“Just that some folks were talking crazy about you.”

“Who? What’d they say?” RaShawn climbs down from the chair like a slowly deflating balloon.

I angle my head toward a kid cheering on the chaos from his seat of Jaron acting buck wild. The sub accidentally catches an elbow to the side of his face when he steps in front of Jaron, who was attempting to throw punches. “Little man over there.”

“Yeah, he got a mouth on him,” RaShawn says with a sneer.

“Sure do. Going on about how poor you are. Talking about how you have to wear your clothes three, four days in a row because you can’t afford to do laundry.” I lace my hands behind my head. Winding people up as much as I’m wound up seems about right.

“He got some nerve, him and his raggedy, country behind.”

“That’s what I’m saying. He all up in your Kool-Aid, putting your business on blast. And the stuff he says about your momma . . .” I press my left hand to my chest and wave my right as if the news was too much and I can’t bear to go on.

RaShawn leans forward. “What’d he say about my momma?”

“I don’t know the woman, so I’m not making any judgments, but he was saying that she’s out every night, you know . . .”

RaShawn erupts with a stream of profanity so loud everyone in the classroom stops where they are. The target of his sudden wrath barely has time to angle toward him in his chair before RaShawn leaps. He tackles the boy and the pair tumble onto the raised platform in front of the class. They wrestle along the carpeted area. The cymbals clang as RaShawn and the other boy roll into them. The bass drum pounds an irregular rhythm as they thrash about.

Still wrapped in the sub’s bear hug, Jaron continues to swing his arms. He wrenches free of the teacher. Jaron jumps on the man’s back when he steps between them as he attempts to grab the boy.

“Fight! Fight! Fight!” the class chants.

Mr. Blackmon opens the door. Despite RaShawn and one boy knocking over music stands and the sub separating Jaron from another boy, Mr. Blackmon walks straight to me. “What’s going on here, Thelonius?” he asks, unfazed by the classroom bedlam.

“Nothing, Mr. Blackmon.” I pretend to be studying my sheet music as if trying to concentrate despite the chaos. “I’m trying to do my work, but it’s hard with all the distractions. The sub don’t know how to keep control of his class.”

“I suppose you had nothing to do with it?” Mr. Blackmon sighs with disappointment.

“Nothing at all. I’m hurt that you could think such a thing.” I catch myself as my hand moves to my chest to protest my innocence. That kind of theatricality would be insulting to both of us.

“Hey!” Mr. Blackmon shouts.

Like a spell suddenly being broken, all the fighting stops. Mr. Blackmon hooks my arm and escorts me from the classroom, allowing the substitute to regain control. I chance one last look at the scene before the door closes behind me. The overturned instruments, Jaron and RaShawn hyped up. The kind of handiwork I’d normally be kind of pleased with, but it feels a little hollow today. It’s too much a picture of how I feel: angry, amped up to fight, and leaving a mess that only really hurts the people around me.