The Usual Suspects

by Maurice Broaddus

  “Look, dude, I’m sorry about the other day. I got you in trouble in music class. It was a . . . misunderstanding.” I glimpse Nehemiah waving me off. “Anyway, I been letting a lot of folks down lately and I needed to step to them like a man and apologize.”

  “For real?” Jaron’s large shoulders relax, if only slightly. His walls lower, if only a bit. “Yeah. We cool.”

  I swoop on the opportunity to press in a bit. “Look, I was talking to some folks. I was having a problem with Kutter and they sort of pointed me your way.”

  At the name, Jaron’s face lights up with full interest. “What sort of problem?”

  “He came after me. Except he didn’t come direct. I think he went after Nehemiah to send a message to me.”

  “What did he want with you?” Jaron asks.

  “I don’t know.”

  Jaron arches an eyebrow with skepticism and distrust. His eyes harden about the edges. His walls prepare to rise again.

  “I have a theory, though.” I scramble to keep Jaron open to hearing me out and talking. “I think it had something to do with Marcel.”

  “It always does.” Jaron wipes his palms along his pant legs.

  “I’m not even sure what I did to rub her raw.” I chance a step closer to him.

  “You get in her business?”

  “Not really. Just let her know that I knew.”

  Jaron laughs, a dry, bitter cough. “You might as well have threatened to make a run at her. She’s paranoid. And ruthless.”

  “That how you got on her radar?” I ask.

  Jaron starts telling his story, which might as well have begun “once upon a time. . . .” I picture his story in my mind as he speaks, a scene opening with how . . .

  . . . the sun beamed down on them from a clear sky. School had been in session only a few weeks, but the way the warm days kept coming, summer threatened to never end. The playground was a roiling sea of red or navy blue polo shirts and khaki shorts. The sixth-grade teachers struggled to wrangle their students, still not used to the discipline of the school routine. The middle schoolers poured out of the double doors, erupting onto the courts with yelps and furious intent. Ms. Erickson had recess duty. She swung a set of jump ropes with a sixth grader as Brionna traded off with some of the girls doing double Dutch. A substitute teacher wandered the periphery of the basketball court, making time to chat up Mr. Blackmon. He hovered about, not daring to take his eyes from his charges who walked the line.

  Three teachers covered the playground, but the playground can be a large place, full of shadows. For those who knew how to stalk, there was plenty of room for predators to hunt.

  A group of girls stood in a semicircle. The twins held court at the double doors as if they couldn’t wait for recess to be over. An alcove over by the kindergarten wing of the building hid another set of double doors. Like the main double doors, no one could enter without a key card, but Marcel haunted its shadows, keeping a careful eye on the recess activities. From her vantage point, she couldn’t see the domain of the gossip girls: the swings or the picnic-bench area where clusters of girls congregated to gossip. However, she could see the basketball court and, more important, the games that went on behind the mammoth playground equipment.

  The massive fort divided the yard: wide ramps, steel decks, a maze of tubes, an enclosed double slide, a bridge that led to a tower, and a rock wall. All recycled plastics surrounded by a mat of wood chips and cut-up bits of tires. Safety first. Behind it was a whole other world as kids could play as rough as they wanted out of the sight of the teachers. Only the screams of raised ruckus drew any notice.

  Marcel smoothed out her khaki skirt. Her mother insisted on her wearing a white blouse rather than a polo shirt. The look helped her play her part. Dutiful daughter. Prize student. Unlikely hawk. A lollipop dangled from her lips. She monitored her business. Candy sales, mostly, money changing hands. She had five boys selling for her now. With Kutter making sure all funds managed to get where they were supposed to.

  Enter Jaron.

  His parents prepaid his lunch enough for a single meal per day, but Jaron was a big boy who enjoyed his share of snacks. Wanting to duplicate the success Marcel had with her entrepreneurial enterprises, he took the birthday money his grandmother had given him and invested it in candy. There was a specialty candy shop over in the Lafayette Square Mall and he bought candy not found in Dollar Tree. He charged more than any of Marcel’s sellers, but his was a premium product. Soon he found himself flush with cash, cutting into Marcel’s then-budding racket. Placing him firmly in her sights.

