The Usual Suspects

by Maurice Broaddus

  “Mr. Blackmon, there’s not compliance with the instructions.” Mrs. Horner stands up and sets her pen on her stack of papers. She’s flexing her authority over him for our benefit. “His behavior warrants consequences.”

  “I understand that.” Mr. Blackmon half glares back at her. You can tell he is starting to get irritated, but not at Twon.

  “You have to start the process,” she says.

  Mr. Blackmon ignores her and continues to gently talk. “Twon, you need to calm down.”

  “Mr. Blackmon.” Mrs. Horner pushes her chair back as she points at the Scream Room. “You have to have compliance first.”

  “You’re the one who wants him in there. Go ahead and put him in.” Mr. Blackmon whispers but not loud enough for her to hear.

  “Now, Mr. Blackmon,” she says with steel in her voice. It occurs to me that she might still be heated over Nehemiah’s stunt and her impending trip to Mrs. Fitzgerald’s office and she’s taking it out on Mr. Blackmon. And the rest of us.

  Sheepishly, I slink back to my desk.

  Mr. Blackmon escorts Twon to the Scream Room. He locks eyes with Rodrigo, as if asking “Are you pleased with yourself now?” For his part, Rodrigo lowers his head and refuses to meet anyone’s eyes. He limps to the back row, his strut deflated. Folding his arms, he rests his head on them. Playing around and getting in trouble is just another day that ends in y. But getting someone sentenced to the Scream Room is dirty.

  The process seems straightforward enough. The screamer has to demonstrate five minutes of “compliance.” That means that they have to be quiet, have their back against the far wall, with the door shut. Only then could the timer start. Mrs. Horner used to have a rug and a beanbag chair in the Scream Room, but with the things that the kids did before they settled down—between the spitting and the . . . other stuff—I’m surprised men in those hazmat suits didn’t have to remove them.

  After the compliance, the facilitators have to fill out a reflection form. The reflection forms are used to monitor and chart behavior. “Behaviors” tended to escalate again when the kid is handed the form. It’s like being forced to sit in jail, be released, and have to sign your confession. In the end it’s all about the paper trail, and Mrs. Horner loves her paperwork. To calm them down afterward, the facilitator hands the students ten minutes’ worth of busy work. Any violation and The Process™ has to start all over. The timer beeps as Mr. Blackmon programs it.

  “You have five minutes, Twon,” he says.

  “I don’t care.” The boy tightens his arms like a wall in front of him.

  “The shoes and jacket need to come off.” Mr. Blackmon collects them but allows Twon to walk in on his own. “I can’t have you hitting the door. Thank you.”

  You could have heard a cockroach skitter across the floor. The only sound is the thump from Twon as he bangs his head on the wall. “Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.”

  I can’t tell if he’s talking about Rodrigo, Mr. Blackmon, Mrs. Horner, or himself. Maybe all of them. Then comes the spitting.

  “Wherever you’re spitting, you’re going to have to clean,” Mr. Blackmon says.

  “I don’t care.”

  “You’re just making more work for yourself.” Mr. Blackmon leans against the door but refuses to look through the observation window. I always have the impression he hates seeing us locked up in any way. “I’m also going to have to let your mom know about this.”

  “If you’re not going to follow directions, we’re going to have to start the timer all over again,” Mrs. Horner says.

  Mr. Blackmon stares at her like she has lost her mind.

  “I don’t want to,” Twon yells, his voice trailing as a thwack signals him dropping to the floor. Besides the sounds of thrashing as he probably rolled around on the floor, his next noises may have been sentences, but it sounds like he’s being tortured. His screams are raw.

  Don’t ask me why, but this reminds me of church. Like when Mrs. Jenkins would get hit with the Holy Spirit. She would yell, sweat, fan herself, roll around on the floor, speak in tongues until folks could get her calmed down. No church I ever went to had a Scream Room.

  “Nooo! I want to come out. I hate this school. I don’t want to go here anymore!”

  It didn’t matter who it was—Nehemiah, Pierce, Twon, Rodrigo—they all read from the same script. Just last week, Pierce was in the Scream Room and yelled nearly the exact things.

