“Because you asking a lot of questions about stuff that isn’t any of your concern.”

Kutter scrapes his chair along the floor tiles. It draws everyone’s attention, but he only eyeballs me. Forming a peace sign with his fingers, Kutter points them first at his eyes, then toward me. Subtlety isn’t in his skill set. Employing Kutter is like having a hammer as the only tool on a tool belt. I can definitely picture him with a gun, but I play things cool.

“You know how it goes, Marcel. Folks have made it my concern. This will come down on me and Special Ed.”

“You stay true to your crew. I respect that.” Marcel blows a large, slow bubble, lets it pop, but brings the mess back into her mouth with methodical ease. “Just as long as you understand that you aren’t untouchable. Handle your business. You just make sure that it’s only your business you’re handling.”

“You threatening me, Marcel?” I watch her like an insect I suspect might be poisonous, wondering just how far Marcel might go to “handle her business.”

“Absolutely not.” Suddenly I wonder if I sound so phony and grating when I put on my all-too-innocent routine. “If I were you, I’d look to those closest to you first. I’m telling you that as a courtesy. Consider it a respect thing. Game recognizes game. Just also understand that snitches get stitches.”

We have to learn our numbers, and today’s lesson of the cafeteria involves division.

Kids march through the hallways arranged by classrooms. The boys of Ms. Erickson’s room, full of too-conscious swagger, acknowledge Kutter for permission before play punching one another. Even more than Ms. Erickson, he controls the line with his uneasy menace. Those locked out of his crew face a vague powerlessness. They keep their heads down, hoping to not be noticed. The idea is that the eighth graders would mentor the sixth graders as to the ways and culture of the school. It’s like having short-timer inmates school the new ones. The classes arrange themselves around specified tables, boys tend to be on one end, girls on the other. Clusters of friends, alliances of interests, all fall along invisible boundaries.

The cafeteria lady hits my tray with a heavy dollop of hash browns. Breakfast for lunch is usually the biggest hit of the week, second only to pizza days. French toast, hash browns, and sausage patties, all are gobbled down in a greedy blur. The carton of milk weighs the tray down, throwing off my tray’s balance so it requires both hands to carry. It’s hard to pull off cool while struggling to keep a tray straight, so I hustle to my seat.

“You going to eat those?” Crumbs dust Nehemiah’s mouth and shirt.

“Nah, go ahead.” I slide my plate to let Nehemiah take my French toast sticks.

“There you go thinking again. Ain’t you had enough of that? You making yourself sick.” Nehemiah’s tone sounds almost like a mother’s. Concern isn’t a muscle he regularly exercises. Having eaten all his scavenged food, Nehemiah now outright picks at my tray since I obviously show little interest in it.