Don’t ask me why, but this reminds me of church. Like when Mrs. Jenkins would get hit with the Holy Spirit. She would yell, sweat, fan herself, roll around on the floor, speak in tongues until folks could get her calmed down. No church I ever went to had a Scream Room.

“Nooo! I want to come out. I hate this school. I don’t want to go here anymore!”

It didn’t matter who it was—Nehemiah, Pierce, Twon, Rodrigo—they all read from the same script. Just last week, Pierce was in the Scream Room and yelled nearly the exact things.

Mr. Blackmon opens the door a fraction.

“Why you got to be so mean? To all the kids. It’s not fair. You’re all against us.” Twon slumps over in a nod against the wall like a boxer who’d punched himself out. I’m not even sure who he’s talking to at the end. Or what he’s still fighting inside him. “My stupid brother. I’m the best in the world.”

“Are you ready to come out?” Mr. Blackmon asks.

“Yes.” Twon slurs his words in an almost sleepy voice.

Mr. Blackmon makes a motion toward the sink. It’s all the excuse I need to get out of my seat. I grab the bottle of disinfectant and spray the Scream Room. Mr. Blackmon hands Twon a handful of paper towels. He wipes down the walls without complaint.

“Have a seat, man,” Mr. Blackmon says. “You must have a hard time concentrating. Why else would you want to roll around on the floor?”

“I don’t know.” Twon crosses his arms and stares straight ahead.

“What’d you have for breakfast? You have the chocolate milk? You have any candy this morning?”

“I don’t know.” Twon mumbles the words like a prisoner of war determined to recite only his name, rank, and serial number.

I hate that all I can do is watch. I hate the powerlessness of it all. My people hurting or hurting each other. I slump against the wall next to the Scream Room door.

“You need to be able to calm down. Get in some good learning.” Mr. Blackmon squats in front of him so that they are at eye level. When Mr. Blackmon puts his full attention on you, he creates a bit of a spell, like one of those snake charmers or something. “What are you supposed to be doing?”

“Learning.”

“How are you supposed to be sitting?”

“Like this.” Twon swings one leg over the other and sets his palms on them.

“That’s a good choice. And what should your mouth be doing?”

“Being closed.”

“What if you have something to say?”

“Raise my hand.”

“See? You know what you’re supposed to be doing.”

Mr. Blackmon bends over to Twon’s ear as if to share a secret with him but instead stage-whispers. “Why you going to let some fool get under your skin? Once you start ignoring him, he’s just a clown flapping in the breeze.”

Twon smiles and relaxes. He cuts a hateful gaze toward Rodrigo.