“You want to go?” Kutter asks.

“Whenever you want. I’m tired of all your crap,” Nehemiah says without any real heat to his words, his voice on the verge of cracking. With laughter. He’s enjoying himself too much and I don’t know how much longer he can stay in character.

My plan puts me in a bit of a moral quandary, if you will. Not that anyone could tell, I’m in the middle of what some might call a crisis of conscience. I’m trying to do better, but I’m not sure what better looks like just yet. I think of it as using my powers for good against a bad guy. I already know that I may need to work on developing new powers, but until then, I’m going with what I know.

I inch toward the rear of the crowd, letting the elderly assistant brush past me as she moves to snatch one of the boys away from Ms. Erickson. I slide next to the cubbies. As everyone watches the pretend fight, each boy puffing their chests but doing little more than preening for show, I find Kutter’s backpack and slip Jaron’s bullets into it. Call me paranoid, but I’d wiped down the bullets and slid them into an envelope and used it to pour the bullets into his backpack. I make my way toward Marcel. With a resigned glint in her eye, Ms. Erickson backs away to grab a couple of reflection forms from her desk, ready to just send them both to Mrs. Fitzgerald. I had to give Ms. Erickson that much: she hates having to resort to reflection forms. She views them as a last resort and a failure on her part.

“Enjoying the show?” I whisper to Marcel.

“I’ve seen better.” Marcel chews a piece of gum with the empty expression of watching clothes dry.

“It all comes down to the finale. Watch this.” I wave.

Nehemiah screams and runs around the room. That grabs Ms. Erickson’s attention. She dashes to cut him off. Her assistant moves toward the door. She might be old, but she can block an entrance and prevent a scrawny seventh grader from running down the halls like a madman. Nehemiah leaps over a desk to the oohs and laughter of the class. He reaches into one of the cubbies and started tossing things. He chances an approving peek at me. I motion at him to move to the next cubby over. Nehemiah grabs the next backpack and swats its contents toward Ms. Erickson. The bullets jangle to the floor.

“Ms. Erickson, are those real?” Nehemiah freezes with the suspicious bag held away from him.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Marcel says to me.

“Everyone back away. Give me some room,” Ms. Erickson says. The students retreat in a stunned silence, stepping widely around any of the rolling bullets. She turns to her volunteer. “In fact, can you take them to lunch and send Mrs. Fitzgerald down here? You can leave Marquess here.”