Kutter strolls past me. He whispers, “You in my yard.”

“Come on, Nehemiah, we’re going to the nurse’s office.” Mr. Blackmon scoops him up as best he can to help him to his feet. “Can you walk?”

Unsteady at first, Nehemiah backs away from Mr. Blackmon to favor his hurt wrist. “It wasn’t my fault. They started it.”

“You can sing that song to Mrs. Fitzgerald.” Mr. Blackmon stays near to steady him in case he needs it. “The boys who came to get me say you were the one shoving folks.”

“It’s not fair.” Nehemiah kicks over a trash can on his way in. The movement shoots an arc of pain through his arm because he cradles it more.

Ms. Erickson arrives to shoo the kids back to their schoolyard distractions. The boys stagger back toward the court as if awakening from a deep sleep. Their game starts off sluggish, but within minutes finds its rhythm again. Without me.

Sucking on a Blow Pop, Marcel sidles up next to me.

Withdrawing the lollipop from her mouth, she gestures toward the building. “Your boy’s off to see Mrs. Fitzgerald. She don’t play when it comes to blacktop tussles.”

I don’t respond.

“Looks to me like you out here all alone. Your crew, well, they ain’t much. A lot of talk but they got no heart. Now, my crew? They’re loyal. They’re soldiers. They know how to get things done. I know a mind is a terrible thing to waste and all, but I want you to think about that and how easy it’d be to get got before you go asking any more questions.”

A funk settles on the Special Ed room.

Everyone acts restrained, like someone has died. The mood matches the awkwardness of settling back into anything approaching discipline and self-control. Like a bunch of zombies, we quietly stumble through the day, barely going through the motions of getting our afternoon work done, powering our way to dismissal. Nehemiah being absent doesn’t fully explain the lack of energy. I struggle to find a word to describe the emptiness.

With Pierce off in art class, Rodrigo drags his desk to the back corner to distance himself from Twon. They both read to themselves. Rodrigo opens a book on his desk, but plants a comic book within it. He’s so committed to beating the system that he forgets that he could have just chosen to read the comic out in the open, because no one cares what he reads as long as he’s reading. And more important, quiet.

I tilt my chair on its back legs. Tossing my book so that it spins in the air, I wait for it to slam when landing spine-side down against my desk. The clatter breaks the tranquility of the room. I’m mad because I’m frustrated and humiliated. For all my talk and rep, I got caught cold when it was time to fight. I felt powerless because everything was overwhelming. It occurs to me that Nehemiah may feel that way a lot. The feeling fuels his anger. But when my mind drifts to my friend, my mood spirals farther into a dark place.