Sheepishly, I slink back to my desk.

Mr. Blackmon escorts Twon to the Scream Room. He locks eyes with Rodrigo, as if asking “Are you pleased with yourself now?” For his part, Rodrigo lowers his head and refuses to meet anyone’s eyes. He limps to the back row, his strut deflated. Folding his arms, he rests his head on them. Playing around and getting in trouble is just another day that ends in y. But getting someone sentenced to the Scream Room is dirty.

The process seems straightforward enough. The screamer has to demonstrate five minutes of “compliance.” That means that they have to be quiet, have their back against the far wall, with the door shut. Only then could the timer start. Mrs. Horner used to have a rug and a beanbag chair in the Scream Room, but with the things that the kids did before they settled down—between the spitting and the . . . other stuff—I’m surprised men in those hazmat suits didn’t have to remove them.

After the compliance, the facilitators have to fill out a reflection form. The reflection forms are used to monitor and chart behavior. “Behaviors” tended to escalate again when the kid is handed the form. It’s like being forced to sit in jail, be released, and have to sign your confession. In the end it’s all about the paper trail, and Mrs. Horner loves her paperwork. To calm them down afterward, the facilitator hands the students ten minutes’ worth of busy work. Any violation and The Process™ has to start all over. The timer beeps as Mr. Blackmon programs it.

“You have five minutes, Twon,” he says.

“I don’t care.” The boy tightens his arms like a wall in front of him.

“The shoes and jacket need to come off.” Mr. Blackmon collects them but allows Twon to walk in on his own. “I can’t have you hitting the door. Thank you.”

You could have heard a cockroach skitter across the floor. The only sound is the thump from Twon as he bangs his head on the wall. “Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.”

I can’t tell if he’s talking about Rodrigo, Mr. Blackmon, Mrs. Horner, or himself. Maybe all of them. Then comes the spitting.

“Wherever you’re spitting, you’re going to have to clean,” Mr. Blackmon says.

“I don’t care.”

“You’re just making more work for yourself.” Mr. Blackmon leans against the door but refuses to look through the observation window. I always have the impression he hates seeing us locked up in any way. “I’m also going to have to let your mom know about this.”

“If you’re not going to follow directions, we’re going to have to start the timer all over again,” Mrs. Horner says.

Mr. Blackmon stares at her like she has lost her mind.

“I don’t want to,” Twon yells, his voice trailing as a thwack signals him dropping to the floor. Besides the sounds of thrashing as he probably rolled around on the floor, his next noises may have been sentences, but it sounds like he’s being tortured. His screams are raw.