Rick writhed in his seat, wondering when Halloran was going to step in and take over the ball again. He didn’t have to wonder long.
A prolonged “SHADDDDUPPP!” burst from Halloran’s watermelon lips, and the kids heard the rumble of impending doom and promptly shut up like obedient little clams. Halloran kept his lips pressed firmly together, casting an evil eye out over the crowd. He nodded his head once in emphasis, a nod which plainly told the muted kids they’d better keep shut up or it would be their asses. Miss Hammond smiled tremulously, and then began calling the roll in a very quiet voice while the kids listened in cowed respect.
When she’d called the two dozen or so seniors in her class, she stepped down from the stage, and every eye in the auditorium was on the nylon sleekness of her legs. She walked back to her class stiffly, trying to hide a walk that was very feminine, but succeeding only in emphasizing the emphatic swing of her well-padded hips. When she’d finally left the auditorium with her class. Rick breathed a sigh of relief, and he nodded his head in disgusted agreement when Josh said, “That was an exhibition, wasn’t it?”
The party was over now, and the kids all settled down to listen to the droning voices of the less inspiring teachers as the rolls were called one after the other. Rick chatted quietly with Josh until it was Josh’s turn to call up his class, a fourth-term group. When Josh had left. Rick sat impatiently in his seat, almost dozing. When he heard Halloran call out his name, mutilating it as only Halloran could, he picked up his roll book and his briefcase, walked quickly to the steps, and mounted them with his shoulders back and his head high. He paused dramatically for a moment, and then began calling the roll in his best Sir Laurence Olivier voice.
“Abrahms,” and he saw movement out there in the seats, but he did not pause to focus the movement.
“Arretti,” and another blur of movement.
“Bonneli,” and “Casey,” and “Diaz,” and “Di Zeffolo,” and “Donato,” and “Dover,” and “Estes,” and on, and on, and on, until he flipped over the last card in the book. There had not been a murmur while he spoke, and he was satisfied that he had been accorded the respect due an English high-school teacher. He slapped the roll book shut, and walked down the steps and then into the center aisle, conscious of the curious eyes of the kids upon him.
When he reached his official class the same curiosity was reflected in their eyes.
“Follow me,” he said, unsmiling. “No talking on the way up.”
That, he figured, was the correct approach. Let them know who’s boss right from the start, just the way Small had advised.
“Hey, teach,” one of the boys said, “what did Mr. Halloran say your name was?”
Rick turned his head sharply. The boy who’d spoken was blond, and there was a vacuous smile on his face, and the smile did not quite reach his eyes.
“I said no talking, and I meant it,” Rick snapped.
The boy was silent for a second, and then Rick heard him say, “Dig this cat. He’s playin’ it hard.”
He chose to ignore the comment. He walked along ahead of his class, feeling excitement within him now, feeling the same excitement he’d felt when he got the job, only greater now, stronger, like the times at school when he’d waited in the wings for his cue. Like that, only without the curious butterflies in his stomach, and without the unconscious dread that he would forget all his lines the moment he stepped out onto the stage in front of all those people. He felt in complete control of the situation, and yet there was this raging excitement within him, as if there was something he had to do and he simply could not wait to get it done.
He could best compare it to the excitement he had felt a long, long while ago, when he’d first entered Hunter College and had planned the seduction of Fran Oresschi. Exactly like that night, that payoff night, when he would find out if his plans would succeed or not. Just like that, only without any of the slyness or the feeling of conspiracy.
He led the class to the stairwell, and aside from a few whispers here and there, they were very orderly, and he felt that everything was going well. He could hardly contain the excitement within him, and he wished that Anne were there to share it with him. And thinking of Anne, he thought of telling her about this, his first day, when he got home that night, and this made the excitement inside him flame.
When they reached the door to Room 206, he inserted the key expertly, twisted it, removed it, and then pushed the door back.
“Sit anywhere,” he said brusquely. “We’ll arrange seating later.”
The boys filed in, still curious, still wondering what sort of a duck this new bird with the Butch haircut was. They seated themselves quickly and quietly, and Rick thought, This is going even better than I expected.
He walked rapidly to his desk, pulled out his chair, but did not sit. He looked out over the faces in the seats before him, and then sniffed the air authoritatively, like a blood hound after a quarry. He cocked one eyebrow and glanced at the windows. Then he turned and pointed to a Negro boy sitting up front near his desk.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
The boy looked frightened, as if he had been accused of something he hadn’t done. “Me?”
“Yes, what’s your name?”
“Dover. I didn’t do nothin’, teach. Jeez...”
“Open some of the windows in here, Dover. It’s a little stuffy.”
Dover smiled, his lips pulling back over bright white teeth. He got up from his seat and crossed behind Rick’s desk, and Rick congratulated himself on having handled that perfectly. He had not simply given an order which would have resulted in a mad scramble to the windows. He had first chosen one of the boys, and then given the order. All according to the book. All fine and dandy. Damn, if things weren’t going fine.
He turned and walked to the blackboard, located a piece of chalk on the runner, and wrote his name in big letters on the black surface.
MR. DADIER.
“That’s my name,” he said. “In case you missed it in the auditorium.” He paused. “Mr. Dad-ee-yay,” he pronounced clearly.
“Is that French, teach?” one of the boys asked.
“Yes,” Rick said. “When you have anything to say, raise your hand. We might as well get a few things straight right this minute. First, I want you to fill out Delaney cards. While you’re doing that, I’ll tell you what it’s going to be like in my classroom.” He swung his briefcase up onto the desktop, reaching inside for the stack of Delaney cards. He took them to the head of each row, giving a small bunch of the cards to the first boy in each row, and asking him to take one and pass the rest back.
“The official class is 27,” he said, and then he walked to the blackboard and wrote “27” under his name. “Please fill the cards out in ink.”
“I ain’t got a pen,” Dover said.
“Then use pencil.”
“I ain’t got a pencil, either.”
“I have some,” Rick said coldly. He walked back to his briefcase again, silently congratulating himself upon remembering to think of an emergency like this one. He pulled out eight sharpened pencils, handed one to Dover, and then asked, “Does anyone else need something to write with?”
A husky boy sitting near the back of the room said, “I do, teach.”
“Let’s knock off this ‘teach’ business right now,” Rick said angrily, his sudden fury surprising the class. “My name is Mr. Dadier. You’ll call me that, or you’ll learn what extra homework is.”
“Sure, Mr. Dadier,” the boy at the back of the room said.