Mrs. Fitzgerald has me stew outside her door while she deliberates. The waiting is still the worst part. The “go and think about what you’ve done” technique is standard for teachers and parents alike. In practice, it amounts to “worry about what kind of punishment you’re gonna get.”

I consider how long it has been since I’ve done an actual turn at detention, but my gut assumes that my detention-free days might be nearing an end. The wait allows my mind to play out every way the conversation might go. I come up with counterarguments and strategies. Should I plead for mercy? Play up being contrite? Go for pity? Cry? Go on the offensive with righteous indignation and anger? This is what they want: have us wear ourselves down with impotent worry.

Marcel walks into the outer office, brandishing a broad smile for each of the office assistants. She delivers some paperwork from Ms. Erickson. She twirls her hall pass around her finger like a prison guard playing with the keys for the cells while they count the inmates. Marcel’s smile turns brittle as she faces me. Sliding into the seat next to me, she stares straight ahead.

“Getting your sentence handed down, Felonius?” Marcel asks.

“I’m not guilty of anything,” I say.

“You don’t honestly believe that, do you?”

“Then I’m as guilty as you,” I say.

“If you truly believed that, then you have nothing to worry about. But here you are, looking all worried. Like they’re going to haul you out the way they did Kutter.”

“You ain’t worried?” I ask. “About . . . anything?”

“That Kutter might turn snitch? Nah, I told him as soon as those bullets came spilling out that he wasn’t riding with me.”

“You’re cold. You’d cut your people in a minute,” I say.

“It’s cute the way you think we’re so different. I’m not worried about Kutter because he’s a soldier. He’ll stand tall because it’s in his best interest. Even without copping to anything, the accusation hangs over him. Having the rep of bringing a gun to school will serve him well over at Banesford, if that’s his fate. Just like it would have Jaron.”

I rear back in my chair, but catch myself and struggle to regain my cool.

Marcel straightens a pleat in her skirt. “Don’t act like that was supposed to be a secret. You know I hear things.”

“I see you for what you are,” I say. “Pure gangsta. You prey on and eat your own if it suits you. In the end, you’re all about you.”

Mrs. Fitzgerald’s door opens a fraction, expectant, letting me know that she’s ready for me.

Marcel knows to make herself scarce, leaving after one parting comment. “If I look familiar, it’s because game recognizes game.”

I accept her hat tip of respect, but she’s wrong. I’m not like her. I won’t be.

Mrs. Fitzgerald waves her hand for me to sit down. There’s no play in her tired eyes.