“What I meant to say was that it don’t seem right for her to just blame us for stuff. But that’s the way it always goes, I guess.”

Mr. Blackmon leans back like he needs a moment to gather his thoughts. He glances up. Right above us, signs dangle along the wall:

EMPATHY

Is feeling or understanding what someone else is feeling.

Compassion is empathy in action.

RESPECT ONE ANOTHER

• use manners

• be a good sport

• be helpful

• follow directions

• USE EMPATHY!

When I read them, the signs seem like another attempt at brainwashing from the teachers. That’s the thing—I have to constantly be on guard against all the messages they want to program into us. Again, I could almost hear Mr. Blackmon’s voice say how my hypervigilance and paranoia are an unnecessary defense mechanism. But of course he has to say that; the signs were his idea.

“What are you thinking about doing with your life?” Mr. Blackmon asks.

Like I said, he’s always about the feels. “I don’t know. If I make it to next week, maybe I’ll give it some thought.”

“You’re telling me that a young man of the world, like yourself, as bright as you are, hasn’t thought at all about any future plans?”

“Maybe I’ll be a drug dealer. Is that what you want to hear? That’s all anyone expects of me anyway.” Raising my voice a little, I nod toward Mrs. Horner.

“That’s not true, Thelonius. I expect great things from you.” Mr. Blackmon rests a hand on my shoulder. He can be so corny sometimes.

“Mr. Blackmon, you married?”

“Yeah, nine years. To my high school sweetheart as a matter of fact.”

“Who does that? You straight-up got no game.” I hunch over a bit more in my seat to pounce on this revelation. And convenient change of topic. “Any kids?”

“Two, a five- and a six-year-old. Why?”

“Just trying to figure out if you’re missing anything at home. The way you always coming over here to talk, I figured you were lonely or something. Are you lonely, Mr. Blackmon?” I clap my hand on Mr. Blackmon’s shoulder. I keep my face as solemn as I can for as long as I can before a smile cracks through.

Mr. Blackmon swallows another gulp of water.

The door swings open, and Brionna Davidson saunters in. A sixth grader with a thick head of serpentine braids, each of which has three white beads dangling from the tips, she breezes in and out of class at will. She and her teachers came to a bit of an informal agreement: whenever she began to get too worked up, too anxious or “full of energy” as she put it, they let her walk down to the Special Ed room to take a break. Mrs. Horner supervises the administration of her meds here rather than at the nurse’s office.

“You need your pills, honey?” Mrs. Horner asks. She’s also softer with girls.

“Yeah.” Brionna hops up on her desk to have a seat while she waits.