Mrs. Blakely clicked her microphone back on as if she hadn’t heard a word he’d said.
“Which boy are you talking about Mr. Bridge? Can you name him, identify him for the board?”
I wanted to get up again, but my mother’s cautioning hand gently grasped my arm: Let them do this.
“I’m talking about me,” he said. More confusion, more looks that said is this guy crazy?
“That’s very touching Mr. Bridge, but I don’t see how it tells us what happened in that room.”
My mother looked down, taking my hand in hers as tears fell.
“I’m not just talking about that room. We’re here to talk about lots of rooms. With lots of lonely, isolated students. Students we don’t love because of who they are, kids we make into strangers in your own homes, objects of shame in our churches, liars in our classes. The
