“If that’s all there was to learning, you wouldn’t need the support of special education. Do you remember how we met?”

Adults think they’re slick the way they use words like they’re fooling someone. Like how when they say “high energy” or “impulse control issues,” it’s code for ADHD. Or like when they say “support” they might as well mean “punish.”

“That was nearly a third of my lifetime ago.” It was back in fourth grade. She was a vice principal then, in charge of school discipline. But those were my lower school days. In middle school, you had a new slate.

“You’re a clever boy. In fact, have you ever heard the expression ‘too clever by half’? That’s you.”

“This is an awful lot of math for me being in trouble. Fractions were never my strongest subject.”

“There’s that cleverness again. I think we’ve had about enough of it for today.” Even at her sternest, a smile usually dances in her eyes to let kids know that she still cares about them. But if it’s possible for her to have even less play in her face, Mrs. Fitzgerald managed it.

Something is stressing her out for real, but she isn’t about to reveal her hand until she’s ready. Now I ain’t scared of anyone, but I know now might not be the best time to mess around. I fold my hands in my lap to avoid the temptation of them fumbling into something they shouldn’t.

“You’re bright and have a lot of potential. I hate to see people squander their potential. Do you know what ‘squander’ means?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Every opportunity to have a teaching moment she takes. It must be in their handbook or something.

“Ah, here comes the rest of your classmates.” Mrs. Fitzgerald waves in the faces pressed against her door window.

Nehemiah dips his head in first as if checking to see if the coast is clear. We’re both in the seventh grade. Compared to him, I’m sculpted like an Olympian. He seems built like a collection of angry twigs. His skin is almost as dark as the black jacket he always wears. Our school dress code is red or navy polo shirts with navy or khaki pants (girls have an option for skirts). Since he always complains about being cold, teachers letting him wear it was better than the alternative. Nehemiah has a way of . . . melting down when he gets overwhelmed. And by “melting down” I mean screaming and running through the halls.

Next in is Twon. His full name is Antoine Beverly after an uncle he hates, so he goes by Twon. A big kid, even for an eighth grader. His breath always smells like beef jerky and bubble gum. His red shirt, now almost pink from repeated washing, is tucked into his pants. The knees are worn down to threads. The school powers that be intended the official school uniform to equalize fashion among the students. So that kids can’t be made fun of for dressing different. Life doesn’t work that way, because things are never equal.