  Mr. Blackmon opens the door a fraction.

  “Why you got to be so mean? To all the kids. It’s not fair. You’re all against us.” Twon slumps over in a nod against the wall like a boxer who’d punched himself out. I’m not even sure who he’s talking to at the end. Or what he’s still fighting inside him. “My stupid brother. I’m the best in the world.”

  “Are you ready to come out?” Mr. Blackmon asks.

  “Yes.” Twon slurs his words in an almost sleepy voice.

  Mr. Blackmon makes a motion toward the sink. It’s all the excuse I need to get out of my seat. I grab the bottle of disinfectant and spray the Scream Room. Mr. Blackmon hands Twon a handful of paper towels. He wipes down the walls without complaint.

  “Have a seat, man,” Mr. Blackmon says. “You must have a hard time concentrating. Why else would you want to roll around on the floor?”

  “I don’t know.” Twon crosses his arms and stares straight ahead.

  “What’d you have for breakfast? You have the chocolate milk? You have any candy this morning?”

  “I don’t know.” Twon mumbles the words like a prisoner of war determined to recite only his name, rank, and serial number.

  I hate that all I can do is watch. I hate the powerlessness of it all. My people hurting or hurting each other. I slump against the wall next to the Scream Room door.

  “You need to be able to calm down. Get in some good learning.” Mr. Blackmon squats in front of him so that they are at eye level. When Mr. Blackmon puts his full attention on you, he creates a bit of a spell, like one of those snake charmers or something. “What are you supposed to be doing?”

  “Learning.”

  “How are you supposed to be sitting?”

  “Like this.” Twon swings one leg over the other and sets his palms on them.

  “That’s a good choice. And what should your mouth be doing?”

  “Being closed.”

  “What if you have something to say?”

  “Raise my hand.”

  “See? You know what you’re supposed to be doing.”

  Mr. Blackmon bends over to Twon’s ear as if to share a secret with him but instead stage-whispers. “Why you going to let some fool get under your skin? Once you start ignoring him, he’s just a clown flapping in the breeze.”

  Twon smiles and relaxes. He cuts a hateful gaze toward Rodrigo.

  “Look at me,” Mr. Blackmon says. “You stay quiet, do a quick reflection form, I let you head to lunch ten minutes early.”

  “For reals?”

  “Let’s shake on it and make it real.” Mr. Blackmon holds out his hand. Twon shakes it.

  “Do you have this, Mr. Blackmon?” Mrs. Horner peers over her paperwork.

  “Yeah, it’s squashed. Knowledge is power.” Mr. Blackmon keeps his back to her.

  Knowledge is power. I pop the last Teddy Graham in my mouth and smile. Besides the twins, there was only one place to go if you want to know what’s up with anyone. One person who is always dialed in to everything. One person who’s haunting me like a bad rash.

  Marcel.

  I need to talk to the lady gangster.

  Rules are in place for a reason. So we’re told.

  Rules create order. Rules keep everyone in line. Rules keep everyone where they are supposed to be. Rules make up the system, but no system is perfect. Given enough thought, everything breaks down, especially when stressed.

  Stressing things is a specialty of mine.

  The problem at hand is that I need to get from the Special Ed class to Ms. Erickson’s ma
th class where Marcel is. The hurdle isn’t just getting over to Ms. Erickson’s room but getting the opportunity and time to talk to Marcel without a lot of extra ears in our business. Sure, I can wait until recess, but where was the challenge in that? Besides, we only have until Friday, so each day, each hour, counts. I can’t afford to waste any opportunity.

  Rodrigo sits cross-legged in the corner behind Mrs. Horner’s desk. He mumbles loud enough for everyone to know he’s upset. Mr. Blackmon forces him write a reflection letter even though Rodrigo hasn’t “done anything.” In Mr. Blackmon’s world, instigators are just as guilty as those who act out because “being in control of yourself includes your words.”

  Twon settles into doing his morning work, seething at the computer station, stopping just shy of cussing out the math problem on his monitor. Pierce approaches Mrs. Horner.

  “Excuse me.” Pierce clears his throat before he speaks, but his tone is well-mannered to a fault. “I need to go to Mrs. Wilheim’s class to get the rest of my humanities work for the week. Would that be all right?”

