The Usual Suspects Read online

  Dedication

  For Reese

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Life is all about timing.

  Once the homeroom bell rings at 8:15 a.m., there’ll be a five-minute lag before students are marched to the auditorium to gather for morning assembly. Nehemiah Caldwell and I get there before any administration types do. We slide under the curtain beneath the stage and crawl over to the stereo cart.

  This is going to be epic.

  “You got it?” Nehemiah asks.

  I pat my pocket. “Yeah. You got what you need?”

  “I’m like a Boy Scout up in this mug.” He untangles wires from a box with computer ports in it. He then begins to draw the cord, pulling the cart closer to us.

  “Easy, easy . . .”

  “If you think this is so easy, you come do this.”

  “Shh! She might hear you.” I scoot over and help pull on the cord. We draw the cart until it’s pressed against the stage. The music teacher’s absent today; his mistake was announcing it in advance. Since he runs sound for morning assembly, he preset the mixing board so that all the person filling in for him had to do was hit the power button.

  We have other plans.

  “Can you reach the laptop?” Nehemiah asks.

  “Let me make sure it’s clear.” I pop my head out. The new principal, Mrs. Fitzgerald, talks to a teacher at the far entrance, her back to us. I study the folks I’m going up against. Mrs. Fitzgerald has a swagger to her. A bit of a gangster vibe. She wanders the halls with a beaming smile, but she has a resting teacher face with her eyes narrow like unflinching lasers. Most kids fear crossing her. But I don’t.

  I snatch the laptop and hope no one was paying attention.

  “Got it,” I say.

  “Hand me the flash drive.”

  “Here you go.” I crouch back, giving the man space to work.

  Nehemiah’s unaware that he sticks his tongue out like he’s about to dunk a basketball. Playing ball, playing video games, or him in front of a computer are the only times he gets his game face on. “All right, that should do it.”

  “You sure?”

  “You want to keep questioning me, or you wanna get ghost before we get caught?”

  We scramble out the back way, popping up near the stairs on the far side of the stage. As we’re about to dip out, our teacher Mr. Blackmon rounds the corner.

  “Fellas.” Mr. Blackmon nods, checking us out as he does so. “Where are you supposed to be?”

  “Homeroom,” we say in angelic choir unison.

  “Better hurry then. Tardy bell’s about to ring.”

  We arrive at our classroom just in time to be first in line to march down to the auditorium for assembly. We sit in front where everyone can keep their eyes on us. Mrs. Fitzgerald walks toward center stage. Once she starts moving, the entire school snaps to attention, like her shadow passing over us is enough to freeze us in our spots.

  “Good morning,” she says, but the microphones are dead so only the first few rows hear her. Tapping the mike with her long fingernails, she gestures to the sound board.

  I sit, stiff and quiet, all but grabbing Nehemiah’s hand in anticipation of the moment.

  The sub hits the power button.

  Over Nehemiah’s beatboxing, my rhymes spit over the school speakers.

  You missed the orientation so you can’t school me.

  I keep my mind right so you can’t fool me.

  Sitting ’round judging me like I’m brand-new

  Call me infamous, felonius, the one true boo.

  My moms, she’s a queen raising a young king,

  Told me to chase my dreams, grow up, and do my thing.

  Ain’t no stopping me ’cause you know I get lawless when you get in my way

  Trying to make it out here ’cause they hating on me I’m a-let them boys say

  A little kid standing tall

  You in my world and I want it all.

  The kids erupt. They can’t sing along since it’s my original, but they can bob their heads and cheer. Since the administration types couldn’t figure out how to stop the vocals, they cut the power to the sound board. Which is too bad, because my rhymes were just getting to the good part.

  So I’m back in the principal’s office once again. Due to “my escalating antics” I’m here a lot. Some teachers float the idea that I have oppositional defiant disorder (sometimes I think they just say that about kids who say no whenever adults tell them to do something, in which case, I have a severe case of it, as does every middle schooler I know). Some keep trying to say that I have bipolar disorder (because my shenanigans are so over-the-top). None of them are a doctor. They just want to sweep me and my issues under the rug. Moms scheduled an exam for me to get tested, but with our insurance, it’s over a month out. Until then, I have to spend the rest of the quarter in the Special Ed room.

  School policy is to deposit all their troublemakers or kids who they think are too much for a teacher to handle—no matter what grade—into one classroom. “Warehoused” is the word they were searching for. All their problem children, labeled “emotionally delinquent,” putting “the ED in education,” our homeroom teacher Mrs. Horner once joked. They say we’re too “disruptive”—I can almost see them make air quotes like they want to call us something else—like we’re some disease they’re trying to isolate.

  I figure because she’s so young and new, Mrs. Fitzgerald feels like she has a lot to prove. Plus every new principal wants things done their way. Partly to show there’s a new sheriff in town, partly to shake things up. Every new teacher or principal has it in their head that they’re going to fix everything. Especially us. It’s like we’re lab rats in some kind of science experiment. Too bad I’ve never had a taste for cheese.

