The Pen

Twenty-eight thirteen-year-old bodies stand in silence on a long piece of thin red tape outside the middle school wing. Their jaws are rigid. Sweat begins to form in small beads at the edges of their foreheads. A muffled laugh from a nearby classroom carries their way.

“Enter,” commands Mr. Broussard sharply with his hands on his hips. “Shew,” he comments—on his exasperation and the heavy humidity—as the column of black shoes files inside.

Just inside the wing, Winston looks up at Ms. Peterson waiting by her classroom door with a scowl on her face. Distracted, he misses a step, accidentally ruffling Nylah’s backpack.

“Hey!” exclaims Nylah.

“Sorry,” says Winston, “didn’t mean to.”

“Boy, I swear if you touch me again...”

“Again!” shouts Broussard.

Half the class clicks their teeth as they turn around to exit the building.

Twenty-eight thirteen-year-old bodies stand on a long piece of thin red tape.

Charles nods his head to the song stuck there. Broussard’s eyes tear him apart. The boy hushes up, straightens up.

Under the August sun, Broussard lets the silence and sweat build. Officer Buckles exits the elementary school trailer with his duty belt fully equipped—handcuffs, radio, baton, pepper spray, firearm, ammunition, taser gun, knife, and several other concealed compartments. He raises a curious eyebrow at Broussard to which his colleague returns a nod.

“Enter.”

The folds of the eighth graders’ dark blue pants swish rhythmically under the intense fluorescent lights. Just as the door closes, Charles dances upon the thin red strip of tape on the tile floor.

“Again!” shouts Broussard.

At the end of the hall, Ms. Peterson tuts and crosses her arms.

“Charles, I swear to God...” growls Kaycee.

Jazz, Jada, and Drew exchange glances.

“C’mon y’all,” encourages Jazz to the rest of the class.

Broussard publicly furrows his brow with confusion at Jazz’s behest.

“Yeah,” seconds Drew as the children scurry to zip up their ‘mess,’ “I’m not gonna be standing in this heat all day long ’cause some people can’t keep their hands to themselves!”

Jada sizes up the girls. Broussard opens his mouth to speak, trying to regain control, but she beats him to it: “Y’all children getting my hair messed up. C’mon now.”

Jada glances back at Jazz, then to Drew, then observes the rigid line of teenage bodies in the sweltering New Orleans heat.

Jazz, a head taller than the rest and muscular, cocks a sideways grin.

All the students facing forward, Broussard feigns a heavy voice over a saucy smile: “Enter.”

/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

“Twenty-five minutes of class time wasted,” spouts Ms. Peterson to her rattled students now seated at their desks. “Every day, every class, every minute is important if we’re going to reach of Big, Hairy Audacious Goal! In case any of you have forgotten it, take a look right now. We have got to practice, my friends. Practice, practice, practice. How are we going to be Big Chiefs if we don’t put in the time? How do you think you are going to pass the LEAP?

“There are several of you, and you know who you are”—her eyes scan the room for the usual suspects, peering specifically at Jazz and Drew. “One more write-up means a parent conference.”

“And an ass-whooping!” shrieks a fabricated voice.

The class bursts out in laughter.

Peterson swiftly unclips the walkie-talkie from her waist. Every child sits up in their chair. Only the voices of adjacent classes break the silence.

“Our literature objectives are on the board. Today we’ll be focusing on RI.8.2: Determine two or more central ideas in a text and analyze their development over the course of the text; provide an objective summary of the text.” Peterson appears satisfied, saying, “Summary, my friends. I want you all to be pondering how to summarize the entirety of the story. You will be accountable for this summary to your reading partner.”

Over the audible grumbling, Stanford raises his hand, blurting: “I can read? I know where we left—”

“Hand down, Stanford. Try again.”

“Can I read, Ms. Peterson?”

“Go right ahead.”

“He plunged among the big pine trees,” Stanford begins. “The trail was not well marked here. Several inches of snow had fallen since the last sled had passed...”

As Stanford reads, the classroom pulses with an unusual silence. Peterson sits on a high stool near the blackboard, half following the text as she periodically scans the room for misbehavior.

“Popcorn: Alexa,” says Stanford at the end of the page.

“The frozen moistness of its breathing,” Alexa reads, “had settled on its fur in a fine powder of—”

The door opens. A robust, gloomy figure stands in the doorway glaring at his classmates. His big thighs push past the desks of several children who rebuke him with only sighs. He plunges down into a desk, lets his puny backpack slide off his arm towards the floor, and wiggles his feet into the metal basket under the desk in front of him.

“Jacobi, welcome. Nice to see you again,” says Ms. Peterson pleasantly, fraudulently.

“Crenshaw,” says the boy.

“Excuse me?” she asks.

“Call me Crenshaw. Don’t wanna be called Jacobi no more,” he says gruffly.

“Alright Mr. Crenshaw!” A pause. “Alexa,” calls Peterson in a high pitch.

“The frozen moistness of its breathing,” Alexa begins again, “had settled on its fur in a fine powder of frost.” Ms. Peterson scans the classroom with a menacing countenance. “The hair on the man’s face was similarly frosted, but more solidly.”

