“We don’t make choices, we make impulses.”
“Your impulses.” She paused. “Your actions put you and those around you at risk.”
“When we got nothing but bad choices and poor options in front of us we just do the best we can in the moment.”
“We need you to do better.”
“We need you to make a better world, then.”
Mrs. Fitzgerald sighs. She rubs her face like she is tired. “You know, in your own way, you followed STEP, too. You said the problem and thought of a solution, and—I’m just speculating—all the subsequent shenanigans were your attempt at picking the best solution. You’re more resourceful than I think you’re given credit for. But, still, you didn’t explore the consequences. So again I ask, what am I to do with you?”
“You’ve got to punish me.” I hate the high pitch that crept into my voice.
“What for?” Her eyebrows arch in surprise.
“I . . . deserve it.” I slump in my chair. I let down Nehemiah. I bullied Jaron. I’d gotten my people hurt or in trouble. My face flushes hot. I wipe at my eyes.
Mrs. Fitzgerald softens, as if she’d waited on this moment from me. “Here’s what I think: you found out what was going on, but by not coming forward, you violated the spirit of the school’s honor code. We value character in our leaders.”
“I’m no leader,” I whisper.
“Mr. Mitchell, a leader takes responsibility for the people they lead. A leader sees a problem and acts to fix it. You’ve highlighted some issues. We do need to do something different with you. I told you from the beginning that I was reassessing how the Special Ed room operates. It’s a relic of the previous administration whose time I think has passed. What do you think?”
“What’s going to happen to Nehemiah, Twon, and Rodrigo?”
“There you go again: worrying about your people first. I’m afraid despite your best intentions, you’re shaping into a leader. What do you think we ought to do with you all?”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. If you were in charge, what would you do?”
“I’d transfer us back to regular classes.” I thought about it for a little longer. “Maybe have Mr. Blackmon, I don’t know, help supervise us in class.”
“He does seem to understand your class well.”
“He a’ight, I guess.” I couldn’t just leave him out. In a perfect world, he’s not a complete pain to have around.
“As it so happens, I’m thinking through exactly that sort of reorganization. Starting the next quarter, you’ll all be transferred back to regular classes. I picture the Special Ed room being more of a resource room. A place where students can go when they need extra support.”
“Extra support?”
“More time to take tests. A pullout space for teachers to provide specialized help. A place where students can calm down when they get amped up.”
“So one big Scream Room?”
“More like one big specialized study hall. I think we’re squandering some of our most talented and creative assets. Do you know what ‘squandering’ means?” She winks at me.
“Yes, ma’am.” I smile despite myself.
“I’ve got my eye on you, Mr. Mitchell. Tomorrow is another day and another opportunity to make better decisions.”
Epilogue
Sometimes you have to find your victories where you can.
Nehemiah, Rodrigo, and Twon scramble about, playing army with Lego weapons. It’s raining outside, thus our Discovery Time choices have been reduced to indoor games. Legos is always a popular choice, but Mr. Blackmon forbids us from constructing anything that vaguely resembles a gun. No Lego rifles. No Lego lasers. No Lego cannons. We manage with Lego grenades. Hurled correctly, the pieces splinter and fly farther about the room. Our version of army almost resembles dodgeball.
Mr. Blackmon only half pays attention. He’s busy studying with Pierce. All I picture while watching the two of them is Ralph Wolf and Sam Sheepdog. They each have jobs to do. The past is forgotten and today is a new day.
“You have ten fingers up in your face.” Mr. Blackmon sits across from Pierce, wiggling his fingers. “Take away two and how many are left?”
“Too many.” Pierce cradles his head in his palm.
“How many?”
“Eight.” Pierce slams his pencil down on his desk.
“All right. All right. Next . . . you know what nine minus eight is.”
“One.”
“You know what? I shouldn’t interrupt.” Mr. Blackmon leans back in his chair. All Pierce needs is the proper encouragement. “You got this. Do it your way and knock it out.”
I tumble onto the couch. Brionna hogs the remote, determined to watch the end of The New Adventures of Pippi Longstocking. What Brionna sees in that live-action Raggedy Ann–looking girl, I can’t fathom, but it keeps her quiet. I perk up when RaShawn enters the room. Sullen and tired, he hands a note to Mrs. Horner.
Mrs. Horner sets the note on her desk and claps twice. “Okay friends, I need you to gather around for a special community circle.”
Twon rolls behind the couch to avoid taking fire. A Lego grenade explodes behind him. Rodrigo and Nehemiah close in on him from both sides, intent on taking him alive.
“I have an award and treats to hand out as soon as everyone is ready,” she says a little louder.
That cuts through the noise of war. The trio scoops up all stray Lego pieces in a flurry of motion. They fill out the rest of the couch, though Twon stations himself on the floor in front of me.
