Evan Hunter - The blackboard jungle

“I’ve also told you that there will be no calling out. If you have anything to say, you raise your hand. You will not speak until I call on you. Is that clear?”

The boys made no comment, and Rick took their silence for understanding. All of their heads were bent now as they busily filled out the Delaney cards.

“We’ll be together in this room every day from 8:30 to 8:45. Then, as you probably know, you’ll come back to this room during the second period for English, which I will teach.”

The boys’ heads bobbed up, and he read the puzzled looks in their eyes and realized he had not yet given them their programs. They did not know he would be teaching them English, and he had broken the news to them in perhaps the worst possible way.

In defense, he smiled graciously. “Yes,” he said. “I’ll be your English teacher, and I’m sure we’ll get along fine.” He paused. “I’ll give you your programs now,” he said, “while you’re filling out the Delaney cards. I might add you’ve got a very good program this term.” He had barely glanced at the individual programs, which were carbon copies of each other since the boys were second-termers who still traveled in a group during their exploratory adventures, and he truthfully didn’t know if it was good, bad, or indifferent. But he felt it sounded fatherly for him to say the boys had a good program. He got the program cards from his briefcase and rapidly distributed them, calling the boys’ names and taking the cards to their desks while they worked.

“You all know the rules about lateness,” he said. “I won’t tolerate lateness. If you come in one second after the late gong sounds, you go right down to the General Office for a late pass. And I won’t listen to sob stories about absences. You can tell those to the General Office, too.”

He glanced out at the class, whose interest was alternating between the Delaney and program cards. “You can look over the programs later,” he said. “Let’s finish the Delaney cards.”

He paused and said, “When you come into this room, you put your coats, jackets, hats, or whatever you were wearing outside into the coat closet at the back of the room. I don’t want anyone sitting in this room with a coat or jacket on. I don’t want pneumonia in my class.”

“Hey, what’s our official class?” one boy asked.

“Twenty-seven,” Rick said, “and no calling out.” He turned his back to the boys and chalked the numerals 27 on the board again, remembering the vocational school adage which frankly warned, “Never turn your back on a class.” But he obviously had the situation well under control, and he saw no reason for demonstrating distrust at this early stage of the game. He put the chalk back on the runner and said, “Dover, you will be in charge of seeing that the windows are adjusted every morning when you come in.”

“Yes, sir,” Dover said respectfully, and Rick was a little surprised, but immensely pleased. He remembered something he’d been told back in one of his education classes, something about giving the difficult boys in the class things to do, like raising windows and cleaning blackboards and erasers, or running errands. Dover did not seem to be a difficult boy, and perhaps he’d been wrong in giving him the window assignment. He remembered then that someone had to bring down the list of absentees each morning, and he decided Sullivan, his good friend in the rear of room, was the ideal man for the job.

“And you, Sullivan,” he said, looking directly at the boy, “will take down the roll book each morning.”

“Sure,” Sullivan said, smiling as if he’d won a major victory.

Sullivan’s attitude puzzled Rick, but he decided not to let it bother him. He picked a blond boy in the third row and said, “Will you collect the Delaney cards, please?”

“Sure, teach,” the boy said, and Rick realized he’d made a mistake. He should have had them pass the cards down to the first seat in each row, and then have the boy in the first row go across taking the cards from each row. Well, it was too late to correct that now. The blond boy was already making the rounds, picking up the cards dutifully.

“What’s your name?” Rick asked him.

“Me?”

The answer irritated him a little, but that was because he did not yet know “Me?” was a standard answer at Manual Trades High School, where a boy always presupposed his own guilt even if he were completely innocent of any misdemeanor.

“Yes,” Rick said. “You.”

“Foster, teach.”

“Mr. Dadier,” Rick corrected.

“Oh, yeah. Sure.”

“Hurry up with those cards, Foster.”

“Sure, teach.”

Rick stared at the boy incredulously. “I don’t want to have to mention this again,” he said. “The next boy who calls me ‘teach’ will find himself sitting here until four o’clock this afternoon. Now remember that.”

The boys stared at him solemnly, a wall of hostility suddenly erected between Rick’s desk and their seats. He sensed the wall, and he wished he could say something that would cause it to crumble immediately. But he would not back down on this ‘teach’ informality, and so he stayed behind his side of the wall and stared back at the boys sternly.

The door opened suddenly, and a thin boy with brown hair matted against his forehead poked his head into the room.

“Mr. Dadier?” he asked.

“Yes?”

The boy moved his body into the room, walked briskly to Rick’s desk, and handed him a mimeographed sheet of paper. “Notice from the office,” the boy said.

“Thank you.”

“Y’welcome,” he answered, turning and heading for the door instantly. Rick was impressed with the boy’s efficiency and apparent good manners. The boy walked to the open door, stepped out into the hallway, and then thrust his head back into the room. He grinned and addressed one of the boys near the front of the room.

“Hey, Charlie, how you like Mr. Daddy-oh?”

He slammed the door quickly, and was gone before Rick had fully reacted to what he’d said. Someone near the back of the room murmured, “Daddy-oh, oh Daddy-oh,” and Rick turned toward the class hotly.

“That’s enough of that!” he bellowed.

The boys’ faces went blank. He looked at them sternly for another moment, and then turned his attention to the notice from the office.

It told him that the roll-calling had been accomplished much faster than they had expected, and that a gong would sound at ten-thirty summoning the start of the third period, rather than the fourth as anticipated. It advised him to instruct his class that they should proceed immediately to their third-period class, ignoring any instructions they may previously have received concerning the fourth period.

Luckily, Rick had not given any instructions concerning departmental as yet. He was aware of the sudden attentiveness in the classroom, and he realized the boys wanted to know what was in the notice from the office. He glanced at his wrist watch. It was ten-fifteen.

“A gong will sound in fifteen minutes,” he said. “The gong will announce the start of the third period. When the gong sounds, you will leave this room and go directly to your third-period class, is that clear?”

The boys began talking it up, looking at the programs on their desks, which told them their third-period class was Civics.

A boy in the fourth row raised his hand.

“Yes?” Rick asked.

“Does that mean we won’t have you for English today, Mr. Dadier?” he asked.

“Yes, that’s what it means. You go directly to Civics when you leave here,” Rick said, consulting his copy of the boys’ program. He smiled, pleased because the boy had used his name and raised his hand. “Say,” he said conversationally, “we’d better hurry if we want to get seated before it’s time to go.”