“Man,” raises a voice all of a sudden, “this story’s wack. I’ve never even seen snow in my life!”

“Man, I hate short stories,” adds another.

“I know, right,” says a third. “Why they don’t write stories about the parades or something?”

“Ms. Finnister,” says Peterson pleasantly, “which parade would you like to write about?”

“Write about?” retorts Danay with sass.

“When we get to the writing unit,” Peterson responds in cattish cadence, “you can write a story about your favorite parade. If you can stay awake long enough to write it.”

“St. Joseph’s Day Parade, baaaby—that’s what Imma write about.”

“Danay.” Peterson cuts her an odious look.

“Jesus,” grumbles Danay, rolling her eyes.

Peterson looks to Alexa.

“It took the form of ice and increased with every warm, moist breath...”

//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

The hands on the clock move slowly as the students slug through independent reading time, bound to their seats and dying of boredom.

Jazz slides a laser pointer pen out of his pocket. He swiftly raises the pointer, beaming the fierce green light at Danay half asleep in her chair.

“Ey!” grumbles Danay.

Jazz flicks the pointer at Kevin, then at Brianna, finally at Jada.

A barrage of bass notes rattles the floor. Jada begins to shake herself gracefully, rebelliously, while singing along to the riot coming from the speaker:

Body-ody-ody-ody-ody-ody-ody-ody

“Jada!” shouts Peterson at the same time that several other girls stand up to join Jada’s insurrection.

Ody-ody-ody-ody-ody-ody-ody, mwah

Twenty-eight thirteen-year-old bodies find their feet, moving and cheering on the party. “You might be young Ms. Pete,” Drew howls, “but you don’t know ’bout this!”

Body crazy, curvy, wavy, big . . .

Peterson reaches for her walkie-talkie, but it’s gone. Jazz sees her jaw drop and grins his mischievous grin as he waves around the green laser like a strobe light. The disconcerted teacher scrambles for the door but Brianna and Kaycee in mid-dance block her way.

Cla-clak!

A desk lies in the corner of the room. The kids on the left side of the room watch Big Crenshaw tread hard towards Jazz who is lost in the music and the impulses of the laser.

Crenshaw grabs Jazz by the back of the shirt and shoves him into the metal cabinet near his desk. “What is you doing?” snarls Crenshaw.

“Say whoadi,” exclaims Jazz, thoroughly incensed as he steps towards Crenshaw, “we just trying to get rid of”—he looks in Peterson’s direction nodding—“you know who.”

Crenshaw glowers at Jazz’s stupidity: “My cousin Christopher—he was shot on Monday.”

“So?” snaps Jazz.

“One o’clock in the afternoon. Shoulda been in school,” Crenshaw concludes.

“What you trying to say, Jacobi?” postures Drew. “It’s school or death? That’s it?”

“Or prison,” rejoins Crenshaw tightening his fists.

“What’s the difference?” Drew growls, squaring up to Crenshaw, their teeth clenched. Kevin watches the tear roll down Ms. Peterson’s face. Stanford sits in his desk holding his head. Danay covers her mouth with her hand. Alexa’s eyes widen discovering Jazz with his chest puffed out at Crenshaw. Nylah watches the boys through the camera on her phone.

Officer Buckles charges into the classroom. “You two,” he shouts at Jazz and Drew, “by the window. You,” he shouts at Crenshaw, “in the corner.” The boys resist; Buckles raises his taser gun. Slowly, they lower their fists backing away. As he walks backwards towards the barred window, Jazz studies Mr. Broussard walking towards Jacobi, taser in hand. Buckles gives Broussard a nod, the signal for both of them to reach for the large zip ties in their pockets.

Zip: Jazz’s hands.

Zip: Drew’s.

Zip: Jacobi’s.

Quietly, Broussard shuffles towards Ms. Peterson as she attempts to compose herself near the whiteboard. They speak in whispers.

“Thank you, Devon,” she says to him audibly.

“Laura, of course.”

Broussard signals to Buckles who then jerks Jazz and Drew towards the door. The three boys with their hands zipped up behind their backs exit the classroom escorted by the two brawny men behind them.

/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

The silence in the classroom is eerie. Peterson fills out an incident report with a red pen. Most of the eighth graders rest their chins or foreheads on crossed arms waiting for the next eleven minutes to pass. Except for Charles. Charles quietly plays air piano on the desk, subtly swaying his body to the beat in his head.

The door opens. Broussard enters without a word. Everyone watches as he takes Jada’s empty seat in the back of the classroom with her Language Arts textbook still turned to where the class left off.

“‘To Build a Fire’—that’s one of my favorites,” interjects Mr. Broussard with an artful, furtive tone.

Every single student in the class gawks at him. Ms. Peterson also lifts her head to confirm what she’s heard.

“What’s wrong with you, Broussard?” asks Kaycee flippantly.

“What can I say?” he chuckles. “I like snow.”

Shaking their heads at Broussard, the students resume their rest like drowsy dogs. Except for Charles. Charles watches a smirk slide across the man’s face. Broussard then discreetly flashes the green light towards the back wall, letting only Charles in on the secret.