Page 157 of Roadrunner

I waited.

Teachers always buried the thing under the compliment.

“There’s been some friction at recess,” she said. “Another student. Words, mostly. A shove last Thursday. Arthur didn’t start it. He also didn’t walk away from it.”

Riley’s hands were on his knees.

Not tight.

Present.

“What words,” he said.

Mrs. Keene blinked at him, as if the question had come from the wrong direction.

“The other boy has a habit of deciding who belongs,” she said. “Arthur has a habit of not accepting the verdict.”

“Name,” Riley said.

“I can’t—”

“I’m not going to his house,” Riley said. “I want to know what my son is walking into when the bell rings.”

My son.

He said it the way he said torque specs. Like the words had a job.

Mrs. Keene gave us the name. A fifth-grader with older brothers and a mouth that had been handed down.

“Arthur came back in with a ripped shirt,” she said. “He said he was fine. He also didn’t turn in his math packet on Friday. That’s not like him.”

It wasn’t.

Arthur did homework the way other people locked doors.

I cocked my head. “What are you asking us to do?”

She folded her hands. “A conversation at home would help. And if you could remind him that walking away isn’t losing.”

Riley looked at her for a long second.

“Walking away from a shove is how it happens again,” he said. “He can walk away from words. He doesn’t have to eat a fist.”

“Mr. Panzolini. We have a zero-tolerance policy for fighting.”

“Good,” Riley said. “Have another one for putting hands on kids who didn’t ask for it.”

The room got quiet in the specific way rooms do when someone has said the unsanctioned true thing.

I could have smoothed it.

I didn’t.

“We’ll talk to him,” I said. “If the other boy puts hands on him again, I want a call the same day. Not an email that waits until Tuesday.”

“Of course.”

Riley stood.