“Look at me,” Mr. Blackmon says. “You stay quiet, do a quick reflection form, I let you head to lunch ten minutes early.”

“For reals?”

“Let’s shake on it and make it real.” Mr. Blackmon holds out his hand. Twon shakes it.

“Do you have this, Mr. Blackmon?” Mrs. Horner peers over her paperwork.

“Yeah, it’s squashed. Knowledge is power.” Mr. Blackmon keeps his back to her.

Knowledge is power. I pop the last Teddy Graham in my mouth and smile. Besides the twins, there was only one place to go if you want to know what’s up with anyone. One person who is always dialed in to everything. One person who’s haunting me like a bad rash.

Marcel.

I need to talk to the lady gangster.

Rules are in place for a reason. So we’re told.

Rules create order. Rules keep everyone in line. Rules keep everyone where they are supposed to be. Rules make up the system, but no system is perfect. Given enough thought, everything breaks down, especially when stressed.

Stressing things is a specialty of mine.

The problem at hand is that I need to get from the Special Ed class to Ms. Erickson’s math class where Marcel is. The hurdle isn’t just getting over to Ms. Erickson’s room but getting the opportunity and time to talk to Marcel without a lot of extra ears in our business. Sure, I can wait until recess, but where was the challenge in that? Besides, we only have until Friday, so each day, each hour, counts. I can’t afford to waste any opportunity.

Rodrigo sits cross-legged in the corner behind Mrs. Horner’s desk. He mumbles loud enough for everyone to know he’s upset. Mr. Blackmon forces him write a reflection letter even though Rodrigo hasn’t “done anything.” In Mr. Blackmon’s world, instigators are just as guilty as those who act out because “being in control of yourself includes your words.”

Twon settles into doing his morning work, seething at the computer station, stopping just shy of cussing out the math problem on his monitor. Pierce approaches Mrs. Horner.

“Excuse me.” Pierce clears his throat before he speaks, but his tone is well-mannered to a fault. “I need to go to Mrs. Wilheim’s class to get the rest of my humanities work for the week. Would that be all right?”

“Have you read your book?” Mrs. Horner values peace and quiet above everything else. Just like how some dads want to sit in front the TV and enjoy their show, and as long as the kids don’t make a noise, they don’t care what they do.

“I’ve finished all my assignments for the day.” Pierce hands her a stack of papers, neatly folded. He loves to fold paper.

“That’s fine. Mr. Blackmon, can you escort young Mr. Lyons to Mrs. Wilheim’s class?”

“Mrs. Horner, I need to get my assignments, too.” Whenever I try to polish my voice like Pierce, I always sound like a con artist on the prowl. Adults grow suspicious and know I am up to something, but they have no proof and need to see whatever I am up to play out. I might as well be a thief sending a note daring the cops to stop me from robbing a joint. I need to develop a new look, but for now, it works all the same.