“No,” Rick contradicted, “we are not. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. We’re just going to talk. And then we’re going to listen.”
“That’s doubletalk for sayin’ we gonna make speeches,” Miller said.
“How’d you like to bring your mother to school, Miller?” Rick asked.
“I wunt,” Miller said.
“Then please keep quiet.” He paused and stared at Miller, hoping to strengthen his threat that way. Even the most difficult kid usually flinched at the thought of his mother coming to school. A mother coming to school usually preceded a beating from the father that night, no matter how uninterested the parents were in their son’s learning process. There was something terribly embarrassing about being called to school and chastised about a delinquent son.
“We’ll all talk a little,” Rick said, “and the recorder will take down everything we say. Then I’ll play it back, and we’ll have the chance to hear what we really sound like. If we don’t get to everyone today, I’ll borrow the recorder again. Now I want you all to speak the way you normally speak. Don’t try to sound like Gabriel Heatter. Just talk naturally. That’s the idea of this.”
“Why don’t we sing a little?” West suggested.
“We’ll save that for your Music Appreciation class,” Rick answered.
“All we get in Music Appreciation is ‘Marche Slave’ and ‘To A Rose,’ ” West said.
“To a rose, to rose, to a lovely wild rose,” Miller sang.
“Knock it off, Miller.”
“We learn lots of those,” Miller said, smiling. He nodded his head in self-agreement and sang, “Narcissus was, a very good-looking boy. His im-mage in the brook, would fi-ill him up with joy...”
“You got the recorder going, teach?” West asked.
“No. Now, let’s cut out this...”
“He looked, and looked, and looked, and looked, un-til he turned, into, a lovely flow-er,” Miller concluded. “You got that machine takin’ down this marv’lous voice, Chief?”
“No. Listen, Miller, I...”
“I know lots of them, Chief. I could go on all day.”
“Don’t bother. We want to...”
“You know ‘Amaryllis,’ Chief? Tha’s a good one. Amaryllis written by Ghys,” he sang, “Use to sell oranges, fi’ cents apiece. Hey, Chief, you takin’ all this down? Man, this shunt go to waste, I mean it.”
“Miller, I don’t want to warn you a—”
“Man, I a musical genius. You hum any ol’ tune, an’ I’ll name it for you. Go ’head, Chief, try me. Go ’head.”
Rick was half tempted to take Miller’s challenge. Give the wise guy a passage from Shostakovich and see how quickly he identified it. He was ready to do so, but he couldn’t remember any passages from Shostakovich, and he was also a little afraid that Miller might be able to identify one, even if he could remember it. Besides, he’d be playing right into Miller’s hands if he went on with the repartee, so he let it drop and said, “We’d better start recording before the period runs out.”
“Dawn,” Miller sang, “over mountain, and Dawn, ov-er valley, and Dawn, while the shep-herd is play-a-a-ing his fluuute—”
“Shut up, Miller.”
“That’s from the William Tell Overture, Chief. That’s by—”
“SHUT UP, MILLER!” Rick shouted.
“Rossini,” Miller said softly.
“Now let’s get this machine going before...”
“These periods sure do seem short, don’ they?” Miller asked.
“All right, Miller,” Rick said, really angry now. “All right, wise guy. I warned you. Now we’ll see how you like...”
“I’ll be quiet, Chief,” Miller said, a serious look on his face. “I’m sorry.”
“You’d better be quiet. I’m not kidding around anymore.”
“I’ll be quiet,” Miller promised. He folded his hands before him on the desk top, striking an angelic pose, a pose which got a laugh from the class. Rick felt his jaws tighten, and he waited a moment while he gained control of himself.
“All right,” he said, “who will we start with?”
“How ’bout Morales?” Miller piped.
“No, I think...”
“What’s wrong with Morales?” West said.
“Sure, Morales he like to talk,” Miller said.
“I don’ want to make no speech,” Morales said from the back of the room. He was a Puerto Rican boy with a thick accent, and Rick didn’t want to subject the boy to any class ridicule. He looked at Miller, trying to understand why the boy was insisting on Morales. An accent might be good for a laugh, but it seemed like a cruel way to strike at the teacher.
“No,” Rick said, “let’s start with—”
“I know why you don’t want Morales,” Miller said. “ ’Cause he can’t talk English good.”
“That’s got nothing to do with it,” Rick said, annoyed.
“Then why? It’s ’cause he speak Spanish, tha’s why.”
“Look,” Rick protested, “that has nothing to do with it.” He glanced at his watch, cursing Miller silently, and cursing the way the time had all but vanished.
“Come on, Morales,” West shouted, “get up there. Let’s hear you talk.”
“No, no,” Morales said thickly. “No’ me.”
“Agh, you jus’ chicken,” Miller said. “Tha’s all.”
“Come on, Morales,” Erin shouted.
“Let’s go, boy,” Pietro said.
“We want Morales,” Vandermeer chanted.
“We-want-Morales,” the class began chanting. “We-want-Morales. We-want-Morales, We-want-Morales.”
“Come on, chicken,” Miller said.
“I no chicken,” Morales said angrily.
“Then le’s hear you talk, man. What’s wrong, cat got yo’ tongue?”
“Let’s cut this out,” Rick said wildly, but his voice was drowned beneath the “We-want-Morales” chant. He watched as the thin Puerto Rican got to his feet and reluctantly slouched to the front of the room. He had a surly look on his face, a look that told the class he was not chicken and not afraid of any goddamned machine in the world. He walked right up to Rick’s desk, looped his thumbs in his dungarees and spread his legs wide, waiting.
“All right, Morales,” Rick said, resignedly. “All I want you to do is talk, that’s all. Nothing fancy. You just talk.”
He started the spools, and then walked to the back of the room. Miller was silent, listening now, waiting for Morales to begin his talk. West leaned forward in his seat eagerly, and the class waited with smiles on their faces while Morales fidgeted at the front of the room.
“All right,” Rick said, “start talking. And remember, I want to hear you all the way back here.”
“What I gon’ talk about?” Morales asked, looking down at the revolving spools of the machine.
“Tell me how you got ready for school this morning, what you did, where you took the train, all that. Go ahead, Morales.”
Morales glanced at the machine again, casting it a dirty look. “I get up at se’n-thirry,” he said, “an’ I go the bat’room to wash.” He paused and looked at the recorder. “My sist’, she in the bat’room, so I can’ get in, so I ha’ to wait outsi’. I wait there, an’ she singin’ insi’, so I keep waitin’, an’ then she come out.” He looked at the machine again, apparently beginning to realize that the silently revolving spools were not going to bite him.
“That’s fine, boy,” Rick said. “Go on, keep talking.”
Morales smiled, complete master of the machine and the situation now. He visibly relaxed, and Rick said encouragingly, “Go on, Morales, go on.”