“Thelonius, you all right?” Mr. Blackmon drags a chair over to my desk. He turns it around so that he can rest his arms on its back. “You awful quiet.”

“I thought that’s what you teachers wanted. As long as we shut up and do as we’re told, you collect a check and feel like you’ve done something.”

Mr. Blackmon purses his lips, the way a doctor might when struggling to come up with a diagnosis. “This doesn’t sound like you.”

“Just leave me alone.” I fold my arms and stare at my desk.

“Is this how you want to operate: anyone who sticks around, you show them the door?”

“Nehemiah’s hurt because of me.” The words tumble out of my mouth before I can catch them. Accidental truth, letting people know what you are actually thinking, is another rookie move.

“You want to tell me what’s going on?” Mr. Blackmon performs his trick again. Most teachers ask a question but can only wait a second or so before they answer it themselves like they’re afraid of the silence. He waits. And waits. He lets the space where I am supposed to answer grow until the silence demands a response.

“No.” I manage to say.

“Oh, that’s right. I forgot. If you talk to me, folks will think you’re snitching.” Mr. Blackmon checks over his shoulders in exaggerated precaution. “Some of them may be watching us now.”

“Mr. Blackmon, seriously, why are you always up in my business?”

“I can’t afford cable, and this is all the entertainment I have.” He tips his water bottle to his mouth.

I attempt to cross my arms even harder to let this dude know to move on. If he won’t take the hint, I’ll have to go all in. “You know, there’s been something I’ve been wanting to tell you for a long time. These little heart-to-hearts aren’t as helpful as you think.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way.”

“I mean, is there a class you teachers take or something? Trying to be relatable to students?”

“Let me let you in on something: we’re told to be what they call friendly allies. Supports that you feel safe coming to.”

“Let me let you in on something: you just so extra. I have a mom. I have friends. You don’t need to be either. So a little less friend and a bit more ally.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

Mr. Blackmon scoots away from me. He’s hard to read. I can’t tell if he’s upset, about to pout, or get in his own feelings. He hovers over his desk like he’s thinking about something. I close my eyes to clear my head a bit. I may have been harsher than I intended. After a few minutes, he circles around to the desk behind me. Maybe he wants a better angle to watch the rest of the class. With his notebook open, Mr. Blackmon speaks in a low, conspiratorial whisper. “You know, I remember when I was in seventh grade. . . .”