“Your momma!” The words echo in the classroom and draw everyone’s attention to Twon squaring off against Rodrigo. Barely half Twon’s height and maybe a third his weight, Rodrigo is hopelessly outmatched. The whole scene plays out like a rabid rottweiler going up against an angry squirrel, yet Rodrigo can’t help but keep running his mouth.

“I’m just saying, your feet stink.” Rodrigo positions himself so that a desk blocks a direct route to him. As if a desk meant anything if Twon explodes. “We talked about athlete’s foot in health yesterday. I’m betting that’s what you have.”

“Rodrigo, let it go and do your morning work. Twon, you’re letting him take you out of your normal.” Mrs. Horner sounds tired, like her own words bore her. Barely managing a glance, she doesn’t bother to get from behind her desk. “You shouldn’t let anyone have that kind of control over you.”

“Besides, he a chipmunk,” I add, less than constructively.

“Thelonius, you’re not helping.” Mrs. Horner narrows her eyes at me.

“At least my feet don’t stink.” Rodrigo studies Twon, waiting to see if he has room to push another button before he has to run. “You probably ain’t got but three toes left. Fungus done ate up the rest.”

This is what we do, mess with each other, like a battle rap without the rhymes. But the scene doesn’t make me laugh the way it would have even a couple of days ago. Just like the ruckus in music class yesterday didn’t, reminding me of eating candy you were so sick of even the act of chewing it became a chore. We’re all a little on edge. Our jokes a little meaner or said with too much heat.

My mind shifts into overdrive. Rodrigo runs his mouth more, and in a more hurtful way, than usual. Maybe it’s not as funny because it was one thing to joke when you didn’t know better, a lot harder when you knew the truth. Twon didn’t suffer from athlete’s foot. I overheard Mr. Blackmon tell Mrs. Horner that he was planning on picking Twon up some new socks. Twon’s family struggles. He wears the same pair of socks every day and they can’t afford to do laundry regularly. Embarrassed by the state of his socks, Twon probably doesn’t want to take off his shoes.

“Tell him he better keep my name out of his mouth.” Twon balls and uncurls his fingers, testing his fists.

“Rodrigo, settle down. What did we just go over earlier this week about defusing situations?” His navy blue peacoat swinging over his left arm, Mr. Blackmon walks in without breaking his stride. His water bottle dangles from his right hand. His black sweater vest, with its red and white streaks, mutes the brightness of the red shirt underneath. His tie and pants repeat the color scheme. That man has too much time on his hands if he’s going to coordinate his outfits like that. No wonder he often strolls in late. The situation fails to rush him to set his stuff down.