The Usual Suspects by Maurice Broaddus

Author:Maurice Broaddus
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2019-03-13T16:00:00+00:00

A funk settles on the Special Ed room.

Everyone acts restrained, like someone has died. The mood matches the awkwardness of settling back into anything approaching discipline and self-control. Like a bunch of zombies, we quietly stumble through the day, barely going through the motions of getting our afternoon work done, powering our way to dismissal. Nehemiah being absent doesn’t fully explain the lack of energy. I struggle to find a word to describe the emptiness.

With Pierce off in art class, Rodrigo drags his desk to the back corner to distance himself from Twon. They both read to themselves. Rodrigo opens a book on his desk, but plants a comic book within it. He’s so committed to beating the system that he forgets that he could have just chosen to read the comic out in the open, because no one cares what he reads as long as he’s reading. And more important, quiet.

I tilt my chair on its back legs. Tossing my book so that it spins in the air, I wait for it to slam when landing spine-side down against my desk. The clatter breaks the tranquility of the room. I’m mad because I’m frustrated and humiliated. For all my talk and rep, I got caught cold when it was time to fight. I felt powerless because everything was overwhelming. It occurs to me that Nehemiah may feel that way a lot. The feeling fuels his anger. But when my mind drifts to my friend, my mood spirals farther into a dark place.

The events of recess and the aftermath play like a movie on a loop in my brain.

After the bell, me and Twon have to walk back to the Special Ed room with no escort. The other middle school classes line up, waiting for each of their teachers to lead them inside. They allow me and Twon to enter first. I step between the lines. The big kid from music class, Jaron, plows his shoulder into me when I walk by. I turn to glare at him but spy the wall of kids behind him. There’s no warmth, and barely any recognition, in their faces. I stand accused. Twon scurries off to class, but I stop for a drink of water. I refuse to let them think that they are getting to me. When the other classes catch up to me, another wall of glares meets me. The whispers soon start.

“Snitch.”

“Snitches get stitches.”

“Principal’s boy.”

“Snitch bitch.”

They have Marcel’s fingerprints all over them to keep me from finding out what happens and why. The rumor will carry weight because you never side with administration. Ever. There are rules to this game. Kutter and RaShawn especially enjoy spitting out the words. The other boys rise in chorus, not bothering to whisper.

I have to poop. The door to the bathroom opens, its light orange walls visible before wrapping around a blind corner. Teachers rarely enter the student bathrooms. The wall blocks the casual observer. Peals of laughter or muffled cries echo like the same brand of bathroom shenanigans.

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