“I know last week was a rough week. We’ve had some ups and downs. More downs than ups, I’d guess. But I want to acknowledge our ups when they happen. Nehemiah, can you come over here?”
Nehemiah casts about, his body jerks like a puppet whose puppeteer had its strings tangled and can’t get the head fully up. He drags himself over to Mrs. Horner. She presses him to her side.
“Nehemiah did some great work. He figured out what had been happening to our pens and pencils. When middle school recess and lunch are going on, the room is empty a lot of the time. Nehemiah pointed out that this had to be the time the thefts were happening. He suggested that I double back here from the copy room. Sure enough, I caught young mister RaShawn here, who had a pass to be on his way to the nurse’s office, rummaging through the desks. So I wanted to present Nehemiah with a Citizen of the Week certificate to take home. He also gets an item from our Reward Store.”
All eyes on him, Nehemiah exaggerates a pimp stroll to the picnic basket that serves as the Reward Store. He fishes about for a bag of Takis. When he walks by, we slap our palms and on the backswing, bump our back hands. As our hands clap again, we clasp thumbs and flutter our hands upward like wings. When we part, we press hands as if in prayer and bow to each other. We’re working on a new handshake. He opens the bag back at his seat and swats away Rodrigo’s hand when he reaches for a Taki.
“We don’t tolerate theft or destruction of property here at Persons Crossing Public Academy.” Mrs. Horner doesn’t care about any of that. With the coming reorganization, she’s strutting around like she’s about to be paroled. “Hopefully you all can take RaShawn under your wing and help each other to a better way.”
RaShawn’s reception amounts to a series of resigned groans from the couch. He doesn’t have that many friends and struggles to fit in like we all do. RaShawn’s strictly a follower. I know the type. They latch on to whoever’s the strongest, the smartest, the most feared, the most daring, and take their cues from them. Around here, that’s me. The top sheepdog.
I cut them a glare that stops all the complaints. RaShawn pauses, a little unsure of us. Of me. I give him a nod. “We got you.”
Stories are all about how they are read, not the teller’s intent. Sometimes the intent and the meaning match up, but sometimes they don’t. It’s easy to let a bad story get in you and define you. To let that version of how people see you soak in and take root, growing inside you until you find
yourself becoming and acting out that story. It’s one reason I’m as suspicious of “teachers” as they are of me.
If we have to go through life as a suspect, we have to take victories wherever they come. That’s the reality of our world. For now. Our journeys won’t always be perfect. They may be downright messy, but it’s all about figuring out how to get through life. We do the best we can. We look out for each other.
Maybe I am a spider.
Sitting motionless at the center of my web. Strictly chilling, because that’s all spiders do when left alone. They go through their day, relaxing and minding their own business. But they’re also smart. They do little themselves—they just plan well. They build elaborate webs to do the work for them to maximize their chill time. Each strand stretches out, connecting all over the place so that they know when something’s going down even without them being right there. That’s the thing about spiders—they deal with all the insects that truly pester people. So people who are afraid of spiders can’t see how valuable they really are. Yeah, that can be my story.
Though, sometimes, I still may have to amuse myself.
Acknowledgments
For all those times the students I worked with asked, “Mr. Broaddus, is there something of yours I can read?” and I looked them in the eye, considered my portfolio, and said “no” (because your parents would kill me), the answer is now yes.
So, for the students and faculty at The Oaks Academy Middle School and the Snack’s Crossing Elementary School, thank you for the inspiration and opportunities to work for you.
For the patient, guiding hand of my editor, Claudia Gabel.
For my agent, Jennifer Udden, since this is the project that began our relationship.
For all the librarians at ALA who encouraged me to write this in the first place (a wise writer always listens to the advice of librarians).
For my sons, Reese and Malcolm, for whom the dynamic of Thelonius and Nehemiah (and far too many of their antics) should seem familiar. And, lastly, for my wife, Sally, who still lives in a state of complete denial about the “here’s my neck” scene.
For all of you, and all those who’ve gone unnamed who have loved and supported me so well over the years, I say thank you.
About the Author
Photo by WildStyle Da Producer
A community organizer and teacher, MAURICE BROADDUS has written and edited short stories for a number of magazines as well as authoring several novels and novellas for adults. He is the author of the urban fantasy trilogy The Knights of Breton Court and he cowrote the play Finding Home: Indiana at 200. He also writes for the Marvel Super Heroes, Leverage, and Firefly role-playing games as well as working as a consultant on Watch Dogs 2. Learn more about him at www.mauricebroaddus.com.
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Copyright
Katherine Tegen Books is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
THE USUAL SUSPECTS. Copyright © 2019 by Maurice Broaddus. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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Cover art © 2019 by Richie Pope
Cover design by Laura Eckes
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Library of Congress Control Number: 2018962176
Digital Edition MAY 2019 ISBN: 978-0-06-279633-2
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-279631-8 (trade bdg.)
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FIRST EDITION
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