  “How’s business?” Kutter eased up to him. He growled more than spoke, and his words had the ominous cast of storm clouds. The boy couldn’t even ask about the time without it sounding like a threat.

  “I’m doing all right,” Jaron said.

  “You know this is my yard, right?”

  “It’s a big playground. There’s room for all of us.” Jaron smiled. Innocence was a dangerous thing. He genuinely believed that there was a big enough pie for everyone to get a slice and be happy.

  He underestimated how much some people enjoyed pie.

  Kutter knew how to use his size. He stepped into Jaron’s personal space, making sure the intrusion wasn’t lost on the bigger boy. Kutter was smart, an eager student of Marcel’s, and was careful not to lay a finger on Jaron. “It’s not as big as you might think. There’s only room for one candy dealer out here.”

  “I . . .” Jaron began to backpedal, away from the weight of Kutter’s hot breath, but stopped when he bumped into RaShawn right behind him. “I get it. I’m through.”

  “That’s not good enough.” Kutter patted his pockets. “Now see, my pockets feel kind of light. If only a good Samaritan could help me out.”

  “How about . . .” Jaron tried to hide the stammer that crept into his voice. “I give you ten dollars? Would that help you out?”

  “That it? That’s not very charitable.” It was Kutter’s turn to smile. It was ugly and jagged, like someone took a broken bottle and carved a slit where a mouth should be.

  “How much would . . .” The question died on his lips. A wall of boys gathered, cutting them off from all prying eyes. He knew how this dance was meant to end. He began to dump out the sandwich bag he’d tucked his money into, but Kutter held his hand out. Jaron placed the entire bag into his greedy palms.

  Kutter turned to Marcel. She shook her head.

  “Here’s the thing: here at Persons Crossing Public Academy, we employ a teaching method that’s part lesson and part practice.” Kutter attempted to imitate the voice of Mrs. Fitzgerald. It would have worked, if she had laryngitis, fake gold fronts, and halitosis. “We like to foster a sense of community and leave no child behind.”

  RaShawn tittered.

  Jaron’s attention went from Kutter to RaShawn to the boys crowding in on him back to Kutter.

  “What does that mean?” Jaron stammered.

  “It’s recess. We’re about to play a game and we don’t want to leave you out.”

  “What game?”

  “Liftoff.”

  Kutter grabbed Jaron under his right arm, RaShawn under his left. As Jaron struggled, two more boys grabbed each of his legs. The boys held Jaron aloft and powerless no matter how much he wriggled. He yelled, begging them to stop. To put him down. Calling for his mom. The boys achieved a full gallop, running in a circle, and drawing a crowd of curious kids. Their cheers drowned out Jaron’s cries.

  One of the boys carrying a leg stumbled, losing his grip. Once that leg hit the ground, the boy on the other leg released his burden. Jaron dangled from Kutter and RaShawn, his dragging legs kicking up rocks and wood chips, leaving a sputtering dust cloud in their wake. Kutter and RaShawn counted off.

  “Three, two, one . . . Liftoff!” Kutter and RaShawn yelled in unison and let go.

  Jaron went tumbling forward. His body crashed into the ground, his momentum spilling him behind over head. All to wild peals of
laughter and screams.

  “What’s going on back here?” Ms. Erickson yelled, drawn by the suspicious crowd and noise.

  “Nothing, Ms. Erickson. We’re . . . just playing,” Kutter said.

  Jaron stood up slowly, swept the wood chips from his pants and shirt. The stains on his pants smeared further with each swipe. He brushed tears from his face. The dust on his face blurred into a sad, muddy streak.

  “You all right, Jaron?” Ms. Erickson wrapped a concerned arm around his shoulders.

  Jaron’s eyes went from Kutter to the crowd of faces waiting to see what he’d say, back to Kutter. “Yeah, I’m good. We’re just playing.”

  “Well, play nicer. Your parents spent good money on those clothes and I’m willing to bet they don’t want to see them torn up.” She paused, not quite buying their act. “You sure you’re okay, Jaron? You look a little shaken.”

  “I don’t feel well. I think . . . it’s something I ate.”

  “You all play too rough, especially so soon after lunch. Go on to the nurse’s office.”

