They are the ones heard in the hall. I am among the many listening for them. Four squeaking shoes with student’s fates as the stitching. The noises no one wants to hear. In our class room we hear them, and many kids stare at the door.

Their mission is secret. The send tickets and Saturdays all around. They call kids out, and sit them down, and ask the dreaded questions. This is their job.

Sometimes they let kids go; the kids sign with relief, and promise to be good. Never again, never again, never again, I’ll never skip again. They lied.

The luck runs out, but we keep playing, that’s when the squeaking heads our way. Then there is no hope for the group. All crammed into a study hall. The four who were tricked and only tried to help. Four whose squeaking will never cease.