Just about every hand shoots up in answer to her question. Now, my things have never been even remotely disrespected. The problem is that I don’t want to be the lone hand unraised. That would look funny. Maybe I’m too suspicious, but I wonder if part of the game Mrs. Horner plays at involves pitting one of us against the others, and letting peer pressure do its thing. My hand shoots up.

“That’s what I thought. We go out of our way to make sure you have all the school supplies you need to do your work. These things are here for you to use, not abuse.” Mrs. Horner paces back and forth, forcing all eyes to be on her, a trick she picked up from Mrs. Fitzgerald. She talks slow and soft, forcing us to lean in to hear her. “Mr. Blackmon went out of his way, spent his own money, to get you all name tags with the multiplication tables on them.”

I pay attention to Mr. Blackmon during Mrs. Horner’s rants. That dude is hilarious without saying a word. He sits against one of the front desks but right behind us like he was one of the boys. Half the time she treats him like that, too. A pained expression crosses his face, like he’s eaten three-day-old raw fish, whenever she talks like they’re on the same team. He sips from his water bottle.

“In one week, twenty pencils. Gone. Twenty pens. Gone. It’d be different if you were doing enough work to use them up, but you’re obviously not.”

Mr. Blackmon winces again. He brings the bottle to his mouth, turns it up with disappointment on his face, and lifts it closer for further inspection. It’s empty.

“Why you always be accusing us?” Nehemiah jerks his shoulders forward out of reflex, used to brushing off any attempt to touch him.

“’Cuz you always be doin’ stuff.” Mrs. Horner never fails to sound condescending whenever she tries to talk to us using our words.

Mr. Blackmon pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head.

“I’ve divided up the rest of our materials. Every supply you need is in the pencil supply box in your desks.” Mrs. Horner steps back and sweeps her arm by the reorganized supplies like she’s a game show hostess.

“You went into our desks?” Nehemiah sucks his teeth in disgust and jumps up to check his things. “That’s some bull.”

Mrs. Horner pauses to let Nehemiah settle down. When she realizes he’s determined not to pay any further attention, she continues a little louder to cover his muttering. “When things go missing, it ruins the fun for everyone and that’s not fair. I expect this to be a nonissue from now on. Give me two claps if you understand what I’m saying.”

Two unenthusiastic claps, not quite in unison, follow. Of course this is what she cares about: missing supplies. Not a mention about the gun. I guess she’s like them police who solve crime by fixing broken lampposts. You go ahead and fix that broken window while I’m shot up on the corner.