Эд Макбейн - Barking at Butterflies and other stories

“In what?” Ganigan asked.

I should have known better, Richard reminded himself. We’ve only been using the book two months now. I can’t expect them to remember the title. No.

“In New Horizons, ” he repeated impatiently, “the blue book, the one we’ve been using, all term.” He paused, gaining control of himself. “In the blue book,” he continued softly, “read the first ten pages of Army Ants in the Jungle. ”

“Here in class?” Hennesy asked.

“No. At home.”

“Christ,” Hennesy mumbled.

“It’s on page two seventy-five,” Richard said.

“What page?” Antoro called out.

“Two seventy-five.”

“What page?” Levy asked.

“Two seventy-five,” Richard said. “My God, what’s the matter with you?” He turned rapidly and wrote the figures on the board in a large hand, repeating the numerals slowly. “Two, seventy-five.” He heard a chuckle spread maliciously behind him, and he whirled quickly. Every boy in the class wore a deadpan.

“There will be a short test on the homework tomorrow,” he announced grimly.

“Another one?” Miller asked lazily.

“Yes, Mailler,” Richard said, “another one.” He glared at the boy heatedly, but Miller only grinned in return.

“And now,” Richard said, “the test I promised you yesterday.”

A hush fell over the class.

Quick, Richard thought. Press the advantage. Strike again and again. Don’t wait for them. Keep one step ahead always. Move fast and they won’t know what’s going on. Keep them too busy to get into mischief.

Richard began chalking the test on the board. He turned his head and barked over his shoulder, “All books away. Finley, hand out the paper.”

This is the way to do it, he realized. I’ve figured it out. The way to control these monsters is to give them a test every day of the week. Write their fingers off.

“Begin immediately,” Richard said in a businesslike voice. “Don’t forget your heading.”

“What’s that, that heading?” Busco asked.

“Name, official class, subject class, subject teacher,” Richard said wearily.

Seventy-two, he thought. I’ve said it seventy-two times since I started teaching here two months ago. Seventy-two times.

“Who’s our subject teacher?” Busco asked. His face expressed complete bewilderment.

“Mr. Daddy-oh,” Vota said quite plainly. Vota was big and rawboned, a muscular, rangy, seventeen-year-old. Stringy blond hair hung over his pimply forehead. There was something mannishly sinister about his eyes, something boyishly innocent about his smile. And he was Miller’s friend. Richard never forgot that for a moment.

“Mr. Dadier is the subject teacher,” Richard said to Busco. “And incidentally, Vito,” he glared at Vota, “anyone misspelling my name in the heading will lose ten points.”

“What!” Vota complained, outraged.

“You heard me, Vota,” Richard snapped.

“Well, how do you spell Daddy-oh?” Vota asked, the innocent smile curling his lips again.

“You figure it out, Vota. I don’t need the ten points.”

Richard bitterly pressed the chalk into the board. It snapped in two, and he picked up another piece from the runner. With the chalk squeaking wildly, he wrote out the rest of the test.

“No talking,” he ordered. He sat down behind the desk and eyed the class suspiciously.

A puzzled frown crossed Miller’s face. “I don’t understand the first question, teach’,” he called out.

Richard leaned back in his chair and looked at the board. “It’s very simple, Miltzer,” he said. “There are ten words on the board. Some are spelled correctly, and some are wrong. If they’re wrong, you correct them. If they’re right, spell them just the way they’re written.”

“Mmmmm,” Miller said thoughtfully, his eyes glowing. “How do you spell the second word?”

Richard leaned back again, looked at the second word, and began, “D-I-S...” He caught himself and faced Miller squarely. “Just the way you want to. You’re taking the test, not me.”

Miller grinned widely. “Oh. I didn’t know that, teach’.”

“You’ll know when you see your mark, Miller.”

Richard cursed himself for having pronounced the boy’s name correctly. He made himself comfortable at the desk and looked out over the class.

Di Pasco will cheat, he thought. He will cheat and I won’t catch him. He’s uncanny that way. God, how I wish I could catch him. How does he? On his cuff? Where? He probably has it stuffed in his ear. Should I search him? No, what’s the use? He’d cheat his own mother. An inborn crook. A louse.

Louse, Richard mused. Even I call them that now. All louses. I must tell Helen that I’ve succumbed. Or should I wait until after the baby is born? Perhaps it would be best not to disillusion her yet. Perhaps I should let her think I’m still trying to reach them, still trying. What was it Solly Klein had said?

“This is the garbage can of the educational system.”

He had stood in the teachers’ lunchroom, near the bulletin, pointing his stubby forefinger at Richard.

“And it’s our job to sit on the lid and make sure none of this garbage spills over into the street.”

Richard had smiled then. He was new, and he still thought he could teach them something, still felt he could mold the clay.

Lou Savoldi, an electrical wiring teacher, had smiled too and said, “Solly’s a great philosopher.”

“Yeah, yeah, philosopher.” Solly smiled. “All I know is I’ve been teaching machine shop here for twelve years now, and only once did I find anything valuable in the garbage.” He had nodded his head emphatically then. “Nobody knowingly throws anything valuable in with the garbage.”

Then why should I bother? Richard wondered now. Why should I teach? Why should I get ulcers?

“Keep your eyes on your own paper, Busco,” he cautioned.

Everyone is a cheat, a potential thief. Solly was right. We have to keep them off the streets. They should really hire a policeman. It would be funny, he thought, if it weren’t so damned serious. How long can you handle garbage without beginning to stink yourself? Already, I stink.

“All right, Busco, bring your paper up. I’m subtracting five points from it,” Richard suddenly said.

“Why? What the hell did I do?”

“Bring me your paper.”

Busco reluctantly slouched to the front of the room and tossed his paper onto the desk. He stood with his thumbs looped in the tops of his dungarees as Richard marked a large -5 on the paper in bright red.

“What’s that for?” Busco asked.

“For having loose eyes.”

Busco snatched the paper from the desk and examined it with disgust. He wrinkled his face into a grimace and slowly started back to his seat.

As he passed Miller, Miller looked to the front of the room. His eyes met Richard’s, and he sneered, “Chicken!”

“What?” Richard asked.

Miller looked surprised. “You talking to me, teach’?”

“Yes, Miller. What did you just say?”

“I didn’t say nothing, teach’.” Miller smiled.

“Bring me your paper, Miller.”

“What for?”

“Bring it up!”

“What for, I said.”

“I heard what you said, Miller. And I said bring me your paper. Now. Right this minute.”

“I don’t see why,” Miller persisted, the smile beginning to vanish from his face.

“Because I say so, that’s why.”

Miller’s answer came slowly, pointedly. “And supposing I don’t feel like?” A frown was twisting his forehead.

The other boys in the room were suddenly interested. Heads that were bent over papers snapped upright. Richard felt every eye in the class focus on him.