  “Have you read your book?” Mrs. Horner values peace and quiet above everything else. Just like how some dads want to sit in front the TV and enjoy their show, and as long as the kids don’t make a noise, they don’t care what they do.

  “I’ve finished all my assignments for the day.” Pierce hands her a stack of papers, neatly folded. He loves to fold paper.

  “That’s fine. Mr. Blackmon, can you escort young Mr. Lyons to Mrs. Wilheim’s class?”

  “Mrs. Horner, I need to get my assignments, too.” Whenever I try to polish my voice like Pierce, I always sound like a con artist on the prowl. Adults grow suspicious and know I am up to something, but they have no proof and need to see whatever I am up to play out. I might as well be a thief sending a note daring the cops to stop me from robbing a joint. I need to develop a new look, but for now, it works all the same.

  As we walk by the different classes—language arts, humanities, art, science, Latin—students fill each room. Lined up and orderly, all attentive while the teacher speaks. Part of me wants to join them. To be . . . normal, I guess. There are days I wish I fit in better and wonder what is wrong with me. It’s like I have this voice that wants to tell me I’m broken. All right, sometimes that voice sounds like Mrs. Horner. Then there are the other voices, like Ms. Erickson.

  Ms. Erickson is who I would have for homeroom if I weren’t in Special Ed. Ms. Erickson is a math teacher. She always wears a huge smile on her face. She loves urging her students to talk in class. It didn’t matter what her lesson plan was if a good idea popped up for the class to discuss.

  Mrs. Fitzgerald left her alone because her students performed extremely well on the same standardized tests Ms. Erickson hates so much. That’s the other thing about rules: success trumps everything. No one cares if you break them as long as you perform well.

  Which is how Marcel flies under everyone’s radar.

  Ms. Erickson’s class bustles with activity. The kids chat in noisy clusters, passing candy and money back and forth. Ms. Erickson perches against her desk like some grand, observant owl. She dresses like she finds her clothes at Goodwill. All her shirts have large, baggy sleeves. Whenever she walks between desks, all the boys perk up like prairie dogs trying to stare down them. Her hair bleeds from gray roots to darker hair to blond tips. She and Mr. Blackmon exchange a few words before he leaves. Ms. Erickson slides around her desk and punches my name into her laptop.

  “Thelonius, you’re doing well in your work overall. Your actual class work is exemplary.” She has the melodic voice of a bird high on hope. “Too bad we have those behavioral issues or you’d be doing perfect. We’d love to be able to have you in class.”

  “What are you guys doing today?” I observe the room while Ms. Erickson gathers my work. There are three or four centers of activity, each group congregating around a central person—Marcel Washington. She circles the room, checking in on each group, but not dealing directly with any of the activity.

  In fourth grade, she experimented with the nickname Marcy, but it never suited her, so she gave up on it. Her dad, a black dude, is a scientist who often visits her class to talk about his work. Her mom, a white lady, is the president of the PTA who also bakes a mean batch of brownies come school fund-raising season. If Marcel came from money, she never acted like it. Marcel always received straight As. By all reports, she was the best-behaved kid in the class. But I know better. The quiet ones are the ones everyone really has to watch out for. You see, an obvious stickup thug might get a wallet or two. Put them in bankers’ suits and they were robbing folks for millions on Wall Street.

  Marcel was strictly Wall Street.

  “We’re doing some lessons in applied economics.” Ms. Erickson draws her long blond-tipped hair behind her ear and shoves her glasses farther up her nose. A touch of pride hints in her voice. “It’s too bad you’re not in here—I think you’d really enjoy this project. It was Marcel’s idea. The kids are running little businesses. They’re tracking inventory, setting prices, keeping ledgers, and even managing payroll accounts. I don’t think they even realize how much they’re learning.”

  “Can I watch?” I ask.

  “Only from the back corner. I don’t want you distracting anyone.”

  Like the lone guard of the cubbies, I wander toward the door. Her classroom theme centers around colleges. Banners from Indiana University, Purdue University, and Butler University; framed ones from Alcorn State, Wilberforce, Tuskegee, and Spelman.

