Even though he’s in sixth grade, Rodrigo Luis has the body of a third grader who had a diet of only leaves and water. He talks fast and is always up to no good, which is something, considering I’m the one saying it. And he has impulse control issues. But I tell you what, his pants have a crisp crease in them and his red shirt doesn’t even have a hint of fade to its color. When he stands, he turns his collar up, dismissing the world.

The air leaves the room as they file in and sit next to me. It’s like we’re afraid to speak, so we exchange guilty glances. I can’t help but picture us as being in a police lineup. The Mrs. Fitzgerald we were used to would have just popped down to our class and met us on our turf if she had something to say. But this time she summoned us to her office. She bridges her fingers in front of her face and waits, like a perturbed cat about to pounce on all the unsuspecting mice lured to her cave.

Mrs. Horner waddles into the room with the walk of someone whose joints ache. She’s the lead facilitator of the special education class. Not teachers, facilitators. This is typical of how me and my friends are singled out. Believe me, I never felt special. Or facilitated. Her egg-shaped body totters back and forth as she makes her way to a seat. She runs her clawlike hand through her white-edged black hair.

Mr. Blackmon trails all of them and shuts the door behind him. Short, barely taller than me, his skin the shade of sunbaked cinnamon—only a shade darker than mine—he also has that quiet swagger. A young dude with smooth pretty-boy looks, black-framed glasses perched on his nose just like he’s stepping out of a “smart guys on campus” fashion shoot. But his head is tiny, like a peanut I want to flick across the room. Also one of the special education facilitators, Mr. Blackmon’s duties include escorting special education students to the common classes we share with the “regular” (since they’re not “special”) students: recess, lunch, gym, art, and music.

Mrs. Horner and Mr. Blackmon retreat to the back wall, as far from Mrs. Fitzgerald as possible, letting us know that whatever was about to go down, we were on our own. It’s the first time I actually get nervous about this meeting. If our teachers are uncomfortable enough to want to stay out of collateral-damage range, something was definitely up.

Mr. Blackmon hesitates a second while he studies my face. Knowing when I am being scanned for any sign of trouble, I turn my smile up to eleven. Everyone should have their go-to faces for special occasions. My “I’m being charming” face. Or my “who me?” face I break out when the maximum appearance of innocence is needed. My moms says I have a resting “up to something” face, so it rarely matters what face I put on, especially my “who me?” one. Mr. Blackmon seems more skeptical of me than ever.