  “Thelonius Mitchell, you spend so much time on that bench they should name it after you,” Mrs. Carson says. She’s the head of hospitality, office manager, and school nurse.

  “I’m sure it’s all a misunderstanding.” I take my seat.

  “It always is with you.” She shakes her head and continues her work.

  I put on my best innocent face, my thick braids flopping like a mophead when I tilt my chin. Now is one of those times I wish I wore glasses. I have a theory that people always trust folks who wear glasses more. I begin to tick off the things I may or may not have done wrong since the assembly incident that might have come back to bite me:

  •removing all the toilet paper from the adult restrooms

  •borrowing my homeroom teacher’s credit card so I could pay for online poker

  •locking the girls’ locker room after releasing a half-dozen mice in there

  To be fair, I am only in the planning stages of swiping the snack baskets from the middle school breakfast (getting them isn’t the problem, nor is getting them out the building an issue once I divert the security camera near the back stairwell. Sneaking them home is the real stumbling block).

  Now that I think about it, I should probably wear about six pairs of glasses at all times.

  “Well, well, well. Look w
ho we have here. If it isn’t Felonius.” Marcel Washington slips out of the principal’s office and closes the door behind her as if she owns the place. She wears black and brown tortoiseshell glasses. Now those are some trust builders. No wonder teachers adore her. She wears her hair straight and sashays about like she just wakes up every morning with every strand in place. She also has her momma’s fair skin. A lone brown freckle dots her lip just above her smirk. “I guess it’s no surprise . . . considering.”

  “Considering what?” I arch an eyebrow at her. Marcel always has a tone in her voice like she knows something you don’t, but she wants you to know that she knows.

  “Mrs. Fitzgerald will tell you.”

  “You in trouble, too?”

  “Too? You must have me confused with one of your fellow knuckleheads. I was called down to be put in charge of the student ambassadors. You’re here because you’re . . . you.” She nudges her glasses higher up her nose with her index finger. She has a way of looking at everyone as if they are small.

  “We ain’t that different.” I shrug, determined not to let her get under my skin.

  “Sure we are. You get caught.” Marcel winks.

  I hate it when she winks. It’s worse than her smirk.

  She walks down the hallway, twirling her hall pass, reminding me of how much I can’t stand her. No one can see how much of a lady gangster she is because she’s an honor student. Student ambassadors often help school staff with little jobs like recording attendance. Because of that, one of the many services Marcel “offers” is covering your skipped classes by making sure you’re marked as present. I hate having to deal with her, but she and her crew control all the action in the school. So us independent operators of mischief sometimes don’t have a choice.

  Mrs. Fitzgerald’s door opens enough for her to pop her head out. She does not have her play face on. “Come on in, Mr. Mitchell.”

  The walk from your cell to the electric chair is the longest walk in your life.

  This is Mrs. Fitzgerald’s first couple of months as principal of Persons Crossing Public Academy. Mrs. Horner still complains about her being the youngest principal in the district because “these young people don’t understand how the world works.” I really think Mrs. Horner is just mad because Mrs. Fitzgerald replaced one of those old-school principals who Mrs. Horner liked. The first words out of that principal’s mouth was always “Back in my day.” Old School never talked to anyone, just shouted at them. I might as well have been a wall. But Mrs. Fitzgerald is different. She might be tough and take no nonsense, but she listens when we talk.

  When I sink into the chair nearest her desk, I say, “I didn’t do it.”

  “Funny how you just assume that you must’ve done something wrong in order to find yourself in my office,” she says.

  Despite her all-business face, Mrs. Fitzgerald has a natural prettiness to her. Not that I think she is pretty. It’s just that up close, I can’t tell if she even wears makeup. She has a long angular face, smooth skin, and flowing black hair she brushes out of her eyes whenever she focuses on whoever she speaks to. Especially me. Her stare makes me feel like I’m under a microscope. Still, part of me finds it nice to know that someone who looks like my mother is in charge.

  I shift in discomfort. “Didn’t I?”

  “Mr. Mitchell.” She loves to add “Mr.” or “Miss” to our names to demonstrate respect toward us. It throws us off every time, but it’s kind of okay, too. “I make it a point to know as many children at my school as possible. There are two kinds of kids whose names I learn first: my honor students and my problem students. I learned your name before any teacher had a chance to even hand out their first homework assignment of the year.”

  “I get good grades.” I pick up a pencil and start twirling it between my fingers.

  “If that’s all there was to learning, you wouldn’t need the support of special education. Do you remember how we met?”

  Adults think they’re slick the way they use words like they’re fooling someone. Like how when they say “high energy” or “impulse control issues,” it’s code for ADHD. Or like when they say “support” they might as well mean “punish.”

  “That was nearly a third of my lifetime ago.” It was back in fourth grade. She was a vice principal then, in charge of school discipline. But those were my lower school days. In middle school, you had a new slate.

  “You’re a clever boy. In fact, have you ever heard the expression ‘too clever by half’? That’s you.”

  “This is an awful lot of math for me being in trouble. Fractions were never my strongest subject.”

