Evan Hunter - The blackboard jungle

He opened his Delaney book, and then his roll book, and he began calling the boys’ names alphabetically, seating them one behind the other. Several boys complained when they were separated from lifelong buddies, but he ignored the complaints and went on with his seating plan. Belatedly, he realized it would have been simpler to have the boys hold their Delaney cards until they were seated properly. Then he’d just collect them by rows, ready to slip into the Delaney book. This way, he had to alphabetize the Delaney cards, jotting down the name of the first boy in each row, and arranging the cards in the book on his own time later. Well, he would not make that mistake again.

He gave the boys an opportunity to discuss the program among themselves while he started to alphabetize the cards. He had alphabetized all of them and was beginning to put them into the Delaney book when the gong sounded. He rose swiftly.

“You go to your third-period class now,” he said. “Remember that. Civics, Room 411.” He paused and added, “Be sure to have all your subject teachers sign your program cards.” He smiled. “I’ll see you all tomorrow morning.”

Some of the boys had already filed out into the corridor and were lingering outside near the open door. Rick heard someone shout, “Not if we see you first, Daddy-oh!” but when he turned to the door, the boys were gone. He let out a deep breath as the remaining boys filed out of the room, and then he consulted his own program.

Hall Patrol.

Quickly, he began packing his stuff in his briefcase. He had been a little Caesar, true, right from go, and in the best possible little Caesar manner. He had done it purposely, though, because the first day was the all-important day. If you started with a mailed fist, you could later open that fist to reveal a velvet palm. If you let them step all over you at the beginning, there was no gaining control later. So, whereas being a little Caesar was contrary to his usual somewhat easy-going manner, he recognized it as a necessity, and he felt no guilt. As Small had advised, he was showing the boys who was boss. He finished packing, locked the door, and then started for the General Office, where Stanley had said a Hall Patrol schedule would be posted.

He fought through the swarm of students in the hallway, abruptly remembering that Dover and Sullivan had not returned the pencils he’d loaned them. He cursed his own inefficiency, making his way toward the stairwell. He thought he heard several shouts of “Daddy-oh!” in the thronged hallway, but he could not be certain. When he found the Down staircase, he walked quickly to the main floor corridor, and then to the General Office. The schedule was posted near the time clock, and he studied it carefully, located the position of his Hall Patrol on the diagram beneath the schedule, and then started for his post.

The General Office was located approximately in the middle of the long side of the L of the building. He walked toward the intersecting short side of the L, turned right, and then headed for the end of the corridor. His Hall Patrol post was directly opposite the entrance doors there.

Two boys stood flanking the wide entrance doorways, and the yellow armbands on their biceps told Rick they were monitors. He walked directly to them and said pleasantly, “Hello, boys. My name is Mr. Dadier. We’ll be working together on this post during the third period every day.”

The two boys nodded obediently, and Rick knew he’d have no trouble with them. Monitors were selected from the cream, such as it was, of the school.

One of the boys, a fat kid with streaked dungarees and a striped tee shirt, kept staring at Rick, as if he were expecting further instructions. Rick said, “Would you get a chair for me in one of these rooms, please? Tell the teacher it’s for Mr. Dadier.”

“Sure,” the fat boy said pleasantly.

Rick watched the boy go down the corridor, and then he turned his attention to the doors. There were four of them set side by side. On the other side of the doors a flight of marble steps led to the outside doors of the building. He looked through the glass panels on the inside doors, nodded his head briefly, and then said to the second monitor, a tall boy who stood with his hands behind his back, “You haven’t been letting anyone in or out of these doors, have you?”

“No, sir,” the boy said.

“Good. And no one is allowed in the corridor without a room pass.”

“I know,” the boy said.

“Good,” Rick said again. He clapped the boy on the shoulder, the way a commanding officer will do to a particularly obedient enlisted man, and then he looked down the corridor to see if the fat boy was returning with his chair. The boy was not in sight. He bit his lip and then studied his end of the corridor, noticing the toilet there for the first time. He walked to the battered wooden door, read the gold lettered students’ lavatory, and then pulled the door open.

“Chiggee,” someone shouted, and Rick heard the instant flush of a toilet. The room was smoke-filled, and his entrance started a mad scramble among the ten or twelve boys who’d been standing around smoking.

“All right,” Rick bellowed, “let’s just hold it!”

The kids stopped dead in their tracks, dropping their cigarettes and stepping on them. One made a rush for the door, but Rick blocked the boy and shoved him back into the white-tiled room.

“What’s going on here?” he roared, squinting through the smoke. “What is this, the Officers’ Club?”

One of the boys snickered, and Rick cut him short with a dead cold stare.

“Now clear out of here,” he shouted. “I’m letting you all go this time, but if I catch anyone else smoking or loitering here, your name goes to the principal. Now just remember that.”

The boys, thankful to be let off the hook so easily, filed out of the room swiftly. Rick watched them go, and then turned to face two boys who lounged near the sinks by the windows.

“What’s the matter with you two?” he asked.

One of the boys was a husky Negro with an engaging grin. He had a wide nose, and thin lips, and clear, large brown eyes. He wore a white tee shirt and tight dungarees, and the rich brown of his skin glistened against the white of his shirt.

“We ony just got here, Chief,” he said.

“Well, you can only just get right out of here,” Rick mimicked.

The boy with the Negro was obviously Puerto Rican. He grinned and a gold-capped tooth in the front of his mouth gleamed.

“Sure,” he said, “we jus’ get here, Chief.”

“Look,” Rick told them, “I don’t want a debate. Let’s clear out.”

The Negro boy continued to grin engagingly, continued to lean against the sink. “Can’ a man take a leak, Chief?”

“Take it and get out,” Rick said.

“Sure, Chief,” the Negro boy answered, still grinning pleasantly. “You goan to watch me leak, man?”

“Listen,” Rick said, “I don’t go for wise guys. If you came here for trouble, you’ll get it. If you came to urinate, do it fast and then get out.”

“He come to ur-ee-nate,” the Puerto Rican said, smiling.

Rick turned on the thin Puerto Rican. “What’s your name?” he asked.

The boy blanched. His eyes got suddenly frightened, and he said, “Me?”

“Yes you. What’s your name?”

“Emmanuel,” he said.

“Emmanuel what?”

“Emmanuel Trades,” the Negro boy said. “Man, don’choo know? This boy yere, he got the school named after him.” Again he grinned engagingly, and Rick turned on him furiously.

“What’s your name, wise guy?”

The boy lifted one eyebrow, and he continued to slouch against the sink. “Gregory,” he said, defiantly. “Gregory Miller.”