The events of recess and the aftermath play like a movie on a loop in my brain.

After the bell, me and Twon have to walk back to the Special Ed room with no escort. The other middle school classes line up, waiting for each of their teachers to lead them inside. They allow me and Twon to enter first. I step between the lines. The big kid from music class, Jaron, plows his shoulder into me when I walk by. I turn to glare at him but spy the wall of kids behind him. There’s no warmth, and barely any recognition, in their faces. I stand accused. Twon scurries off to class, but I stop for a drink of water. I refuse to let them think that they are getting to me. When the other classes catch up to me, another wall of glares meets me. The whispers soon start.

“Snitch.”

“Snitches get stitches.”

“Principal’s boy.”

“Snitch bitch.”

They have Marcel’s fingerprints all over them to keep me from finding out what happens and why. The rumor will carry weight because you never side with administration. Ever. There are rules to this game. Kutter and RaShawn especially enjoy spitting out the words. The other boys rise in chorus, not bothering to whisper.

I have to poop. The door to the bathroom opens, its light orange walls visible before wrapping around a blind corner. Teachers rarely enter the student bathrooms. The wall blocks the casual observer. Peals of laughter or muffled cries echo like the same brand of bathroom shenanigans. I decide to hold it rather than chance literally being caught with my pants down.

“You going in or just standing there sightseeing?” some kid asks on his way in.

The door opens again. The flash of brick walls. The choking of the sounds when the door closes. I picture myself outnumbered and overpowered out of the protective sight of a teacher. I remain rooted to my spot, just like I was when Nehemiah was in trouble.

Later I find the note on my desk, and I feel like a coward all over again.

Someone scrawled the word “snitch” on it, with a drawing of a decapitated head beneath it. Pencil shades in a black eye and scars along the face. I fold the note back up. The thought of throwing it away makes me mad. I might as well toss my hands in the air in the final act of surrendering. To admit I am weak, vulnerable, and soft. But they’re right. I shove the note into my pants pocket. I know it’s not just my name I’m trying to clear and keep anyone else from being hurt with this gun business, but this cuts deep. Every so often I scrape my hands into the pocket, tracing the note’s edge. It reassures me that all of today’s events were real. It’s like a scab I can’t help but keep picking.

I’ve never felt so alone.

But I’m not. I hear Marcel’s voice. “Just as long as you understand that you aren’t untouchable.”