“I’ve heard things about you, too.” She starts organizing the shelves. “So you tell me.”

I expected her to change topics. She’s determined to test me. “What things?”

“You read a lot but funnel most of your energy into looking like you don’t care about school. You have a bit of a paranoid streak. You’re observant, good at reading people, and prone to sticking your nose where it don’t belong whenever you get . . . bored. So what do you see?”

The kids wrap up their business, pocketing their candy. A few people write in notebooks and check their work with calculators. One kid lingers by the pencil sharpener opposite from us. Marquess Neal. “Kutter” to (what few people he called) his friends. His hair is a crown of twists, nesting baby snakes poised to strike. His eyes seem perpetually narrowed, like jagged scars. Not announcing his presence, he circles the room. Each student tallying their numbers notes him when he nears. He nods and they return to their work.

“Kutter keeps everyone straight,” I say.

“You know that’s right. He handles all my heavy work.”

“Why does he work for you?”

“Because I’m a girl?” Marcel smacks her gum.

I play her game. “It’s a lot to ask of some dudes, to report to a girl.”

“Think he likes me?” She asks the question innocently, but I realize I’m still being tested.

“I don’t think it works that way.”

“Why does anyone do anything?” Marcel chomps on her gum, sounding like a cow making a mess of cleaning cud from its mouth. She purposefully designs her act for maximum annoyance. “Because there’s something in it for them.”

“Money?” I shrug.

“Deeper than that.”

“I don’t get it.” I shift toward her, careful not to give the impression that we might actually be talking.

“No, you don’t. You have a ‘moms’ who thinks the world of you. You have teachers like Mr. Blackmon who believe in you. And you got friends like Nehemiah who are ride or die with you. You’re rich compared to most folks.”

“It’s that deep.”

“It’s that deep. Be careful not to drown.” Marcel emphasizes the words to remind me of my place in the greater order of things. She shuts the cabinet door.

I already regret this. Marcel likes to play games too much. One of those people who believes themselves smarter than everyone else, she’s so confident about that fact she never bothers to particularly hide it. Instead, every conversation becomes a maze where she jogs several steps ahead of you. I don’t know who’s more exhausted after each interaction, me or her.

On the watch for Mr. Blackmon, I calculate how much time I have left for this dance with Marcel. It’s past time to get down to business. “You know about the gun?”

“What about it?”

“I’m trying to find out who brought it.”

“Why? You decide to go into the snitching business?”

“Why does it got to be like that?” The accusation hits harder than I expected it to. I’m not about to be out here snitching, but I don’t know if this falls into a “no snitching” situation. Taking a sudden keen interest in the decorations in case Ms. Erickson watches, I adjust one of the university banners. “Now who sounds paranoid?”