You'd say it happened too fast but Teacher you're too slow. You shoulda taken Craig out by his nappy braids. You can't call a girl with Keke's life a bald-ass ho.

And you just sat there, frozen in your chair, acting like you didn't hear. Teacher teaching us communication when you don't know the first thing about how we conversate.

Now KeKe's up to treat Craig, yelling about how there ain't a burn mark on her scalp unlike his mama's fat ass, and you're raising your voice, Teacher, but not your ass.

You know she's fragile. What Keke's been telling you in those fictions of hers is that she's—ok, Teach, her characters—graduated from eighth grade and graduated from weed into pipes and pills and hoodrat dealers. Keke's gotta be street strong, teach, but she's ascared to know where she's going.

She's bobbing and cursing over Craig's lanky ass, putting that punk down, and she finally hears you, goes to turn around and sticks her hand out to shut up his face but one of her long-ass coke-nails catch his ear, his cheek, his lip, a ball of his flesh ground up and packing like a little meatball under her nail, and now Craig springs, quick as on the court, that's why his young ass is on Varsity and we didn't say nothing, not even damn, didn't blink our eyes when his fist swoops down like a pitch into the back of Keke's head.

Girl didn't even go down.

Now everyone's up and yelling and in the three steps it takes you to get from your chair at the head of that lame semi-circle Keke's turning around, nails and teeth bared and she gets a hold of those braids and we saw you, Teach, glance over at Craig's brother, four seats away, as if he'd help you control them, but he's screaming to beat that bitch's ass.

You get there just as Ms. Chaperone gets there from the other corner of the room and this is the only time all semester it's felt like art: you and Ms. Chaperone back to back like a couple of K's, your arms and legs out trying to untangle their arms and legs. Two white folk splitting up a couple of black kids. Now, teach, just cause you'd never even think that word, won't allow it in your classroom, it doesn't mean you don't have that look in your eye, that ascared look we get from black brown yellow and white every time we creep out the hood, a pack of poor niggas gone wild in this money downtown.

Ms. Chaperone rips KeKe away, a couple of Craig's braids fly out of her hand across the room and clap against the wall, and you get Craig by the chest and push him against the wall. Your hands slam his shoulders then get up 'round his neck, the crazy rage in Craig's eyes going into yours and we know what you want to do, we've seen it before, and it ascares you too, Teacher, the blood from the cut on his cheek is on your tongue, you wanna rip open that cut and tear him apart and teach him a lesson about breaking the rules of the classroom, of the college, of man and woman. Or maybe you just wanna tear him apart cause it'd give you the power you can't get from teaching.

Now Craig feels it, smells it, and when the fear comes in his eyes don't think it's from you; he's thinking about his poor mama, who raised every one of her boys to be gentlemen, and he's thinking about her forbidding him basketball and forcing him to church.

Over your shoulder he checks on Keke smashed up against the blackboard, a mess of hair and curses and chalk dust. Now Ms. Chaperone pushes her out the door, Keke crimping her curls and cursing the whole way down the hall.

Craig smirks and you drop him to a chair, panting, and you pace around the circle, your button-up shirt undone and you rip off your tie and stare at us. Silent, the whole class, for five minutes. Then you start cursing, too, about not bringing all the hate and violence into your goddamned classroom and it's cool, Teach, to see you fresh, like it's your first day of school.

Robert Duffer teaches, writes and fathers in Chicago. He writes for TimeOut Chicago, Chicago Public Radio's 848, The Chicago Tribune and hustles at www.robertduffer.com. Creative pieces have been published or are forthcoming in Annalemma, Word Riot and Pindledyboz.