  Jaron hung his head low, not wanting to meet anyone’s eyes. Embarrassed. Ashamed. Angry. Scared. A swirl of feelings surged in him all at once, each one a punch to his belly threatening to send him to the dirt again.

  That was Day One.

  Marcel decided to make an example of Jaron. A continual reminder of what it would cost someone to cross her. Jaron never knew when something would happen. Cornered in the bathroom. Isolated or, worse, surrounded, at lunch. The constant whispers and taunts. Or in the park, where there weren’t even any adults within earshot should things get out of control. When he was truly on his own. Despite his size, the boys were emboldened, especially if there were four or more. Jaron lived with the fear. With the constant undertow of threat.

  He lived in the flinch.

  With dawning realization . . .

  I think back to my own actions, provoking Jaron just because I was upset. Something ugly twists in my belly. I find that I can’t meet Jaron’s eyes. I’m no better than them. At my bullying, Jaron had snapped. Determined not to take it anymore, he charged across the music room. I know the answer to the question before I ask.

  “Jaron, who brought the gun to the park?”

  “Thelonius, you don’t understand what it’s like. You all but run this place. Who’s going to mess with you?”

  “You’d be surprised.” That was the lesson Marcel wanted to teach me. That anyone can be messed with. “Jaron, who brought the gun to the park?”

  “Thelonius . . . don’t make me say it.”

  “I have to hear the words.”

  “I . . . I was so afraid. The more dangerous you seem, the more likely they are to leave you alone. With it, I had the power for a change.” Tears stream down the big boy’s face. His hand, which seem too small for his body, wipes away his tears. I hate seeing big people break down, but it has to be done. I have to know. Jaron fishes into his pocket. He holds out his fist and waits for me to open my palm to receive its contents. When I do, bullets rain into my hand.

  “I didn’t even know how to load it,” Jaron whispers.

  Judgment day has come.

  Nehemiah passes me a note. Mrs. Horner’s in a particularly bad mood, probably because by the end of the day, Mrs. Fitzgerald is due to pronounce sentence on all of us, including her. So this class time has been designated a “silent working period.” It’s kind of like playing the quiet game except that the first person to talk gets sent to the principal’s office.

  So what’s the plan?

  Nehemiah writes in his barely legible scrawl.

  We need to clear our name, but Jaron is one of us. Right?

  We’re ride or die.

  The only one who should go down for this is Kutter.

  Not Marcel?!!?!!?

  Nehemiah adds more exclamation points and question marks than necessary.

  I’d love for her to go down for anything. Her breathing should be grounds for the Scream Room because she’s taking perfectly good air from someone else.

  I hear that.

  I’m working on something. But first things first: we have to get out of here.

  Like any good prison story, sometimes there has to be a great escape. And sometimes the simplest route, right out the front door, is the easiest. Life is all about waiting for opportunities to present themselves. Or creating those opportunities with a nudge here and there.

  Try as the system might, we don’t make good drones. Those “good” kids, the ones that fall immediately quiet when the teachers flick the lights off, the ones that line up perfectly when the teachers raise their hands and count backward, they’re always going to fit in. Nothing wrong with that. We just come at the world different because it comes at us different. It comes hard, we go hard. We don’t fit in with how the system wants to define us and sometimes we have to turn the system on itself for us to get by.

  Pierce sits at a back table, away from the array of student desks arranged four by four in front of Mrs. Horner. His head ducked low, he focuses on his construction project. I should be the last person guilty of writing someone off, but I’ve never really taken the time or interest to watch him in action before. Granted, a dust mote floating by is usually enough to distract him, so most schoolwork is a struggle for him to get through. But give him some drawing pencils or paint and paper and he’s locked in like a laser. Along his desk are paper cranes, sharks, and butterflies, since origami is his latest fixation.

  You could wind Pierce up. He can keep everyone distracted for days.

  No, I need to do better. But I think you’re onto something.

  I take out a new sheet of paper to begin a note to him, but think better of it, in case there’s a repeat of me sneaking someone something they want but shouldn’t have and getting low-key reported for it. Instead I wait until Pierce and his overly polite self asks to sharpen a pencil, and I linger at the cabinets searching for a book until he gets there.

