On the watch for Mr. Blackmon, I calculate how much time I have left for this dance with Marcel. It’s past time to get down to business. “You know about the gun?”
“What about it?”
“I’m trying to find out who brought it.”
“Why? You decide to go into the snitching business?”
“Why does it got to be like that?” The accusation hits harder than I expected it to. I’m not about to be out here snitching, but I don’t know if this falls into a “no snitching” situation. Taking a sudden keen interest in the decorations in case Ms. Erickson watches, I adjust one of the university banners. “Now who sounds paranoid?”
“Because you asking a lot of questions about stuff that isn’t any of your concern.”
Kutter scrapes his chair along the floor tiles. It draws everyone’s attention, but he only eyeballs me. Forming a peace sign with his fingers, Kutter points them first at his eyes, then toward me. Subtlety isn’t in his skill set. Employing Kutter is like having a hammer as the only tool on a tool belt. I can definitely picture him with a gun, but I play things cool.
“You know how it goes, Marcel. Folks have made it my concern. This will come down on me and Special Ed.”
“You stay true to your crew. I respect that.” Marcel blows a large, slow bubble, lets it pop, but brings the mess back into her mouth with methodical ease. “Just as long as you understand that you aren’t untouchable. Handle your business. You just make sure that it’s only your business you’re handling.”
“You threatening me, Marcel?” I watch her like an insect I suspect might be poisonous, wondering just how far Marcel might go to “handle her business.”
“Absolutely not.” Suddenly I wonder if I sound so phony and grating when I put on my all-too-innocent routine. “If I were you, I’d look to those closest to you first. I’m telling you that as a courtesy. Consider it a respect thing. Game recognizes game. Just also understand that snitches get stitches.”
We have to learn our numbers, and today’s lesson of the cafeteria involves division.
Kids march through the hallways arranged by classrooms. The boys of Ms. Erickson’s room, full of too-conscious swagger, acknowledge Kutter for permission before play punching one another. Even more than Ms. Erickson, he controls the line with his uneasy menace. Those locked out of his crew face a vague powerlessness. They keep their heads down, hoping to not be noticed. The idea is that the eighth graders would mentor the sixth graders as to the ways and culture of the school. It’s like having short-timer inmates school the new ones. The classes arrange themselves around specified tables, boys tend to be on one end, girls on the other. Clusters of friends, alliances of interests, all fall along invisible boundaries.
The cafeteria lady hits my tray with a heavy dollop of hash browns. Breakfast for lunch is usually the biggest hit of the week, second only to pizza days. French toast, hash browns, and sausage patties, all are gobbled down in a greedy blur. The carton of milk weighs the tray down, throwing off my tray’s balance so it requires both hands to carry. It’s hard to pull off cool while struggling to keep a tray straight, so I hustle to my seat.
“You going to eat those?” Crumbs dust Nehemiah’s mouth and shirt.
“Nah, go ahead.” I slide my plate to let Nehemiah take my French toast sticks.
“There you go thinking again. Ain’t you had enough of that? You making yourself sick.” Nehemiah’s tone sounds almost like a mother’s. Concern isn’t a muscle he regularly exercises. Having eaten all his scavenged food, Nehemiah now outright picks at my tray since I obviously show little interest in it.
Twon receives a triple portion of food. The lunch lady happens to be his aunt and is generous with his portions to begin with. Mr. Blackmon nibbles from a container of carrot sticks and a Baggie of pumpkin spiced granola. We turn our noses up at it when he offers some.
The Special Ed students are allowed to be with our classes during lunch and enrichment. Most times we choose to take our lunch back to our classroom. If we are going to be designated “special,” we are going to take full advantage of that status, flipping things so that it’s a privilege. In our room, we can talk freely the entire period, unlike the regulated cafeteria where students had to be quiet except for the final ten minutes of lunch, when they are free to chat. Today I convinced everyone to eat in the cafeteria (so that I can observe people, but I leave that part out).
