I’m not used to anyone calling Kutter by his government name.

The volunteer cajoles the students into a line. “No one touch anything.”

Ms. Erickson stretches her arms out to stop us. “Nehemiah and Thelonius, you stay here also.”

“Why me?” I protest.

“I just know you’re involved in this somehow.”

I don’t know whether to be insulted or impressed. Because either even Ms. Erickson blames me when things go down, or she saw through our little performance.

All lessons come at a cost.

An Indianapolis Metropolitan Police Department squad car squats out front of the school, its lights flashing. Kids press themselves against the windows to get a better look at it, like it was some new exotic animal at the zoo. The other students fill their doorways, ignoring the severe warnings of their teachers to take their seats. Bathroom passes run at a premium since suddenly everyone has to go at the same time. The hallways bustle with the few students allowed out, now burdened with being the eyes and ears of their classes, fully expected to come back with as many details as they can ferret out. They linger at the water fountains for any possible view.

A lone IMPD officer escorts Marquess Neal, aka Kutter, through the halls. Stragglers in the hall too close to the action flatten against the walls, afraid Kutter is patient zero and they might catch a case of being hauled to Banesford Accelerated Academy. Kutter stands tall, walking without cuffs, delivering the perp walk everyone expects. Mrs. Fitzgerald appears heartbroken. Rings settle around her eyes. With fine cracks around her lips where makeup had been judiciously applied, she stifles a yawn but pauses to stretch. With bits and pieces gleaned from careless whispers and carefully worded reports, she constructs a narrative to share with everyone.

The school assembly convening today would be about bullying as well as a discussion on school safety. Kutter was a bully. He terrorized all the kids at Persons Crossing Public Academy. In order to further build his rep, to take it to another level, he brought a gun to school. Not to actually hurt anyone, just scare them. Show them that at any time he not only had access but the will to bring it. However, Persons has a zero-tolerance policy. The school administrators removed the threat and would use this opportunity as a teaching moment. That was a story Mrs. Fitzgerald could sell. I muffle a thin smile at that. My way out was to provide and stick to this simple story.

“There was no need for things to go this far.” Mrs. Fitzgerald folds her arms. “I’ll give you one last chance to tell me why you did it.”

Kutter stops in front of her. He faces her with that empty expression, eyes haunted by the ghost of having given up or given in to what everyone thought of him.

“Like you taught us: Say the problem, Think of solutions, Explore consequences, Pick the best solutions.” Kutter’s dead and hopeless tone chills me. Inspecting me up and down, he glares at me with hollow malevolence. Mrs. Fitzgerald catches the stare down and guides me toward her office while the officer escorts Kutter to the cruiser.