  “Hey, Pierce,” I whisper while my back is to Mrs. Horner.

  Sheer panic covers his face. Pierce scans about, one, to make sure I was talking to him and, two, to make sure Mrs. Horner doesn’t see him talking. I’m under no illusions: Pierce is difficult to reach on his best days. Connecting with him is like journeying to another planet and you know your universal translator is on the fritz.

  “No worries. I’ll chat. I was wondering if you ever had any bad dealings with Kutter.”

  Pierce jumps at the name, a full body spasm like I’d just punched him. With his flinch I get another queasy feeling that, for better or worse, Pierce is part of our brotherhood. And we should take care of our own.

  “It’s okay. He’s done it to me, too. To all of us. We want to stop him. Are you interested in helping us?”

  A light flickers in Pierce’s eyes. It’s like watching part of him climb out of a deep hole he’d chosen to crawl into. He gives a barely perceptible nod.

  “Good. We just need a small distraction. Something to get Mr. Blackmon out of the room for a little bit. Nothing that would get you in trouble.”

  Pierce nods. I’m not a real big fan of the weird smile he wears on his face.

  By the time I get back to my seat, Pierce reports to Mrs. Horner’s desk. My heart skips as he turns back to me. My gut lurches on visions of giving Twizzlers to Ahrion. But then Pierce scrunches his face at me. I think that’s what passes for a wink for him.

  “Mrs. Horner, may I borrow the stapler?” he asks.

  “What for?”

  “To finish my origami project.”

  “Sure.” Mrs. Horner hands him her stapler. “Be careful. It’s touchy.”

  Pierce ambles back to his desk and proceeds to finish his latest figure. He’s constructed paper fingers, which he’s slipped onto his hand. When one hand is fitted, they look exactly like razor claws. Pierce takes the stapler and lowers his finger into it. Once I realize what he’s doing, I start to wave him off.

  “Ow!” he yells.
>
  Mr. Blackmon strolls into the room escorting Twon and Rodrigo. He directs the two to their seats and attends to Pierce without breaking his slow strut. “What happened?”

  “I cut myself,” Pierce says in a weak voice. He runs his hand through his hair, leaving a streak through it and a red smear on his face. “I tried to get my claws on tight.”

  “Let’s go to the nurse’s office.” Mr. Blackmon grabs a couple of blue forms. Medical reports. “I’ll be back, Mrs. Horner.”

  Mrs. Horner nods from her desk without glancing up.

  See? One down.

  I pass the note back to Nehemiah.

  This was your plan?

  More or less. Pierce is always good for a distraction.

  What about Mrs. Horner?

  I motion back to Twon.

  Do you think you can convince those two to cause a ruckus? They already have at least one infraction, though. I don’t know if they can afford any more without it leading to detention.

  No worries. If I can get on Mr. Blackmon’s laptop, I can unflag them without any problem. The system won’t issue a detention.

  How?

  Please. I’ve had his password from the first week. Mrs. Horner’s, too. Memorized they keystrokes. Even if I didn’t, Mrs. Horner keeps hers in her middle drawer.

  Remind me not to unlock my phone around you.

  Too late.

  Can you get word to them?

  I got this.

  Nehemiah is like a coach when it comes to ruckus. The squad looks to him to call a play, and with a hand signal or two, they line up in formation. I barely catch his gestures, much less a non-paying-attention Mrs. Horner.

  “Why you got to always talk about my momma?” Twon jumps up.

  “What? I didn’t say anything,” Rodrigo protests.

  “You got to keep running your mouth.”

  Rodrigo backs up. “I swear, Mrs. Horner, I didn’t do anything.”

  Twon pounces on Rodrigo. Grabbing him in a headlock, he wrestles him to the middle of the floor. He holds Rodrigo for a minute, then whispers into his ear. With only a hint of a smile, Rodrigo begins to fight back, but none of the blows land with any real feeling. Like brothers, Twon and Rodrigo fight often, since no one can push Twon’s buttons like Rodrigo. Also like brothers, the two of them have each other’s back more times than not. Mrs. Horner resigns herself to leaving her seat to intervene.