I fidget in my seat, never quite finding a position I’m comfortable in. The Ed room seems different. Quiet. Too quiet. Neat. Alien. Every afternoon once the students depart for the buses, Mrs. Horner stays behind in order to straighten up and reset things for the next day. I did the same thing with my bedroom. Having everything in its place relaxes me and gives me a sense of control, even against the futility of a mess being made of it all over again the next day. Since Moms couldn’t drop her off before the meeting, Ahrion finds the box of Legos and quickly fixes the cleanliness and quiet problem.

“Did you hear about yesterday?” Mr. Blackmon asks.

“Bits. What I managed to drag out of him and piece together,” Moms says.

“Good, so he doesn’t just do that with me.” When he puts that bass in his voice, it always sounds like he’s almost flirting. Mr. Blackmon flashes a toothy grin.

“Every conversation is a battle.”

“I’m right here, you know.” I’m bored of swiveling back and forth, so instead I position my chair between them. When grown folks start talking about me like I’m not in the room, more times than not, they are figuring out how to team up against me.

Having built two cars, Ahrion revs her engines.

“I just wanted to make sure everyone was brought up to speed. With all that’s been going on—the gun, the fight—things can get forgotten. Slip through the cracks, as it were, if we don’t stay on top of them. I wanted to give us the time and space to talk about how some of these things may be affecting you.” Mr. Blackmon’s voice takes on that special quality, of his warning me that he’s about to invade our feels.

“You the school counselor now?” I ask.

“I just feel, and correct me if I’m wrong or out of line, Mrs. Mitchell”—Mr. Blackmon faces her before turning his attention back to me—“like you’re walking along a precipice, Thelonius.”

“A what?”

“Press piss,” Ahrion yells from the Lego pile.

Mr. Blackmon stares at me. “A cliff’s edge.”

“Why didn’t he just say cliff?” I ask Moms.

“Thelonius.” Moms pats me twice on my thigh to settle me down.

“It’s like you’re trying to walk as close to the edge as possible. I wanted you to see that you don’t have to go it alone,” Mr. Blackmon says.

“What’s your deal?” I ask.

“You’re really hung up on that,” Mr. Blackmon says.

“Everybody has a deal.”

“Some angle they must be working.” Mr. Blackmon says it like it’s a question.

“Exactly.”

“What’s mine, then?” Mr. Blackmon lowers his hands into his lap, daring me to come at him.

“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”

Mr. Blackmon scoots back in his chair and inhales deeply. He pivots back and forth for a moment. I recognize the body language. Mr. Blackmon’s trying to figure out the next way to approach me. “You’re a good kid, Thelonius. I don’t know if you hear that enough.”