The Usual Suspects

by Maurice Broaddus

“No one likes a no baller either. You never pass the rock.” Twon waddles off the court, toward the playground equipment in search of a game of tag or something to jump in on. He doesn’t bother to turn around. Waggling my head back and forth, I imitate him saying, “No one likes a no baller either.” I kick a pebble from the court in his general direction.

  His words sting, though. No one wants to be seen as a black hole: where once the ball goes in to him, it never comes out. Nor do I want Twon to leave. I just want to win. When the ball isn’t in my hands, when I’m not in control, I’m helpless. I can run around all I want, make screens, confuse the defense, but the reality is that whoever has the ball determines the action. Plus, I don’t particularly trust my teammates. Tucking the ball to my side, I watch in silent protest. This is as close as I’m going to get to apologizing. It’s not like I can announce in front of the other team that I’d pass the ball more.

  Split between having to watch Twon, Rodrigo, and us, Mr. Blackmon positions himself by the other set of doors closer to the eighth-grade wing. Marcel switches positions with him, stationing herself by the doors closest to the cafeteria.

  I pass the ball to Nehemiah on the next trip down the court.

  “Guard the rock. Guard the rock!” I scream, but RaShawn quickly strips Nehemiah of the ball. Going for an easy layup, he pays no attention to the galloping footfalls chasing him. I catch up from behind and swat his shot out of bounds.

  “He vandalized you!” Nehemiah yells, feeling avenged. “He schooled you, son.”

  Kutter glances over toward the cafeteria doors.

  Marcel nods.

  Nehemiah checks the ball up top. RaShawn tosses the rock to Kutter.

  “Show me what you got.” Kutter flashes a humorless grin. Dribbling the ball twice, he pounds the ground with it. Regripping it, he presents it to Nehemiah. Daring him.

  I step toward Nehemiah to check the ball for him, but he brushes me back. I was about to insist but think better of it, not wanting to accidentally punk him. There are rules to the game. Once challenged, Nehemiah can’t back down or he’d be seen as soft or weak. He wouldn’t be able to play out here if he gets that rep. Or worse, he’d have to do something stupid to shake it. Kutter lobs Nehemiah the ball. Stretching his long arms out, Kutter crowds him. Nehemiah doesn’t have a natural game. He dribbles with a heavy hand, thinking too hard about where the ball lands. Slamming it on the concrete, he moves like a sleepy elephant.

  Nehemiah throws a head fake, which fools no one, and drives to the basket. Kutter’s elbow crashes into the side of his neck when he jumps up. I spring to Nehemiah’s side, one shoulder braced toward him to hold Nehemiah back just in case.

  “What the hell?” Nehemiah touches his neck, checking his hand for blood.

  “All ball,” Kutter says.

  “You going to mug me every time I drive?” It’s a simple question, but I didn’t trust the way Nehemiah’s head ticked to the side when he asks it. I recognize those eyes.

  “If you’re going to cry about it, take it.” Kutter tosses him the ball.

  “No foul. You can have it.” Nehemiah flings the ball to him. Hard.

  All eyes land on Kutter. He catches the ball completely unfazed, not bothered by Nehemiah’s anger. He plays to get into Nehemiah’s head. Nehemiah provides an easy target for that kind of plan. In that way, he is the weak link on the team.

  Kutter does his strong crossover again. He waits for Nehemiah to not only come for him but commit. Even Twon, from the other side of the playground, would have seen Nehemiah planting himself in position to knock Kutter to the ground on his drive. Kutter uses his crossover move to evade Nehemiah. But Kutter doesn’t take the easy shot. Going from up top, he lobs a floater of a pass. Easily intercepted by Nehemiah, the play is sloppy. Too sloppy. Like he wants to give Nehemiah another crack at him. I push off my man to gain some room. Nehemiah can kick the ball out to me. Two defenders, two of Kutter’s crew, block my path. Like the steel jaws of a bear trap slamming shut, I piece together their play too late.

