“No one knows what’s up. All they know is that someone brought a gun too close to the school.”

“I’ll be talking to Mrs. Fitzgerald soon, don’t you worry.” Her already knowing also explains why Moms was so on edge and emotional. She doesn’t like the idea of guns anywhere near us. She studies me first, then Nehemiah, then returns to me. I open my mouth to fend off the inevitable accusation when she cuts me off. “Well, I know it wasn’t either of you two. Thelonius, you know I’d bust your butt two times if you even thought about bringing a gun up in here. And, Nehemiah . . . Lord knows you’d be waving it around showing it to everybody before you even made it in the door.”

“That’s what I’m saying!” Nehemiah yells.

“They rounded us all up anyway,” I say.

“Guilty before proven innocent. You’re caught in a bad place, between it being a prejudging world and you all being so proud to wear the reputation you have spent so much time and energy earning.”

“It don’t feel fair,” I say.

“It isn’t, but let’s not act too innocent. Sometimes you have to look at the common denominator. You need to have a long talk with yourself. ‘Self?’” Moms shifts her body to the side as if she’s talking to an imaginary friend. “And then yourself says, ‘Hmm?’ So you tell yourself ‘We’ve made some bad choices. If we continue to make bad choices, well, I don’t know where we’ll end up.’”

“You’re silly.” I relax a little, letting go of the arguments and stories my brain is furiously crafting to deflect her.

“While I have any say, you’re going to be raised right and have all the opportunities to choose and do well. Have I mentioned that I don’t care if I have to scrap with every raggedy person on the block? Or in your school? You two will always know that you had someone fighting for you. So no excuses.”

She can be embarrassing sometimes. She loves to talk almost as much as Mr. Blackmon. But I think part of me needed to hear that me and her were cool. My little antics aside, the thought of disappointing her with anything for real bothered me.

“Thanks, Moms,” I say.

“Yeah, thanks, Moms,” Nehemiah echoes with a smile on his face. He props his feet up on the coffee table.

“Boy, get those crusty shoes off my furniture and act like you’ve been raised with some sense.” Moms swats his feet. “What are you going to do now? We can’t have this cloud over my babies’ heads.”

I bend forward on the couch. “If I had to guess, we need to figure out what really happened. Try to clear our names before the school assembly. Because you know how they do with us.”

“Need me to come up there and talk to your principal?” she asks. “It’s probably only a matter of time before she wants to see me.”