The school cafeteria doubles as the auditorium, so there is a raised platform that can be closed off by the thick burgundy curtains. Me, Nehemiah, Twon, and Rodrigo sit around a table on the stage. The perfect perch from which to see how the different players operate in their natural element.
“What do you see, Thelonius?” Mr. Blackmon wanders over. The way he watches me watching folks annoys me. His scrutiny makes it hard for me to focus.
“What do you mean?”
“When you look out at the rest of your class, what do you see?”
This time of day is the toughest for teachers to corral us. All our energy builds up to this point and we tick away the minutes all morning, waiting for release. Whatever tattered bits of discipline remain in us fray to shreds and the teachers resign themselves to managing the unruliness. We outnumber them.
There are perfectly valid reasons to be scared of spiders, just not the ones people typically think of. The number of spiders should make folks break out in cold sweats. Numbers can tell an interesting story. Spiders are in just about every home, to the point where you’re never more than a few feet from a spider whether you can see them or not. The larger ones can feed on lizards, birds, and even small mammals. If you were to add up the weight of all the spiders in the world, it would come to 25 million tons. Combined, they eat between four hundred and eight hundred million tons of prey in a year. If you add up the weight of all the adult humans on the planet, it comes to about 287 million tons. In other words, the sum of all the spiders could eat all of us and still be hungry come snack time.
The numbers don’t lie, but you can make them tell whatever story you want.
Having drawn the short straw today, Ms. Erickson’s been sentenced to lunch duty. She patrols up and down the rows of tables with a soft glare on her face meant to silence any stray whisperers. She places orange cones on the ends of each table, signaling silence to allow the students “the proper concentration” to finish their lunches. On days like breakfast days, we accomplish that task within minutes. The only people still eating are those who suffer through home-packed lunches of cold SpaghettiOs, stale chips, and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches (especially since the jelly had all morning to soak through the bread). Some kids open books and duck their heads to pass the remaining time. Others fidget, barely able to contain their anxious energy. A few slip out their cells, keeping them out of the eyes of teachers since phones are “forbidden.” Everyone competes to get away with as much chatter or game playing as Ms. Erickson’s back allows.
I focus on Marcel. She looks around as if her name was called and flashes a crooked yet toothy smile at me. Without turning from our locked stare, she bumps Kutter to gain his attention. The two of them sit on the dividing line between the boys and the girls. She raises her carton of milk but doesn’t take a drink, instead using it to block her lips from my view. She needn’t have bothered because I suck at reading lips. Kutter bobs his head, a wry sneer spreading across his mouth. He smothers a laugh. Glaring at me gives me the gist of whatever flutter of conversation they exchange. Marcel tips her milk toward me in mocking toast.
“Sheep and wolves,” I say finally.
“Which are you?” Mr. Blackmon asks.
“Neither.” I’m not someone who follows what everyone else does or tries to hide unnoticed. But I’m not going to hunt my people and gobble them up, either. I’m something else, I guess.
“How do you think they see you?” Mr. Blackmon picks out a carrot stick with great flourish to allow a moment for the question to sink in. I know his little tricks.
I mull Marcel’s words, churning them in my mind over and over again, trying to make sense of them. Look to those closest to me? Nehemiah, Twon, Rodrigo? There’s got to be a clue in there somewhere. Or maybe a warning. This may all be part of her game. Get my head spinning so that I’m too caught up to catch whatever she’s up to.
“A lion,” I say finally. “The other wolves play at being bad, but they’re scared that I can come down at any time and hunt any of them.”
“Is that how you see yourself?” This is what I mean. Mr. Blackmon just can’t help it. Every conversation transforms into an opportunity to push into me. He’s a walking, talking after-school movie intent on teaching me something. The level of concern almost suffocates me and makes talking to him too intense, almost a drain, and I need to concentrate.
“Mr. Blackmon, you need more than carrots in your diet,” I say.
