“Homeroom,” we say in angelic choir unison.

“Better hurry then. Tardy bell’s about to ring.”

We arrive at our classroom just in time to be first in line to march down to the auditorium for assembly. We sit in front where everyone can keep their eyes on us. Mrs. Fitzgerald walks toward center stage. Once she starts moving, the entire school snaps to attention, like her shadow passing over us is enough to freeze us in our spots.

“Good morning,” she says, but the microphones are dead so only the first few rows hear her. Tapping the mike with her long fingernails, she gestures to the sound board.

I sit, stiff and quiet, all but grabbing Nehemiah’s hand in anticipation of the moment.

The sub hits the power button.

Over Nehemiah’s beatboxing, my rhymes spit over the school speakers.

You missed the orientation so you can’t school me.

I keep my mind right so you can’t fool me.

Sitting ’round judging me like I’m brand-new

Call me infamous, felonius, the one true boo.

My moms, she’s a queen raising a young king,

Told me to chase my dreams, grow up, and do my thing.

Ain’t no stopping me ’cause you know I get lawless when you get in my way

Trying to make it out here ’cause they hating on me I’m a-let them boys say

A little kid standing tall

You in my world and I want it all.

The kids erupt. They can’t sing along since it’s my original, but they can bob their heads and cheer. Since the administration types couldn’t figure out how to stop the vocals, they cut the power to the sound board. Which is too bad, because my rhymes were just getting to the good part.

So I’m back in the principal’s office once again. Due to “my escalating antics” I’m here a lot. Some teachers float the idea that I have oppositional defiant disorder (sometimes I think they just say that about kids who say no whenever adults tell them to do something, in which case, I have a severe case of it, as does every middle schooler I know). Some keep trying to say that I have bipolar disorder (because my shenanigans are so over-the-top). None of them are a doctor. They just want to sweep me and my issues under the rug. Moms scheduled an exam for me to get tested, but with our insurance, it’s over a month out. Until then, I have to spend the rest of the quarter in the Special Ed room.

School policy is to deposit all their troublemakers or kids who they think are too much for a teacher to handle—no matter what grade—into one classroom. “Warehoused” is the word they were searching for. All their problem children, labeled “emotionally delinquent,” putting “the ED in education,” our homeroom teacher Mrs. Horner once joked. They say we’re too “disruptive”—I can almost see them make air quotes like they want to call us something else—like we’re some disease they’re trying to isolate.