Promise Boys: "Breaking News"–Part One

Detectives have been working to establish a suspect or suspects and motive in this case, and it’s reported they have already detained three students for questioning.

A reward of up to $65,000 is offered to anyone who provides information leading to an arrest and indictment in this case.

But he never actually got detention or suspension. Not even a slap on the wrist!

You know, Moore is so pristine in the public eye, but he wasn’t squeaky clean either.

His mood would change at the drop of a dime. Sometimes smooth as silk, charming and gregarious, supportive and kind. Then other times, I’ve seen him snap at kids, snap at teachers, even snap at Dean Hicks.

He just glared off into the distance, jaw clenched, like he couldn’t wait to do something more with that messed-up fist.

I didn’t want to turn my back to him. Not with the anger radiating off him like heat. Like he could swing again at any moment, his hands needing a punching bag, something, anything to connect with in this moment. That’s someone who is accustomed to violence.

Those poor boys. So full of anger. It’s because of their life circumstances though, right? I mean, imagine if you lived in poverty, were racially profiled, and a victim of systemic inequity.

J.B. bucked at Principal Moore, waiting for him to flinch or cower.

Principal Moore put his hand in the air, directing J.B. to walk away, and as J.B. stomped past me all aggressive and angry, I heard him mumble, “I’mma see you.”

But some people couldn’t see that we were in the business of building men, not coddling boys.

The records show the three of them had spats with Kenneth that day.

In my six years at Urban Promise, I can confidently say that I’ve never seen J.B. Williamson in after-school detention. Quiet kid, big as hell, but a soft demeanor.

He stayed in and out of detention, usually because he was caught shooting dice or skipping class, nothing major. The usual. Stupid kid stuff. I liked that about him, he had spunk.

He’d march in, primping that slick hair of his with a brush, and reminding me of the Fonz.

He didn’t care about them, but he knew to be on my good side in case he ended up in detention later that day. He was smart like that. Manipulative even.

So sure enough that day, Ramón sauntered into detention asking me about the Ravens.

He gritted his teeth, a little on edge. He’s not usually an angry kid, but I could tell something was eating him.

And even still, Trey pressed my buttons so much, incessantly raising his hand and sucking his teeth every few seconds, that I just let him go.

DETECTIVE BO: And tell us about the altercation that occurred between you and Moore earlier that day.

We promise.
We are the young men of Urban Promise Prep.
We are destined for greatness.
We are college bound.
We are primed for success.
We are extraordinary because we work hard.
We are respectful, dedicated, committed, and focused.
We are our brother’s keepers.
We are responsible for our futures.
We are the future.
We promise.

Then someone at my old school handed her a brochure for Promise, the best all-boys charter school in the city.

There’s no “fraternizing” with other students. No talking at all unless it’s to a teacher or adult.

A tenet of the Moore Method: Do all things neatly, completely, and perfectly with pride.

If your hands aren’t locked in place behind your back, you get a demerit, in which case the teacher docks points from your “count.”

He’s the type of guy that’s buttoned up. Always. The perfect black luxury car that’s always clean. The perfect leather briefcase with his initials embossed on the front.

Excellence. Another tenet of the Moore Method: perfection, excellence, and discipline.

If he was awake, he’d be running his mouth, either dropping some knowledge, spouting some profound outlook on life, or babbling about some wild conspiracy that seems so out there it just may be true.

The city keeps saying they’re going to tear it down and rebuild, getting people all riled up.

He pulls out a handgun and holds it in his palm, completely nonchalant as if he’s just showing me a collector’s edition baseball card or something harmless like that.

I take a deep breath and try to keep my composure.

Keyana puts away her makeshift first aid kit.

Mr. Finley drones on and I wish we were doing one of Mrs. Hall’s wacky interactive learning games to get us to memorize the World War II facts.

Like some of the other teachers, you can tell they know they’re white, talking to us in a weird, high-pitched voice, trying to make friendly banter.

I can’t go to the teachers. If word gets out I snitched about something this bad, there could be serious repercussions.

His eyes look sunken and his clothes disheveled, the top button on his shirt undone.

“Now school is ended. Phone is mine. Detention is yours.”
He can’t be serious. This was petty even for Principal Moore.

Moore grabs me by the collar, shoving me into a locker. My head clobbers the metal.

Kids flood the hallways passing us every which way, oblivious to this lunatic.

I slam my fist into the cold, gray locker. The metal bends under the pressure. The warped slivers slice through my knuckles and warm blood trickles down my hand.