“Okay, I get the message. It’s just you reminded me of something. You ever watch Road Runner cartoons?”
I perk up a little. “Yeah. Sometimes they run those old cartoons on the Cartoon Network.”
“Uh-huh.” Mr. Blackmon takes the dig in stride. “Every so often they show episodes that didn’t focus on Road Runner but on Wile E. Coyote and Sam Sheepdog.”
“Actually, it was Ralph Wolf. They just drew him like Wile E. Coyote.”
“What have I told you about sentences that begin with ‘actually’? No one likes a know-it-all.” Mr. Blackmon’s glasses slip down his nose. He straightens the seam of his sweater vest. “Anyway, Ralph”—Mr. Blackmon emphasizes the noted correction—“and Sam were both on the clock, each had a job to do. Ralph’s was to catch the sheep; Sam’s was to protect the sheep. They weren’t mad at each other; they were just being true to their natures.”
“What’s that got to do with me?”
“This is my long-winded way of agreeing with you. I don’t see you as a wolf or a sheep either. You’re a good kid, even if you don’t always believe it. I’m going to be straight: you might even have a hint of wolf in you, but in your heart, you’re still more . . .”
“Sheepdog?” I shake my head.
“Look, this sounded a lot more cool in my head.” Mr. Blackmon tips his water bottle to his mouth.
The lesson of recess is controlled chaos.
The day builds to the moment we pass through the double doors that open to outside. Outside is our world. It begins as soon as Mr. Blackmon stands to escort me, Rodrigo, Nehemiah, and Twon. Whether by design or by negligence, enrichment time seems like yard time in prison.
In order to maintain the illusion of control, the rule is that the students have to continue “personal discipline” until we reach the end of the sidewalk. Ten steps count down the long march to freedom. Eyes widen and dart about. Coats zip up, miniature knights donning their armor in preparation for the combat we call play. Our pace quickens, excited hops peppering our footfalls, but not quite running because we’d be sent back to the door to “try it again.” As a crush of bodies, we surge forward without shoving because that, too, would get us sent to the back of the line.
Three steps.
Two.
One.
Crossing the line, we explode in screams despite the “no yelling” warnings of our teachers. Peals of laughter and whoops follow as we chase one another. The playground erupts in a tempest of activity. Rodrigo assumes his usual post, walking the line surrounding the basketball court. He earned ten minutes of time-out for running his mouth to Mrs. Horner and she always collects.
“I got something on Kutter.” Even with the bright sun, Nehemiah draws his jacket tight around him. Besides being able to get into the school administration’s computer system whenever he wants, Nehemiah can go places I can’t and talk to people who won’t talk to me. Apparently my mouth burns a lot of bridges and, hard as it is to believe, some people consider me a know-it-all jerk.
“You peek at his records?”
“Thought about it. RaShawn, too. Teachers around here don’t guard their passwords or laptops for anything. But I didn’t need to. I just started asking around. Word is that Kutter has folks terrified.”
“Makes sense. He used to squad up with Nyla,” I say. Like Marcel, she’s part of the power group that basically runs the school. “Then he went solo. Thug for hire. Especially when we start looking at motive: either who would want to bring a gun to school or why would someone need to bring a gun to school. This puts Kutter at number one.”
“So what do you want to do, T?” Nehemiah asks.
“Give me a sec. I have to talk to a couple folks.”
“Want me to come along?”
“Yeah,” I say, but I don’t know why. Something didn’t sit right with me, one of them bad feelings, like the weight of eyes on me. “Discreet, though. Watch my back.”
We head toward the far side of the blacktop. A fence topped with barbwire lines that edge of the school’s property line. A stand of trees grows on the other side, their branches shadowing that corner. The twins hold court in the shade like it is their own private tree fort. Most days, I never give a second thought to either Tafrica or Wisdom. I call myself “not wanting to be distracted by no females.”
“What’s good, Thelonius?” Tafrica says.
