Leaving Atlanta by Tayari Jones

with a malevolent stroke of his red pen.
    “But I’ve been here since before the first bell.”
    “In body maybe. But apparently, your mind has just arrived.”
    You slumped in your chair mumbling truncated obscenities. Mr. Harrell tapped the corner of your desk with his ruler. “Do you
     have something to say to me, Mr. Green?”
    “No sir,” you said, over Forsythia Collier’s wind-chime laughter.
    Mr. Harrell turns from the blackboard as you enter. Your eyes travel downward in what looks like humility but is not. His
     shoes, buffed to a high gloss, are identical to your own.
    “For me?” he says, reaching for the poster as if it were a gift. “Very nice, Mr. Green. I am glad to see that you have decided
     to take your schoolwork more seriously.”
    It is hard to tell if he is being sarcastic or just stupid, so you say nothing.
    He reaches behind you to Octavia, who is holding her project, with the decorated side toward the floor. Mr. Harrell examines
     it without enthusiasm. “Not bad, Miss Fuller.”
    You have made it to your seat and are covertly studying Octavia’s hair when Mr. Harrell bangs his ruler on his desk. The gesture
     is dramatic, but not unusual, so you do not move your eyes from Octavia’s mesmerizing braids, which travel an intricate winding
     path along her scalp. He brings the ruler down hard again. You reluctantly leave your scopophilic trance.
    “Our guest today is Officer Brown from the Atlanta Police Department.” Mr. Harrell sounds like Bob Barker. “He is going to
     talk to us about personal safety.”
    Cautious excitement spreads through the class. No child in this room has felt safe since Jashante disappeared.
    Officer Brown is softer and rounder than you imagine a police officer should be. His wide toothy smile is naggingly familiar.
     Was he the man inside the clown suit at your sister’s party last year?
    “Hi, kids,” he says. “Let’s talk about safety. I have a feeling that this might be a topic on your mind lately. Am I right?”
    The class stares at him. He looks at Mr. Harrell, who then glares at all of you.
    “Not everyone at once,” the officer says, with a stiff laugh much like a snort. “Okay.” He claps his hands together. “How
     about you tell me what you already know.”
    No one speaks. What all of you already know is too terrible to trust to unreliable words. Officer Brown tries again. “I am
     sure that you guys watch the news with your parents. What have you seen that has to do with kids and safety?” He points at
     Angelite Armstrong; her long braids always attract attention. “I don’t know,” she whispers.
    “Well, who knows?” He aims his finger at Cinque Freeman. “You look like a sharp young man.”
    Cinque is not flattered, but he condescends to reply. “Everybody knows somebody is killing black kids.”
    Officer Brown looks suddenly taken aback as if he only now notices that he is white. You wonder how long it will be before
     he realizes that he is fat. He looks quickly at Mr. Harrell but gets no reaction. Officer Brown presses his smile, displaying
     bluish teeth set in pink gums. He looks away from Cinque. “Yes, little lady, you have something to say?”
    LaTasha Baxter says, “It’s too late to talk to us. Somebody from this class is already—” She bites on her lip and looks at
     the ceiling as if the word for the unknowable is spelled out in the fluorescent lights. She shakes her head at the officer.
    “Jashante,” Cinque says. “My cousin.”
    “He got killed,” someone shouted.
    This is the first time since Jashante was added to the list of Missing and Murdered Children that he is mentioned at school.
     Now the syllables of his name are everywhere. Octavia’s lips are moving privately, as if in prayer. You hear thirty-two-part
     harmony.
    Officer Brown extends his hands in front of him as if he were saying, playfully,
Don’t shoot.
Mr. Harrell bangs his gavel and the class comes to order.
    “I am familiar with