Mr. Blackmon’s disappointed sigh rings in my ears.

I can’t move through the halls without feeling the weight of everyone’s eyes on me, like invisible fingers pointing. I’m used to people feeling some sort of way about me, but this is different. More like they might be afraid. Mrs. Horner watches me with suspicion from the second Mr. Blackmon opens the door.

Mrs. Horner sees us and her instinct is to swat us. I call it the Spider Syndrome: when people see a spider, their eyes light up and their hearts race because they’re scared. They’re so panicked they forget the thing that’s terrifying them is often, like, one hundred times smaller than they are. All they know is all the bad stories they hear about them, how deadly a bite from one of them can be even though that only applies to a small fraction of them. Spiders look strange to them, different and ugly. Their ways confuse and alarm people like them—the way they skitter across a room, lower themselves unexpectedly on a strand, how they leave messy webs wherever they go. So when a person sees one, they’re conditioned to smash it. It’s easy to believe bad stories and let them color how you see things.

Shaking his head, Mr. Blackmon sips from the bottle of water he always carries around with him. I slow walk over to the sink in the back of the Special Ed room to primp in front of the mirror over it. I slant my head several ways to make sure each strand of my thick coils of braids is in place. Not that I’m vain or anything, I’m just still undecided about how they look on me. My aunt laced a red cord into each braid. Now that I’m coming down from showing out, I’m growing anxious at the thought of having to confront Moms and explain the latest thing I have been all but accused of doing. Me acting up is one thing. She isn’t going to sweat the small stuff. Me accused of a felony or whatever, that’s going to take Moms to a new level.

Mr. Blackmon coughs to draw my attention, and points toward my seat. With his arms crossed, he hovers about my desk. And he sighs all dramatic-like.

“Why you so mad, Mr. Blackmon?” Imitating the tone he usually takes with me, I pat him on the shoulder as I move toward my seat.

“I thought we were making some progress with your . . . tendencies. I’m just disappointed.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself.” I attempt to sound as sympathetic as possible. “Keep your head up. You’re doing fine.”

I smile. When I smile, most folks can’t help but be less mad at me. It’s another gift.

“Just have a seat.” Mr. Blackmon takes another quick swig of the bottled water. He closes the lid up, letting the clear gray container dangle off his finger by a single black loop. I imagine him as a gunslinger in the old West, twirling the bottle around his finger before holstering it. I have a theory that he conveniently drinks whenever he’s about to break character and smile. He’s all about maintaining his firm but fair image.