“You look ill, T.” Wisdom adjusts her glasses. I notice her braces for the first time. She’s the only person I’ve met who can pull off pigtails, braided or otherwise. “Like something a cat threw up.”
“I must be coming down with something,” I say.
“What’s your friend doing? He acting all suspicious over there, trying not to be noticed,” Tafrica says.
Nehemiah lingers by the edge of the building, between the spontaneous game of soccer and our conversation.
“He good,” I say.
“What’cha need, then?” Tafrica says.
“I just want to know a little bit about Kutter.”
Both Tafrica and Wisdom check around for prying ears before both grab me and yank me close.
“What are you asking about him for?” Tafrica whispers through clenched teeth.
“What? I just want to know how he connected with Marcel.”
“Who said they’re connected?” Wisdom asks. She doesn’t quite huddle with me and Tafrica but keeps her head up in a constant scan of who might wander too near.
“You’re kidding, right? Everyone knows he works for her.”
“But no one asks.”
“I heard he’s homeless,” Wisdom says.
“Homeless?” I ask.
“Couch surfing with relatives. No one wants to take him in for too long. Did a stint in one of those juvenile boot camp type places. The Change Academy, I think.”
I have a theory that everyone loves to stick the word “academy” in a school’s name to make it sound more prestigious. Though I suppose if you call schools what they were, “Whoop That Trick” Academy doesn’t have the same ring as the Change Academy.
“Only a rumor.” Tafrica’s head snaps in Wisdom’s direction. “We don’t do rumors. Especially about them. That’s dangerous. If Kutter broke from Nyla and if he went to work for Marcel, it means there’s trouble among the Queens. We too close to them and we ain’t trying to get caught up in that mess.”
“Becoming collateral damage isn’t good for my look.” Wisdom nods.
“He straight hood, that’s all you need to know.”
“Okay, I got it.” I lift my hands and back up. That’s when I feel it. The weight of eyes tracking me. Doing a quick scan myself, I have no idea from where.
“Word of advice, T,” Wisdom offers. “Be careful who you ask about.”
“Or to who,” Tafrica continues. “You never know who’s listening or who they loyal to.”
I rejoin Nehemiah. “We good here.”
“Learn anything?”
“I’m not sure.” I swat him in the gut and nod toward the court. “But I’d really like to play basketball.”
“We’re coming in.” Nehemiah shu
cks his jacket as we jog over, stopping the action on the court.
The teams switch around so that Nehemiah, me, and Twon can be on the same squad. Kutter and RaShawn are on the other side.
A few times up and down the court has me pouring sweat. Some kids still cling to hoop dreams, running across the court like LeBron James commanding the floor—their eyes full of cool indifference when we join the game—oblivious to the fact that most of us are weak ballers. That some are chubby or that some are scrawny. That some are tall while others could not reach the bottom of the net no matter how hard they leaped. It doesn’t matter how much skill you have: playing the game is the point.
I grab the rock at the top of the key. I dribble with a wary trot, allowing the teams to get used to one another while I study how they move. With a hot spin to my left, I bring the ball back right. Twon undercuts his man, finding some space.
“I’m open,” Twon yells.
I wave him off and fire a pretty fadeaway jumper. I know I look like Steph Curry stabbing a dagger in the heart of the opposing team with a last-second shot.
“Check it up top.” I raise my hands in anticipation of the ball.
“How come?” RaShawn asks.
“We’re playing make it, take it.”
He skulks over to set Kutter up to drive. I intercept a sloppy bounce pass. Spinning around past Kutter, I evade the sea of elbows and smacking hands, leaving the other team behind. I rush the backboard without dribbling, blasting off to the rim, flying as high as my body manages. Though falling three feet short of touching any part of the rim, my imagination fills in the rest. I act like I’d just dunked on someone. Today is my show.
“I’m out, man,” Twon says.
“No one likes a quitter, Twon,” I remind him.
The Usual Suspects Page 8