“What is going on today? You two are going to Mrs. Fitzgerald’s office. Nehemiah and Thelonius, before you get it in your heads to act up, report to Ms. Erickson’s room.”
“But we didn’t do anything.” I almost sound like I mean it. I definitely deserve an award for this performance. Though Twon’s act might give me a run for it.
Mrs. Horner’s breath stinks and when she glides out from behind her desk, she talks too close to a person’s face. “You’re not in trouble, but I can’t leave you alone. Don’t ruin my trust in you to make it down there on your own.”
“We’ll be okay,” I say.
“Is Brionna in on it, too?” Nehemiah asks as soon as we’re out of earshot.
“Nah. She likes to run her mouth too much,” I say. “This was the easy part of my plan. Now comes the hard part. You up for it?”
“Can’t wait. What you need me to do?”
Education is a full-contact sport.
The students in Ms. Erickson’s class crowd around books. They arm themselves with rulers and calculators like they were gearing up for war, not just checking their work. Another group huddles along the carpet in the rear as Ms. Erickson illustrates problems on a whiteboard. The excitement charges the room. I wonder if this is what it’s like to be just another drop in the sea of different shades dotting the landscape of the room. A couple of girls wear hijabs, which shake as they nod in agreement with their teacher’s words. The kid in front of me taps his pencil against his notebook. Studious gazes track Ms. Erickson’s every move. It all feels so . . . normal.
“Today we’re going to review percentages.” Ms. Erickson walks between the clusters, more bird of prey than protective mother hen. I check the time. There are about twenty minutes left in fourth period. Lunch is up next. If I know Mrs. Horner, she’ll wait until lunch to collect us and enjoy the extra moments of peace and quiet alone in the classroom.
Wearing a bored smirk, Marcel notices us as soon as we enter. “Ms. Erickson? We have some . . . visitors.”
“What can I do for you fellas?” Ms. Erickson examines our hands for a pass or paperwork of some sort.
“Mrs. Horner sent us down here. She had to . . . step out,” I say.
“I see.” She rumples her face, weighing our answers, already planning to verify our story. “Can you handle quiet time?”
“We’ll see,” Nehemiah says. I elbow him in his side. “I mean, yes, ma’am.”
Nehemiah takes the desk by the front door while I make my way over to the opposite side of the room, at the rear by the computer station. An elderly woman who volunteers at the school three times a week raises her glasses to her face to get a better look at me. Sniffing with immediate disapproval, she screws up her mouth as if she smelled bad fish.
“Before we get into our lesson,” Ms. Erickson announces, “we need to back up. We got off track this morning and have some catch-up to do. Thank you for shifting gears so smoothly.”
Ms. Erickson waits for her students to settle into their seats. Without being told, they each take out a pencil and a sheet of paper. The discussion opens with proper and improper fractions.
“I need to see pencils moving. Stay focused,” she exhorts.
The elderly woman picks up on her cue to patrol the room, helping anyone who seems to struggle to keep up.
Kutter leans his chair back, making a show of not paying attention. He jabs one pencil into the eraser of another, making a two-tiered super pencil. He attempts, and fails, to twirl it around his finger. He sends one skittering across the room, but otherwise isn’t too disruptive. Ms. Erickson obviously lets it slide in order to concentrate on those students who actually want to learn.
“We have seven minutes left until lunch and I want them all,” Ms. Erickson says.
Even with my practiced academic appearance—my head buried in a book I only pretend to read—I know Marcel’s watching. She measures each shift, each twitch, probing for any weakness to exploit. Searching for any hint of what I might be up to, because I have to be up to something. I smile. I can’t help myself. When things are about to break my way, be it a good idea or circumstances lining up for me, I can’t help but be pleased with myself. Besides, I’m not the one she should be watching.
I meet her gaze. Then nod.
“What happened to my pencil?” Nehemiah yells.
“What’s the problem?” Ms. Erickson strides toward him in long steps.
“Someone took my pencil!”
