“We ain’t that different.” I shrug, determined not to let her get under my skin.

“Sure we are. You get caught.” Marcel winks.

I hate it when she winks. It’s worse than her smirk.

She walks down the hallway, twirling her hall pass, reminding me of how much I can’t stand her. No one can see how much of a lady gangster she is because she’s an honor student. Student ambassadors often help school staff with little jobs like recording attendance. Because of that, one of the many services Marcel “offers” is covering your skipped classes by making sure you’re marked as present. I hate having to deal with her, but she and her crew control all the action in the school. So us independent operators of mischief sometimes don’t have a choice.

Mrs. Fitzgerald’s door opens enough for her to pop her head out. She does not have her play face on. “Come on in, Mr. Mitchell.”

The walk from your cell to the electric chair is the longest walk in your life.

This is Mrs. Fitzgerald’s first couple of months as principal of Persons Crossing Public Academy. Mrs. Horner still complains about her being the youngest principal in the district because “these young people don’t understand how the world works.” I really think Mrs. Horner is just mad because Mrs. Fitzgerald replaced one of those old-school principals who Mrs. Horner liked. The first words out of that principal’s mouth was always “Back in my day.” Old School never talked to anyone, just shouted at them. I might as well have been a wall. But Mrs. Fitzgerald is different. She might be tough and take no nonsense, but she listens when we talk.

When I sink into the chair nearest her desk, I say, “I didn’t do it.”

“Funny how you just assume that you must’ve done something wrong in order to find yourself in my office,” she says.

Despite her all-business face, Mrs. Fitzgerald has a natural prettiness to her. Not that I think she is pretty. It’s just that up close, I can’t tell if she even wears makeup. She has a long angular face, smooth skin, and flowing black hair she brushes out of her eyes whenever she focuses on whoever she speaks to. Especially me. Her stare makes me feel like I’m under a microscope. Still, part of me finds it nice to know that someone who looks like my mother is in charge.

I shift in discomfort. “Didn’t I?”

“Mr. Mitchell.” She loves to add “Mr.” or “Miss” to our names to demonstrate respect toward us. It throws us off every time, but it’s kind of okay, too. “I make it a point to know as many children at my school as possible. There are two kinds of kids whose names I learn first: my honor students and my problem students. I learned your name before any teacher had a chance to even hand out their first homework assignment of the year.”

“I get good grades.” I pick up a pencil and start twirling it between my fingers.