The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead in the quiet classroom, casting a sterile glow on the rows of tiny desks and colorful posters about shapes and letters. It was after hours, the school hallways empty except for the faint echo of a janitor somewhere down the corridor. I sat across from her, Miss Marissa Thompson, Jamal's third-grade teacher. My broad frame was crammed into one of those kid-sized chairs that made me fe...