My partner, Bronson, and I are parked by a well-known Jamaican vegetarian restaurant in East Flatbush. I’m polishing off some coconut bread when the children are let out of Erasmus High School. Most of their backpacks are small and thin, flaccid, devoid of textbooks. The girls are dangerously underdressed, exposing cleavage in tight T-shirts and thong straps with low-rider jeans, while the boys are overdressed in baggy jeans and sweatshirts and puffy down coats.

“It must be 3 o’clock,” I tell Bronson absently.

He stares at me and says sarcastically, “How have you managed to keep that high IQ such a secret all these years?”

I should have known better than to speak. Never mind that I treated him to lunch. Never mind that I never complain when he treats me to lunch at the greasy shawarma cart outside the Kings County psych ward. On second thought, I do mind. “You’re a tightwad,” I say. “A cheapskate. A pennypincher. Did I leave anything out?”

He doesn’t speak.

In the middle of this searing intellectual dialogue, we get a call for a “stab” at a junior high school nearby. “I’d like to stab you,” I say.

We’re met by the principal’s assistant. “He’s 12 years old, tall for his age,” she says. “The cops are already writing out their reports.” She holds open the door to the office and we’re greeted by the school safety agents and the principal, a petite, feisty-looking woman in a smart wool suit and crepe-soled shoes. The boy is standing against a wall looking sullen, defensive, and defiant. There’s a smear of blood on his cheek from a 2-inch laceration above his left ear.

A safety agent gives me the lowdown: “A friend of his told him that some kids who are part of the Looney Tunes gang were talking bad about him.” I raise an eyebrow at the name of the gang. He returns the raised eyebrow and continues. “He went to the head Looney Tune and confronted him. A scuffle ensued, and the other boy cut this one with a screwdriver.”

The office is decorated with photos of the principal posing with students, parents, and local elected officials. There are plaques and awards. Apparently the principal runs a tight ship, and this incident is an isolated one in a school whose test scores, though not stellar, have slowly but steadily been rising.

Bronson is treating the boy’s cut while the principal talks to him in a way that would impress Joe Clark, the baseball bat-wielding, megaphone-toting principal who turned around Eastside High School, in Paterson, N.J. She puts her hands on her hips, sticks out her chin, and gets in the child’s face. “Why did you go up to that group of boys?” she barks.

He replies evenly: “Because one of ’em was talkin’ about me.”

Her eyes widen. “Do you normally go up to people just because they’re talking about you?” No answer. “Is that what your parents teach you to do? To waste your time confronting every loser who says something about you?”

He looks at her. “Yeah. My parents said to go up to them.”

She gets further in his face. “You see these plaques on the wall? You think I got them by caring what other people think? If people talk about me, so what? I’m gonna waste my time with them? Bring myself down to their level?” She takes a breath. “And if I do go up to them, you can bet I’m ready to get down! You went up to him and what? Got cut with a screwdriver. Next time, you might get shot. People have guns. Next time, you might die.”

I wonder if the boy’s parents indeed advised him.

“I know your mother,” the principal says, “and I know she wouldn’t tell you to waste your time with every damn Looney Tune that crosses your path.”

He shrugs, perfecting a vacant expression.

“You’ve always been a good student,” she says. “You could be straight-A if you wanted to.” She jabs at his chest with a finger, a millimeter away from making contact. “I am not going to see you get sucked into this Looney Tunes business. I’m watching you from now on. And if you so much as even look in the direction of a Looney Tune, you’re going to have to answer to me, personally, for the rest of your time in this school. You got that?”

He doesn’t answer.

She raises her voice. “You got that?” He pipes up, “Yes ma’am.” “And don’t even think of telling your mother some sorry abuse story because she will be on my side. Have I made myself clear?” “Yes, ma’am.”

Ms. Klopsis is an emergency medical technician who works on an FDNY ambulance in Brooklyn. This column details her observations and experiences. Some names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of patients.