Kutter turned to Marcel. She shook her head.

“Here’s the thing: here at Persons Crossing Public Academy, we employ a teaching method that’s part lesson and part practice.” Kutter attempted to imitate the voice of Mrs. Fitzgerald. It would have worked, if she had laryngitis, fake gold fronts, and halitosis. “We like to foster a sense of community and leave no child behind.”

RaShawn tittered.

Jaron’s attention went from Kutter to RaShawn to the boys crowding in on him back to Kutter.

“What does that mean?” Jaron stammered.

“It’s recess. We’re about to play a game and we don’t want to leave you out.”

“What game?”

“Liftoff.”

Kutter grabbed Jaron under his right arm, RaShawn under his left. As Jaron struggled, two more boys grabbed each of his legs. The boys held Jaron aloft and powerless no matter how much he wriggled. He yelled, begging them to stop. To put him down. Calling for his mom. The boys achieved a full gallop, running in a circle, and drawing a crowd of curious kids. Their cheers drowned out Jaron’s cries.

One of the boys carrying a leg stumbled, losing his grip. Once that leg hit the ground, the boy on the other leg released his burden. Jaron dangled from Kutter and RaShawn, his dragging legs kicking up rocks and wood chips, leaving a sputtering dust cloud in their wake. Kutter and RaShawn counted off.

“Three, two, one . . . Liftoff!” Kutter and RaShawn yelled in unison and let go.

Jaron went tumbling forward. His body crashed into the ground, his momentum spilling him behind over head. All to wild peals of laughter and screams.

“What’s going on back here?” Ms. Erickson yelled, drawn by the suspicious crowd and noise.

“Nothing, Ms. Erickson. We’re . . . just playing,” Kutter said.

Jaron stood up slowly, swept the wood chips from his pants and shirt. The stains on his pants smeared further with each swipe. He brushed tears from his face. The dust on his face blurred into a sad, muddy streak.

“You all right, Jaron?” Ms. Erickson wrapped a concerned arm around his shoulders.

Jaron’s eyes went from Kutter to the crowd of faces waiting to see what he’d say, back to Kutter. “Yeah, I’m good. We’re just playing.”

“Well, play nicer. Your parents spent good money on those clothes and I’m willing to bet they don’t want to see them torn up.” She paused, not quite buying their act. “You sure you’re okay, Jaron? You look a little shaken.”

“I don’t feel well. I think . . . it’s something I ate.”

“You all play too rough, especially so soon after lunch. Go on to the nurse’s office.”

Jaron hung his head low, not wanting to meet anyone’s eyes. Embarrassed. Ashamed. Angry. Scared. A swirl of feelings surged in him all at once, each one a punch to his belly threatening to send him to the dirt again.

That was Day One.

Marcel decided to make an example of Jaron. A continual reminder of what it would cost someone to cross her. Jaron never knew when something would happen. Cornered in the bathroom. Isolated or, worse, surrounded, at lunch. The constant whispers and taunts. Or in the park, where there weren’t even any adults within earshot should things get out of control. When he was truly on his own. Despite his size, the boys were emboldened, especially if there were four or more. Jaron lived with the fear. With the constant undertow of threat.