out of his mouth.” Twon balls and uncurls his fingers, testing his fists.

  “Rodrigo, settle down. What did we just go over earlier this week about defusing situations?” His navy blue peacoat swinging over his left arm, Mr. Blackmo
n walks in without breaking his stride. His water bottle dangles from his right hand. His black sweater vest, with its red and white streaks, mutes the brightness of the red shirt underneath. His tie and pants repeat the color scheme. That man has too much time on his hands if he’s going to coordinate his outfits like that. No wonder he often strolls in late. The situation fails to rush him to set his stuff down.

  “I wish Twon would defuse his odor. I’m trying to do a public service,” Rodrigo says.

  That did it. Twon knocks over a desk and charges Rodrigo. Like I said, Twon is a gentle dude. He’s always been big and the last person anyone would think to mess with. But he’s also a little simple. One time he wore a pair of 3D glasses for sunglasses. Prone to daydreaming, he lives in his own world. He’s real sensitive to folks making fun of him, especially if he thinks they are insinuating that he’s not smart. Mr. Blackmon had given him a tennis ball to squeeze when he begins to get worked up or bounce when he got anxious. That ball was probably long thrown at Rodrigo by now.

  Mr. Blackmon steps between the boys with the smooth glide of a soccer goalie blocking a kick. He looks a little too small to deal with Twon since they are about the same height. Twon knocks over another chair like Superman casually tossing a tank. He’s pretty intent on smashing Rodrigo. Mr. Blackmon grabs him by his collar and drives him across the room before pinning him against the wall. The suddenness of his physicality puts the whole room on pause.

  Pierce barely looks up from his desk. He keeps on snacking on Teddy Grahams while doodling on a piece of paper.

  “Daaaaang!” Rodrigo applauds while jumping up and down. “That was tight. Mr. Blackmon had to use his grown-man strength on him.”

  “Rodrigo, enough. One more word and you’re walking the line for all your recess. For a week. Now, Twon, you need to calm down right now.” Mr. Blackmon neither raises his voice nor uses any more force beyond enough to restrain him. Twon still needs a moment to catch his breath. “The whole reason you’re in here and not with your class is due to the safety issue. You’re too big to not be able to control your temper. You become a danger to others. Or, more important, yourself.”