  “There’s that cleverness again. I think we’ve had about enough of it for today.” Even at her sternest, a smile usually dances in her eyes to let kids know that she still cares about them. But if it’s possible for her to have even less play in her face, Mrs. Fitzgerald managed it.

  Something is stressing her out for real, but she isn’t about to reveal her hand until she’s ready. Now I ain’t scared of anyone, but I know now might not be the best time to mess around. I fold my hands in my lap to avoid the temptation of them fumbling into something they shouldn’t.

  “You’re bright and have a lot of potential. I hate to see people squander their potential. Do you know what ‘squander’ means?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Every opportunity to have a teaching moment she takes. It must be in their handbook or something.

  “Ah, here comes the rest of your classmates.” Mrs. Fitzgerald waves in the faces pressed against her door window.

  Nehemiah dips his head in first as if checking to see if the coast is clear. We’re both in the seventh grade. Compared to him, I’m sculpted like an Olympian. He seems built like a collection of angry twigs. His skin is almost as dark as the black jacket he always wears. Our school dress code is red or navy polo shirts with navy or khaki pants (girls have an option for skirts). Since he always complains about being cold, teachers letting him wear it was better than the alternative. Nehemiah has a way of . . . melting down when he gets overwhelmed. And by “melting down” I mean screaming and running through the halls.

  Next in is Twon. His full name is Antoine Beverly after an uncle he hates, so he goes by Twon. A big kid, even for an eighth grader. His breath always smells like beef jerky and bubble gum. His red shirt, now almost pink from repeated washing, is tucked into his pants. The knees are worn down to threads. The school powers that be intended the official school uniform to equalize fashion among the students. So that kids can’t be made fun of for dressing different. Life doesn’t work that way, because things are never equal.

  Even though he’s in sixth grade, Rodrigo Luis has the body of a third grader who had a diet of only leaves and water. He talks fast and is always up to no good, which is something, considering I’m the one saying it. And he has impulse control issues. But I tell you what, his pants have a crisp crease in them and his red shirt doesn’t even have a hint of fade to its color. When he stands, he turns his collar up, dismissing the world.

  The air leaves the room as they file in and sit next to me. It’s like we’re afraid to speak, so we exchange guilty glances. I can’t help but picture us as being in a police lineup. The Mrs. Fitzgerald we were used to would have just popped down to our class and met us on our turf if she had something to say. But this time she summoned us to her office. She bridges her fingers in front of her face and waits, like a perturbed cat about to pounce on all the unsuspecting mice lured to her cave.

  Mrs. Horner waddles into the room with the walk of someone whose joints ache. She’s the lead facilitator of the special education class. Not teachers, facilitators. This is typical of how me and my friends are singled out. Believe me, I never felt special. Or facilitated. Her egg-shaped body totters back and forth as she makes her way to a seat. She runs her clawlike hand through her white-edged black hair.

  Mr. Blackmon trails all of them and shuts the door behind him. Short, barely taller than me, his skin the shade
of sunbaked cinnamon—only a shade darker than mine—he also has that quiet swagger. A young dude with smooth pretty-boy looks, black-framed glasses perched on his nose just like he’s stepping out of a “smart guys on campus” fashion shoot. But his head is tiny, like a peanut I want to flick across the room. Also one of the special education facilitators, Mr. Blackmon’s duties include escorting special education students to the common classes we share with the “regular” (since they’re not “special”) students: recess, lunch, gym, art, and music.

  Mrs. Horner and Mr. Blackmon retreat to the back wall, as far from Mrs. Fitzgerald as possible, letting us know that whatever was about to go down, we were on our own. It’s the first time I actually get nervous about this meeting. If our teachers are uncomfortable enough to want to stay out of collateral-damage range, something was definitely up.

  Mr. Blackmon hesitates a second while he studies my face. Knowing when I am being scanned for any sign of trouble, I turn my smile up to eleven. Everyone should have their go-to faces for special occasions. My “I’m being charming” face. Or my “who me?” face I break out when the maximum appearance of innocence is needed. My moms says I have a resting “up to something” face, so it rarely matters what face I put on, especially my “who me?” one. Mr. Blackmon seems more skeptical of me than ever.

  “Good morning, class,” says Mrs. Fitzgerald.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Fitzgerald,” we say in unison.

  “We have a serious problem and I thought it was important that we discuss it.” Mrs. Fitzgerald studies each of our faces with something barely softer than a glare.

  No one dares roll his eyes. No one dares cross his arms. No one dares chance a grin. Not even the boldest among us—and I do mean Nehemiah—feels safe enough to do anything more than sit there, hands in laps, paying wide-eyed attention.

  “Yesterday, next door at Northwestway Park, some young people found something. Does anyone know what?” Mrs. Fitzgerald walks around her desk like a lawyer in a courtroom giving an opening statement. (Moms has a thing for crime shows.)

  Mrs. Fitzgerald’s words hang in the air. All we can do is shake our heads, but without too much enthusiasm. It was like the group of us inched across a frozen lake, not knowing if or when we’d find a thin spot in the ice and go crashing through.