With those words, Pierce glares at Nehemiah, his eyes clear and focused with laser intensity. “I know many things. I’m not stupid.”

I put up my hands like I’m surrendering. “No one said you were stupid. We just want to know when you were behind the bushes and if you saw anything.”

“Or anyone,” Nehemiah added.

“Only RaShawn,” Pierce said.

“RaShawn?” I ask. “Why there?”

“It’s where we meet. He gets me things.”

“Like what?”

“Like noneya.”

“Noneya?” Nehemiah asks before I can wave him off.

“None ya business.” Pierce cackles, amused by his own joke.

I forgot how much that joke still circulated among the sixth graders. I step between them, hoping Pierce will refocus. His attention span lasts until the earliest distraction. “How’d you lose your tie clip?”

“RaShawn got mad at me. Grabbed me by my shirt.” Pierce imitates the action. He even reenacts the moment, mean mugging and staring us down with all kinds of evil eye. Well, as evil as Pierce is capable of looking. “Said I was making him look ridiculous and wasting his time. All I wanted was a frog.”

“A . . . frog?” I ask.

“Yes. I would name him George. I’d get him a collar and a leash and take him for walks.”

“I think we’re about done here,” Nehemiah said.

“Ribbit,” Pierce says as we turn to leave.

We barely get out of earshot when Nehemiah asks, “What was that?”

“Pierce in full Pierce mode.”

Pierce trails behind us, stopping with each passing girl to shout “Ribbit.”

“I know he seems like he should be a suspect, but I don’t know. He don’t need a gun to get folks to leave him alone.”

“Did he seem agitated to you?”

“He’s always agitated.”

“Maybe I’m imagining things. Still, he did tell us one useful thing. That the bushes are RaShawn’s regular spot.”

“You believe him?”

“It’s something.”

The late bell for homeroom rings. We spare a glance at each other before dashing to class, hoping to make it to our room’s door before the echo fades.

Mrs. Horner scribbles the words “Do now” on the whiteboard along with instructions for the morning’s busywork. She wants us to write a reflection essay on yesterday’s events or, as she refers to it, “our dilemma.” Someone must’ve gotten in her ear about it. And us. She doesn’t name which events in particular, but Mrs. Horner rarely comes at things directly. She keeps things vague, saying that she doesn’t want to limit our creativity. It’s more likely that she wants us to accidentally tell on ourselves. Either that or she doesn’t want to wind us up too much first thing in the morning. Like I said, busywork.

“What are you thinking?” Nehemiah leans over to ask.

“The way I see it, someone has to have a reason to bring a gun around here.” Mrs. Horner hasn’t taken notice of our conversation. I don’t dare turn around to check Mr. Blackmon.