Nehemiah adjusts the headphones so that the ear closest to me remains uncovered. He slumps toward me and begins in a conspiratorial whisper, “Can you believe someone brought a gun around here?”

“The only thing I can’t believe is that this is the first time it’s happened.” I focus on my screen, not betraying our conversation more than I have to. “Man, Mrs. Fitzgerald don’t play. She is straight-up gangsta.”

“She as gangsta as My Little Pony.” No one impresses Nehemiah, not that he’d ever let on if they did. “Still, I wish we could’ve seen it.”

“Like you’ve never seen a gun before.” I side-eye him.

“It’s different.”

“Because it’s at school?”

“Yeah.”

I suspect that conversations like this are happening all over the building at this moment. The idea of being called to the principal’s office over it still rubs me wrong. No matter what words came out of her mouth, I know what Mrs. Fitzgerald really means: the Special Ed class is on notice, and as soon as enough evidence is collected, someone, or someones, was going to be expelled and sent to Banesford.

“Nehemiah, can I ask you something?”

“Go ahead.”

I lean forward and stare him directly in his eyes. “Was it you?”

“How you going to ask me that, T?” Nehemiah springs up, knocking his chair over onto the carpet.

Mrs. Horner glances up from her desk. “Is there a problem back there?”

“No, Mrs. Horner.” My eyes beg for Nehemiah to have a seat. I can’t afford for him to pop off all “Hulk smash!” style right now. Too much is at stake.

“Pick up the chair and finish your work,” Mrs. Horner says.

“Come on. We got this, okay?” I whisper. “It’s all good.”

“So why’d you come at me like that?” Nehemiah barely manages a whisper. His whole body shakes, drawing Mr. Blackmon’s attention. If he comes over with one of his hand-on-the-shoulder moves, Nehemiah would fully erupt and they’d spend the next half hour chasing him through the halls.

“You always talking about the rough stuff your brothers get into. Almost bragging.”

“’Cause their foolishness is funny. But I ain’t them.”

“Look, you know what all the teachers are thinking: we all guilty. One of us. All of us.” I throw my hands up. “I don’t know, all this stuff plays in our heads after a while. . . . I had to ask.”

With those words, my anger toward Mrs. Horner softens. But only a little. I’m more ashamed of myself. Nehemiah is like the rest of us, going through life accused all the time. This one day when she came back to the room to find her coffee cup broken, Mrs. Horner keyed in on Nehemiah. Rode him ragged. Questioned him, talked about his lack of home training, all in front of the class. Soon after, the janitor came in and apologized for knocking it over. No “I’m sorry” crossed her lips in Nehemiah’s direction, only a “you didn’t do it this time” sneer. I’m pretty sure life isn’t supposed to be lived so on the defensive. My attention bounces from him to my screen. “I take that back. I shouldn’t have asked.”