Joan Hess - Dear Miss Demeanor

I suspected I would prefer the one with a well-stocked bar. Nineteen minutes had passed since Caron dragged me through the door. Nineteen incredibly long minutes. Seven hours remained in the school day. This scheme was insane. I would personally buy Miss Parchester a pad of watercolor paper and a bus ticket to wherever she desired to go. Caron could accompany her as a porter.

“This,” Miss Don announced as she opened a door, “is the journalism department.”

The room resembled the interior of a cave. The air was foul, reminding me of the miasma of a very old garbage can. Miss Don snorted, switched on a light and gave me a stony look meant to impede flight.

“You do not have a homeroom class, so you will not have to deal with the attendance reports until your first class arrives m seven minutes. Miss Parchester’s daily unit delineations will be in a dark-blue spiral notebook, and her rosters in a small black book. Good luck, and keep in mind the faculty motto: TAKE NO PRISONERS.” The woman actually started for the door.

“Wait a minute!” I yelped. “What am I supposed to do about-”

“I have to make the daily announcements, Mrs. Malloy. Homeroom will be over in six and one half minutes, and I must remind the students about the variations in the bus route on snow days.” She sailed out the door before I could argue.

I did not sink to the floor and burst into tears, although the idea crossed my mind. On the other hand, I did not linger to explore the murky corners of Carlsbad Cavern. I figured I had over five minutes of free time, so I bolted for the teachers’ lounge-which had to be more enlightening than any book of daily unit delineations.

The lounge was decorated in early American garage sale. The several sofas were covered with tattered plaid variations that would have convulsed a Scotsman; the formica-topped table was covered with nicks, scratches and stains. There were two rest rooms along one wall, and between them a tiny kitchenette with a refrigerator, soda machine, and-saints be praised-a gurgling coffee pot. A variety of cups hung on a peg board; not one of them said “Malloy” in decorative swirls, or even “Parchester.”

The situation was dire enough to permit certain emergency measures, including petty theft. I took down a cup, poured myself a medicinal dose of caffeine and slumped down on a mauve-and-green sofa to brood. Four minutes at the most. Then, if I remembered my high school experiences with any accuracy, students would converge on my cave, their little faces bright with eagerness to learn, their little eyes shining with innocence. Presumably, I would have to greet them and do something to restrain them for fifty minutes or so. Others would follow. Between moments of imparting wisdom, I was supposed to audit the books and expose an embezzler.

In the midst of my gloomy mental diatribe, a woman in a bright yellow dress came into the lounge. She was young, pretty, and slightly flustered by my presence. “Hello, I’m Paula Hart,” she said with a warm smile. “Beginning typing and office machines.”

“Claire Malloy. Intermediate confusion and advanced despair,” I said. My smile lacked her radiance, but she probably knew what daily unit delineations were.

“Are you subbing for Miss Parchester? This whole thing is just unbelievable, and I feel just dreadful about it. Poor Emily would never do such a thing. She must be terribly upset.” Miss Hart went into the kitchenette and returned with a cup decorated with pink hearts. “I’m in the room right across from you, Mrs. Malloy. If you need anything, feel free to ask.”

I opened my mouth to ask the definition of a delineation when a thirty-year-old Robert Redford walked into the lounge. He was wearing a gray sweatsuit, but it in no way diminished the effect. Longish blond hair, cornflower blue eyes, dimples, compact and well-shaped body. The whole thing, living and breathing. And smiling solely for Paula Hart, who radiated right back. They had no need for physical contact; the space between them shimmered with unspoken messages.

Young love was nice if one liked that sort of thing, but I was more concerned with my personal problems. Before I could suggest they unlock eyes and make constructive comments about my classes, the bell rang. The sound of tromping feet competed with screeches of glee. Locker doors banged open and slammed closed. The war was on, and I couldn’t do battle in the lounge.

“Bye,” I said as I headed into disaster. Neither of them seemed visibly distressed by my departure-if they noticed.

The journalism room was, as I had feared, filled with students. I went to the desk, dug through the mess until I found a black book, and then tossed it at a pudgy girl with waist-length black hair and a semblance of intelligence.

“Tell everyone to sit down and then take roll,” I commanded coolly. If I could only find the other book, I suspected I could discover who they were and why they were there.

The girl goggled briefly but began shouting names above the roar. Eventually the students sat down to eye me in a disconcertingly carnivorous way. I squared my shoulders and reminded myself that they were simply unpolished versions of the species.

We quickly established that they were Beginning Features, and I was a substitute with no interest in their future. They agreed to hold down the noise; I agreed to leave them alone until I found the daily unit delineation book. My pudgy aide at last produced it from a cardboard box beside the desk.

Since we were all content with the present arrangement, I left them to whisper while I scanned the book. Second period was to be Intro to Photo, and third was gloriously free, followed by a reasonable lunch break. Fourth period was Falcon Crier, which I presumed had something to do with the newspaper, fifth was Photo II, and sixth was something called “ Falconnaire .” If I was alive at that point, I could go home.

The whispering grew a hit louder. I turned a motherly frown on them, and the noise obediently abated. Pleased with my success, I wandered around the room, discovering a coat closet filled with old newspapers, boxes of curled photographs, a quantity of dried rubber cement bottles, and a small, inky hole that proved to be a darkroom in all senses of the word. It also proved to be the source of the garbage can aroma. I now knew the confines of my domain, for better or worse.

I was sitting at the desk with an old newspaper when a box on the wall above my head began to crackle. After a moment of what sounded like cellophane being crumpled, a voice emerged.

“Mrs. Malloy, I have neither your attendance list for first period, nor your blue slips. I must have them at the beginning of each period.” Miss Don, or Frosty the Snowman.

I gazed at the box. “So?”

“So I must have them, Mrs. Malloy.”

Good heavens, the thing worked both ways. I wondered if she could see me from her mountaintop aerie as well. “I’ll send them to the office,” I called with a compliant expression, just in case. The box squawked in reply, then fell silent.

Pudge waved a paper at me and left the room. Hoping she knew what she was up to, I returned to an article on the chances of a district championship in football, complete with photographs of neckless boys squinting into the sun, but nevertheless optimistic.

On the last page, I found a photograph of Robed Redford himself. The caption below informed me that this was the new assistant coach, Jerry Finley. He thought the chances for a championship were good if the boys worked hard during practice, perfected their passing game, and gave the team their personal best. He was delighted to be at Farberville High and proud of the Falcons. His hobbies included water-skiing and Chinese cooking. When not on the gridiron, he would be found teaching general science and drivers’ ed, or supervising study hall in the cafeteria.