“Who?”
“Kutter.” Nehemiah points.
Kutter freezes. His remaining pencil nearly completes a revolution around his finger but skitters to the ground. Already tilting back, he nearly falls out of his chair with the accusation. He raises his long arms in bewilderment. “Man, you tripping. How am I going to get something of yours from over there?”
“Stop playing and give it back,” Nehemiah says.
“On my momma, Ms. Erickson, I don’t know what this fool is talking about,” Kutter says.
“Who you calling a fool?” Nehemiah stands up at his desk.
“You, fool.” Kutter rises in response. “I didn’t stutter.”
“You want to bump?” Nehemiah steps toward him.
Everyone rises out of their seats, some to clear out of their way, others to get a better view.
“I ain’t scared of you,” Kutter says.
“You must be scared of a toothbrush, though,” Nehemiah continues. “I can smell your skunk breath over here.”
“Whoa!” the class murmurs.
“You must want to be split.” Kutter tromps toward him. He flexes with each step, his movements like a snake uncoiling.
Kutter and Nehemiah face off against one another. Easily four inches taller, Kutter looms over Nehemiah. Not backing down an inch, Nehemiah shows heart, or is plain crazy. Ms. Erickson wedges herself between them. Sadly, every teacher in public school has seen this production a hundred times before. She spouts words encouraging them to settle down, take a breath, reminding them that fighting isn’t worth it and that there are better ways to solve their problems. She escalates to threatening to call Mrs. Fitzgerald and then their parents if they fail to take their seats. Each one alternates chest puffing, half-lunging toward the other. The rest of the students congregate around them.
“You want to go?” Kutter asks.
“Whenever you want. I’m tired of all your crap,” Nehemiah says without any real heat to his words, his voice on the verge of cracking. With laughter. He’s enjoying himself too much and I don’t know how much longer he can stay in character.
My plan puts me in a bit of a moral quandary, if you will. Not that anyone could tell, I’m in the middle of what some might call a crisis of conscience. I’m trying to do better, but I’m not sure what better looks like just yet. I think of it as using my powers for good against a bad guy. I already know that I may need to work on developing new powers, but until then, I’m going with what I know.
I inch toward the rear of the crowd, letting the elderly assistant brush past me as she moves to snatch one of the boys away from Ms. Erickson. I slide next to the cubbies. As everyone watches the pretend fight, each boy puffing their chests but doing little more than preening for show, I find Kutter’s backpack and slip Jaron’s bullets into it. Call me paranoid, but I’d wiped down the bullets and slid them into an envelope and used it to pour the bullets into his backpack. I make my way toward Marcel. With a resigned glint in her eye, Ms. Erickson backs away to grab a couple of reflection forms from her desk, ready to just send them both to Mrs. Fitzgerald. I had to give Ms. Erickson that much: she hates having to resort to reflection forms. She views them as a last resort and a failure on her part.
“Enjoying the show?” I whisper to Marcel.
“I’ve seen better.” Marcel chews a piece of gum with the empty expression of watching clothes dry.
“It all comes down to the finale. Watch this.” I wave.
Nehemiah screams and runs around the room. That
grabs Ms. Erickson’s attention. She dashes to cut him off. Her assistant moves toward the door. She might be old, but she can block an entrance and prevent a scrawny seventh grader from running down the halls like a madman. Nehemiah leaps over a desk to the oohs and laughter of the class. He reaches into one of the cubbies and started tossing things. He chances an approving peek at me. I motion at him to move to the next cubby over. Nehemiah grabs the next backpack and swats its contents toward Ms. Erickson. The bullets jangle to the floor.
“Ms. Erickson, are those real?” Nehemiah freezes with the suspicious bag held away from him.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Marcel says to me.
“Everyone back away. Give me some room,” Ms. Erickson says. The students retreat in a stunned silence, stepping widely around any of the rolling bullets. She turns to her volunteer. “In fact, can you take them to lunch and send Mrs. Fitzgerald down here? You can leave Marquess here.”