  “You have ten minutes to wrap up any transactions, then we transition into our university of mathematics portion of the day,” Ms. Erickson announces. “Remember, I’m going to have to see proof of work before I let you get ready for . . .”

  “Recess!” The class chimes in on cue. Like I say, just because you label something one way—like calling recess “enrichment” to make it sound more educational—doesn’t mean it fools anyone into not recognizing it for what it is.

  Marcel discusses a matter with Ms. Erickson before meandering toward the sink, which happens to be right next to me.

  “What you doing in here, Felonius?” Marcel says with her back to me. “Ms. Erickson could’ve run your assignments to you, so I figure you must want something.”

  I examine the door, one, to give the appearance of waiting for Mr. Blackmon, and, two, to keep my back between me and Ms. Erickson. “I wanted to check out your operation for myself. Been hearing things.”

  “What you heard about me?” Marcel sprays water into the sink, going through the motions of washing something out.

  “I heard that your mom and dad weren’t shelling out for an iPhone for you unless you earned the money for it yourself. I heard that you took your weekly lunch money and made a stop at the Dollar Store and bought candy and barrettes. You sold them and reinvested most of that money into more product, including mechanical pencils.”

  “Boys needed more stuff.” Marcel pretends a methodical search through the cabinets. “I never leave a customer base unserved or money on the table.”

  “Things took off and you franchised out. Got a few people working for you and everyone just pays you a cut.” I lean against the cubby and stare toward the door. “And you do this under Ms. Erickson’s nose.”

  “She’s even a client. She bought her share of hair ties.” Marcel chanced a moment to peek around the cabinet door to meet my eyes. “I see your boy, Nehemiah, has been busy snooping.”

  I ignore her all-too-accurate assessment. “That’s a lot of money for product and cash to go through. How do you keep everyone honest? You have to have a way of making sure all of what’s due you gets into your pocket.”

  “I’ve heard things about you, too.” She starts organizing the shelves. “So you tell me.”

  I expected her to change topics. She’s determined to test me. “What things?”

  “You read a lot but funnel most of your energy into looking like you don’t care about sch
ool. You have a bit of a paranoid streak. You’re observant, good at reading people, and prone to sticking your nose where it don’t belong whenever you get . . . bored. So what do you see?”

  The kids wrap up their business, pocketing their candy. A few people write in notebooks and check their work with calculators. One kid lingers by the pencil sharpener opposite from us. Marquess Neal. “Kutter” to (what few people he called) his friends. His hair is a crown of twists, nesting baby snakes poised to strike. His eyes seem perpetually narrowed, like jagged scars. Not announcing his presence, he circles the room. Each student tallying their numbers notes him when he nears. He nods and they return to their work.

  “Kutter keeps everyone straight,” I say.

  “You know that’s right. He handles all my heavy work.”

  “Why does he work for you?”

  “Because I’m a girl?” Marcel smacks her gum.

  I play her game. “It’s a lot to ask of some dudes, to report to a girl.”

  “Think he likes me?” She asks the question innocently, but I realize I’m still being tested.

  “I don’t think it works that way.”

  “Why does anyone do anything?” Marcel chomps on her gum, sounding like a cow making a mess of cleaning cud from its mouth. She purposefully designs her act for maximum annoyance. “Because there’s something in it for them.”

  “Money?” I shrug.

  “Deeper than that.”

  “I don’t get it.” I shift toward her, careful not to give the impression that we might actually be talking.

  “No, you don’t. You have a ‘moms’ who thinks the world of you. You have teachers like Mr. Blackmon who believe in you. And you got friends like Nehemiah who are ride or die with you. You’re rich compared to most folks.”

  “It’s that deep.”

  “It’s that deep. Be careful not to drown.” Marcel emphasizes the words to remind me of my place in the greater order of things. She shuts the cabinet door.

  I already regret this. Marcel likes to play games too much. One of those people who believes themselves smarter than everyone else, she’s so confident about that fact she never bothers to particularly hide it. Instead, every conversation becomes a maze where she jogs several steps ahead of you. I don’t know who’s more exhausted after each interaction, me or her.