“I need to see pencils moving. Stay focused,” she exhorts.

The elderly woman picks up on her cue to patrol the room, helping anyone who seems to struggle to keep up.

Kutter leans his chair back, making a show of not paying attention. He jabs one pencil into the eraser of another, making a two-tiered super pencil. He attempts, and fails, to twirl it around his finger. He sends one skittering across the room, but otherwise isn’t too disruptive. Ms. Erickson obviously lets it slide in order to concentrate on those students who actually want to learn.

“We have seven minutes left until lunch and I want them all,” Ms. Erickson says.

Even with my practiced academic appearance—my head buried in a book I only pretend to read—I know Marcel’s watching. She measures each shift, each twitch, probing for any weakness to exploit. Searching for any hint of what I might be up to, because I have to be up to something. I smile. I can’t help myself. When things are about to break my way, be it a good idea or circumstances lining up for me, I can’t help but be pleased with myself. Besides, I’m not the one she should be watching.

I meet her gaze. Then nod.

“What happened to my pencil?” Nehemiah yells.

“What’s the problem?” Ms. Erickson strides toward him in long steps.

“Someone took my pencil!”

“Who?”

“Kutter.” Nehemiah points.

Kutter freezes. His remaining pencil nearly completes a revolution around his finger but skitters to the ground. Already tilting back, he nearly falls out of his chair with the accusation. He raises his long arms in bewilderment. “Man, you tripping. How am I going to get something of yours from over there?”

“Stop playing and give it back,” Nehemiah says.

“On my momma, Ms. Erickson, I don’t know what this fool is talking about,” Kutter says.

“Who you calling a fool?” Nehemiah stands up at his desk.

“You, fool.” Kutter rises in response. “I didn’t stutter.”

“You want to bump?” Nehemiah steps toward him.

Everyone rises out of their seats, some to clear out of their way, others to get a better view.

“I ain’t scared of you,” Kutter says.

“You must be scared of a toothbrush, though,” Nehemiah continues. “I can smell your skunk breath over here.”

“Whoa!” the class murmurs.

“You must want to be split.” Kutter tromps toward him. He flexes with each step, his movements like a snake uncoiling.

Kutter and Nehemiah face off against one another. Easily four inches taller, Kutter looms over Nehemiah. Not backing down an inch, Nehemiah shows heart, or is plain crazy. Ms. Erickson wedges herself between them. Sadly, every teacher in public school has seen this production a hundred times before. She spouts words encouraging them to settle down, take a breath, reminding them that fighting isn’t worth it and that there are better ways to solve their problems. She escalates to threatening to call Mrs. Fitzgerald and then their parents if they fail to take their seats. Each one alternates chest puffing, half-lunging toward the other. The rest of the students congregate around them.