I’m not used to anyone calling Kutter by his government name.
The volunteer cajoles the students into a line. “No one touch anything.”
Ms. Erickson stretches her arms out to stop us. “Nehemiah and Thelonius, you stay here also.”
“Why me?” I protest.
“I just know you’re involved in this somehow.”
I don’t know whether to be insulted or impressed. Because either even Ms. Erickson blames me when things go down, or she saw through our little performance.
All lessons come at a cost.
An Indianapolis Metropolitan Police Department squad car squats out front of the school, its lights flashing. Kids press themselves against the windows to get a better look at it, like it was some new exotic animal at the zoo. The other students fill their doorways, ignoring the severe warnings of their teachers to take their seats. Bathroom passes run at a premium since suddenly everyone has to go at the same time. The hallways bustle with the few students allowed out, now burdened with being the eyes and ears of their classes, fully expected to come back with as many details as they can ferret out. They linger at the water fountains for any possible view.
A lone IMPD officer escorts Marquess Neal, aka Kutter, through the halls. Stragglers in the hall too close to the action flatten against the walls, afraid Kutter is patient zero and they might catch a case of being hauled to Banesford Accelerated Academy. Kutter stands tall, walking without cuffs, delivering the perp walk everyone expects. Mrs. Fitzgerald appears heartbroken. Rings settle around her eyes. With fine cracks around her lips where makeup had been judiciously applied, she stifles a yawn but pauses to stretch. With bits and pieces gleaned from careless whispers and carefully worded reports, she constructs a narrative to share with everyone.
The school assembly convening today would be about bullying as well as a discussion on school safety. Kutter was a bully. He terrorized all the kids at Persons Crossing Public Academy. In order to further build his rep, to take it to another level, he brought a gun to school. Not to actually hurt anyone, just scare them. Show them that at any time he not only had access but the will to bring it. However, Persons has a zero-tolerance policy. The school administrators removed the threat and would use this opportunity as a teaching moment. That was a story Mrs. Fitzgerald could sell. I muffle a thin smile at that. My way out was to provide and stick to this simple story.
“There was no need for things to go this far.” Mrs. Fitzgerald folds her arms. “I’ll give you one last chance to tell me why you did it.”
Kutter stops in front of her. He faces her with that empty expression, eyes haunted by the ghost of having given up or given in to what everyone thought of him.
“Like you taught us: Say the problem, Think of solutions, Explore consequences, Pick the best solutions.” Kutter’s dead and hopeless tone chills me. Inspecting me up and down, he glares at me with hollow malevolence. Mrs. Fitzgerald catches the stare down and guides me toward her office while the officer escorts Kutter to the cruiser.
Mrs. Fitzgerald has me stew outside her door while she deliberates. The waiting is still the worst part. The “go and think about what you’ve done” technique is standard for teachers and parents alike. In practice, it amounts to “worry about what kind of punishment you’re gonna get.”
I consider how long it has been since I’ve done an actual turn at detention, but my gut assumes that my detention-free days might be nearing an end. The wait allows my mind to play out every way the conversation might go. I come up with counterarguments and strategies. Should I plead for mercy? Play up being contrite? Go for pity? Cry? Go on the offensive with righteous indignation and anger? This is what they want: have us wear ourselves down with impotent worry.
Marcel walks into the outer office, brandishing a broad smile for each of the office assistants. She delivers some paperwork from Ms. Erickson. She twirls her hall pass around her finger like a prison guard playing with the keys for the cells while they count the inmates. Marcel’s smile turns brittle as she faces me. Sliding into the seat next to me, she stares straight ahead.
“Getting your sentence handed down, Felonius?” Marcel asks.
“I’m not guilty of anything,” I say.
“You don’t honestly believe that, do you?”
“Then I’m as guilty as you,” I say.
“If you truly believed that, then you have nothing to worry about. But here you are, looking all worried. Like they’re going to haul you out the way they did Kutter.”