  Nehemiah drives down the court through a clear lane that opens up for him. Bait he’s unable to resist. I call out to him. Kutter steps into the lane, just enough to trip him. Nehemiah sails through the air. He hits the concrete and rolls to a stop. The ground rips up his shirt and cuts a seam across the knees of his pants. Kids rush over to pick him up, but he knocks their hands away. An empty hardness fills Nehemiah’s eyes. The same way Moms ticked once her needle crept into the red and was beyond hearing anybody.

  Nehemiah springs up and charges. Kutter waits on him. His boys part to open an unobstructed path for Nehemiah to reach Kutter. A bubble of bodies collapses on them after that. Only then do I realize that we have no allies in the group. Rodrigo’s still walking the line. Twon is on the other side of the playground along with the all-too-far-away Mr. Blackmon. Ms. Erickson patrols the swings, attending to the gossip girls. We are all alone.

  I freeze.

  The scene rewinds itself and replays at slow speed. I can’t breathe. Fear creeps up my belly and down my legs, rooting me to my spot. I’m smart and I’m tough, but I’m not hood level. I wasn’t raised in the streets. Kutter’s stone-cold glare, its sheer ruthlessness, chills me. It’s the stare of someone with nothing to lose. That there are few lengths he isn’t willing to go. Nothing he wouldn’t sacrifice.

  All his rage and hate and emptiness could just as easily land on me. His hands could easily hold a gun. In a moment, his gaze burns through me and reveals how little I understand what all is in motion. It reminds me of what I do care about and how much I have left to lose. Starting with my friends.

  Though they anchor themselves in a pretend pick-and-roll to block me, RaShawn and his partner don’t have to do much work. The boys surge, a storm on two fronts: one carefully positioned to shield prying eyes, the other pounces on Nehemiah. Their bodies press in. They shout in angry snarls. Bits of spit fly as they work themselves up. Not so loud as to draw too much attention. The boys close in tighter. Quick jabs to Nehemiah’s gut. An elbow to his jaw. A few well-placed kicks turn to stomps when he stumbles to the ground. Kutter grabs Nehemiah’s wrist and falls on it. A wet pop follows along with Nehemiah’s howl.

  “Step back, step back.” Mr. Blackmon charges through the boys. “Give me some room.”

  Kutter is slow to roll off Nehemiah, who squeezes his eyes shut, making a dam of his eyelids. Heavy tears stream down his face, mixing with the dirt on his cheeks to create muddy streaks. Mr. Blackmon checks him for cuts and bruises. When he touches his arm, Nehemiah screeches again. The gathered crowd swells. Some have the decency to wear horrified expressions. Though they fight for a better view, they leave a curious space around me, allowing me plenty of room. Or distancing themselves to not catch what I have: a case of traitor for not jumping in to defend Nehemiah.

  Kutter strolls past me. He whispers, “You in my yard.”

  “Come on, Nehemiah, we’re going to the nurse’s office.” Mr. Blackmon scoops him up as best he can to help him to his feet. “Can you walk?”

  Unsteady at first, Nehemiah backs away from Mr. Blackmon to favor his hurt wrist. “It wasn’t my fault. They started it.”

  “You can sing that song to Mrs. Fitzgerald.” Mr. Blackmon stays near to steady him in case he needs it. “The boys who came to get me say you were the one shoving folks.”

  “It’s not fair.” Nehemiah kicks over a trash can on his way in. The movement shoots an arc of pain through his arm because he cradles it more.

  Ms. Erickson arrives to shoo the kids back to their schoolyard distractions. The boys stagger back toward the court as if awakening from a deep sleep. Their game starts off sluggish, but within minutes finds its rhythm again. Without me.

  Sucking on a Blow Pop, Marcel sidles up next to me.

  Withdrawing the lollipop from her mouth, she gestures toward the building. “Your boy’s off to see Mrs. Fitzgerald. She don’t play when it comes to blacktop tussles.”

  I do
n’t respond.

  “Looks to me like you out here all alone. Your crew, well, they ain’t much. A lot of talk but they got no heart. Now, my crew? They’re loyal. They’re soldiers. They know how to get things done. I know a mind is a terrible thing to waste and all, but I want you to think about that and how easy it’d be to get got before you go asking any more questions.”

  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.”