When he left the classroom, he had no idea where he was going. He knew he could go up to the teacher’s lunchroom again, but he also knew Solly Klein was free during this sixth period, and he somehow did not feel like listening to more comments this day upon the imbecility of the students at Manual Trades. Especially after his coup with Miller. No, he was not anticipating any serious trouble with any of his classes, and Klein’s bitter pronouncements would definitely clash with his present frame of mind.
Had he decided to go to the teacher’s lunchroom, he’d have headed toward the short side of the L, and then climbed to the third floor where he would cut across the gymnasium. He might have avoided the laurel of Herohood had he done so. But he did not head for the teacher’s lunchroom.
Instead, he decided to leave the building, take a brisk walk outside. He did not know that a teacher was not permitted to leave the building during an Unassigned period. A teacher could do what he wanted on his lunch hour, which was a God-given right, but he was expected to be around during an Unassigned period, should any emergency arise. Not knowing the technicality or legality involved. Rick decided to leave the building, returning in time for his seventh-period class. On a whim, and because he did not feel like walking, he stopped near the elevator and rang for it.
Had the elevator arrived when he summoned it, he might also have missed becoming a hero. Unfortunately, the elevator was parked on the fourth floor of the building, stacked with World History books. George Katz, the eager beaver that he was, was directing the unloading of those books, and he had thought far enough in advance to include books for his entire battery of classes. The elevator would be inactive on the fourth floor for the better part of the sixth period.
Rick pressed the button three more times, waiting patiently for the elevator. When he saw that the floor indicator refused to budge from the figure four set in its semicircular face, he shrugged and headed for the stairwell.
The stairwells at North Manual Trades High School were divided into Up and Down sections. He was ready to start down the open steps that confronted him when he stepped through the doors, and then he saw the Up sign. A strange sense of right and wrong suddenly possessed him, and he could not at that moment ever consider going down on a staircase plainly marked Up. He backed off, and began walking around the landing, toward the meshed window set in the wall, and toward the Down part of the stairwell.
It was then that he became a hero.
The sunshine streamed through the meshed window, blinding him for an instant. He saw a blur of movement to the right of the window, and he blinked his eyes against the sunlight, and then the blur became two figures.
He was still walking slowly, with his briefcase in one hand. He suddenly realized that the figures were struggling, and he instantly figured it for a fight between two of the boys. And then the figures took definite shape, and he dropped the briefcase, and started forward at a sprint.
One of the figures was a tall boy in tee shirt and dungarees, no more than seventeen years old. The other figure was Miss Hammond.
The boy had one hand clamped over Miss Hammond’s mouth. The other hand was around her waist as he forced her backward against the wall.
“Hey!” Rick shouted.
The boy turned suddenly, moving to Miss Hammond’s side. It was then that Rick saw the torn front of her suit jacket, and the ripped blouse and lingerie. My God, he thought wildly, that’s her breast, and then he was clamping his hand on the boy’s shoulder and spinning him around.
Fear and panic were mingled on the boy’s face. He had gotten more than he’d bargained for, a hell of a lot more. He had planned on a quick piece on a deserted stairwell. He had planned it from the moment he’d caught a glimpse of Miss Hammond’s legs in the auditorium that morning. He had also planned on scaring hell out of her, threatening her with violence if she told anyone what had happened. But this was different. He was caught, and there’d be no threats of violence now that this crew-cut bastard had stepped in and loused up the works.
Miss Hammond, her mouth free now, screamed. Rick probably wouldn’t have hit the boy if Miss Hammond hadn’t screamed, but the scream gave urgency to the situation, and he brought back his fist as he spun the boy around, and then he threw his arm forward, and when his fist collided with the boy’s mouth, the shock rumbled all the way up to his shoulder socket.
The boy bounced back against the radiator, and Miss Hammond screamed again, holding her hand up to cover the purple nipple and roseate of her breast behind the torn slip and brassiere.
“You lousy bastard,” the boy yelled, and Rick hit him again, and this time a smear of crimson spread on the boy’s mouth, staining his teeth. Miss Hammond kept screaming, and the stairwell was suddenly flooded with teachers and monitors. Rick held the boy’s arm tightly, twisting it up behind his back.
“What happened?” someone said, and Miss Hammond said, “A jacket, something, a jacket,” blubbering incoherently. Another teacher grabbed the bleeding boy, and Rick stripped off his jacket, handing it to Miss Hammond. She slipped into it quickly, still sobbing, her hair disarranged, her hands trembling. The jacket was too large for her, but she clutched it to her exposed breast thankfully, her cheeks flushed with excitement. Rick looked at her again, at the delicate features, the full body thrusting against his jacket. He looked at her, and felt terribly embarrassed for her all at once. And feeling her embarrassment, he suddenly hated the boy who’d attacked her. He hated him intensely, and he thought of the innocent exposure of Miss Hammond’s breast as he had seen it, full and rounded, the torn silk of her underwear framing it, providing a cushion for it. A youthful breast it had been, firm, with the nipple large and erect. He concentrated on the embarrassment he felt for her, and he concentrated on his hatred for the boy, and he seized the boy roughly and shouted, “Come on, mister. The principal wants to see you.”
The quicker of the teachers had grasped the situation immediately, and they were shooing the monitors away from the scene of the attack. Martha Riley, whose math class happened to be on the second floor, arrived on the scene and began comforting Miss Hammond, putting her fat arm around her and clucking like a mother hen. She led her to the ladies’ room, and Rick watched the pair depart, still feeling embarrassed for Miss Hammond.
The teachers began talking it up, and amid the babble of voices. Rick took the boy down to the principal’s office. He listened to everything the principal said, listened to the principal say, “We’re going to take care of you, smart guy. We’re really going to take care of you.” He filled out reports and signed them, and he told the story at least ten times before the bell sounded for the beginning of the seventh period.
It is accurate to say that Richard Dadier, even though he went through the paces of orientating his seventh- and eighth-period classes, did not really know what the hell was going on. He was excited now that it was all over. He had not had a chance for excitement while it was happening because it all happened too quickly. But the excitement bubbled inside him now, and as he spoke to the classes, he thought of the experience again and again, putting all the pieces in their proper order, reliving it again and again. He did not remember afterward what he had said to the classes. He was totally unaware of them throughout the last two periods of the day.
And he was certainly unaware of the fact that his heroism, tales of which had spread through the school like a brush fire, was regarded by the students of Manual Trades as nothing but the basest, most treacherous type of villainy.