“You ain’t worried?” I ask. “About . . . anything?”
“That Kutter might turn snitch? Nah, I told him as soon as those bullets came spilling out that he wasn’t riding with me.”
“You’re cold. You’d cut your people in a minute,” I say.
“It’s cute the way you think we’re so different. I’m not worried about Kutter because he’s a soldier. He’ll stand tall because it’s in his best interest. Even without copping to anything, the accusation hangs over him. Having the rep of bringing a gun to school will serve him well over at Banesford, if that’s his fate. Just like it would have Jaron.”
I rear back in my chair, but catch myself and struggle to regain my cool.
Marcel straightens a pleat in her skirt. “Don’t act like that was supposed to be a secret. You know I hear things.”
“I see you for what you are,” I say. “Pure gangsta. You prey on and eat your own if it suits you. In the end, you’re all about you.”
Mrs. Fitzgerald’s door opens a fraction, expectant, letting me know that she’s ready for me.
Marcel knows to make herself scarce, leaving after one parting comment. “If I look familiar, it’s because game recognizes game.”
I accept her hat tip of respect, but she’s wrong. I’m not like her. I won’t be.
Mrs. Fitzgerald waves her hand for me to sit down. There’s no play in her tired eyes.
“You can wipe that smugness off your face,” she says without preamble.
“Why’re you so mad, Mrs. Fitzgerald?” All my charm lands like a raw egg thrown at a wall: it splatters, useless, and slides down leaving a mess.
Mrs. Fitzgerald bridges her fingers in front of her. “You kids are so darn clever, aren’t you? All of you think you’re smarter than us stupid grown-ups. That we have no clue what pressures you’re under, what problems you face. As if we’ve never been you or done all the nonsense you haven’t even thought of yet. You’re in seventh grade, Thelonius. You are twelve years old. You think that you have it all worked out.”
“Times are different.” Out of instinct, to lighten the mood, I almost make a joke about her age. Staring into her stony face, I decide to bite my tongue rather than risk riling her up any further.
“The more things change and all that.” She sighs. “What am I going to do with you?”
“I haven’t done anything wrong.”
Mrs. Fitzgerald unfurls her fingers. She slaps the desk like someone struck with a good idea. Startled, I jump. “There you go again, being the smartest person in
the room. Your mind is always ten steps ahead of your behind. Now I know you know everything, but our job—mine, your teachers’, your mother’s—is to see the big picture.”
“I still don’t see what this has to do with me.”
“Here’s what I think: though he’s fully capable, I don’t think Mr. Neal brought the gun to school. I don’t think you did either. I do think Kutter has been a problem for a while.”
“He a straight-up bully.” The words leap out of my mouth, my heart eager for her to believe this.
“I’m stuck with the evidence and will have to think about his future here. I also think that you know more about what’s been going on than you’ve let on.”
“I ain’t a snitch.” I know there’s some truth to it. There’s a line I have to walk. I know Mrs. Fitzgerald and Mr. Blackmon. I like them. I think I even trust them. But they’re still—I don’t know—the system. I can’t trust the system to do right by us. They created the prison; we try to live by prison rules. We have to protect our own. Do right by the community. Me and Mrs. Fitzgerald lock in a chess match, but I hate the game. I’ve been told that I’d be good at it, but I never had the patience for it.
“I understand that. But you need to understand that no one in administration can do much unless we have help. Kids have to be willing to trust. To talk.” Mrs. Fitzgerald sighs again. Scooting out of her chair, she paces behind her desk. “So you do things your way. Let’s see how that’s worked out: Pierce hurt. Rodrigo and Twon in detention for fighting. Nehemiah in detention for disrupting class. Marquess expelled. And with all of that, do you think we’ve caught all those responsible?”
I imagine Marcel’s grin and say, “No.”
“I don’t think so either. But we can learn, even from our mistakes. How could you have handled the situation better? How could you have made some better choices?”
The Usual Suspects Page 14