“Mr. F.,” Dwayne said.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” Brice said, placing the erasers on the ledge. “I get into my routine.”
“I’m sorry about this morning,” Dwayne said.
“Your brother was killed, Dwayne. You have the right to cry. Don’t apologize for that.”
Dwayne looked away into the hallway. “I’ve got to go. Thanks for not throwing me out.”
“Why don’t you come to my center and play some games?” Brice asked, brushing chalk dust from his hand.
“I know about the games, Shawn who catches the bus with us, gave me a flyer,” Dwayne flashed the sheet shaped like a basketball to Brice. “I’ll come and show you how good I am.”
Brice smiled as Dwayne ran out the classroom. He looked out his classroom window, students headed up Faust Avenue to the bus stop. He spotted Khalilah, who skipped his first hour, hanging around a colonial style house with kids not much older than fifteen or sixteen. He could drive up the way to convince her and the skippers to come to class tomorrow. Grabbing his jacket, he headed for the teacher's parking lot.
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