Evan Hunter: The blackboard jungle

Rick smiled a bit tremulously, wondering if he were taking the right tack. “Sir,” he said, “I would rather teach at Princeton... but so would a lot of other people.”

Stanley smiled briefly, and Rick knew he’d hit the right spot, and suddenly the cork popped. The nervousness flooded over the lip of the bottle, a green bilious stuff that dissipated into the air. He felt his hands unclench, and he knew he could take whatever Stanley had to offer now. Fire away , he thought, and he waited impatiently.

“You said you have to teach in a vocational school. That means you have an emergency license, doesn’t it?” Stanley asked.

“Yes, sir,” Rick said. “A year in vocational high schools to make the license valid for any high school.”

“A good move on the Board’s part,” Stanley commented dryly. “We need teachers in vocational high schools.” He paused and smoothed his thin mustache, patchy in spots Rick saw, now that he was closer to it. It’s probably a new mustache. A department chairman must look older, and he figured Stanley for no more than thirty-eight or nine.

“Which college did you attend?”

“Hunter, sir.”

“Oh?” Stanley’s brows went up in interest. Everyone’s brows always went up in interest. It was better than having a Harvard degree. It always caused interest, and interest was what separated the men from the boys, interest was what made one face stand out from all the thousands of other hopeful faces. “That’s an all-girls’ school, isn’t it?”

“It was, sir. They took in veterans after the war. It was difficult to find a school, so many of us were returning at once.”

“You’re a veteran then?” Stanley asked.

“Yes, sir. Navy.”

“I see.” He could tell Stanley was pleased. The veteran hook always pleased people. Do their bit for the boys, you know. “Where did you student teach?”

Stanley pronounced it “styu-dent,” and Rick suddenly remembered his diction, and he recalled the Speech I and II classes. He knew he possessed a sibilant S , and he reminded himself to watch that S , and when he spoke, his speech was letter perfect, as if Stanley’s “styu-dent” had given him an invisible shot in the arm.

“I taught...” and he hit the T perfectly, touching his tongue to his gum ridge, pulling it away quickly, trippingly... “at Machine and Metal Trades, sir.”

“Oh? A vocational school, eh? That was thinking ahead.”

“Yes, sir,” and he watched the S carefully, cutting it off the instant it began to hiss.

“How’d you find it?”

“I enjoyed it, sir. It wasn’t at all as bad as they’d painted it.”

“If you liked Machine and Metal, you’ll like it here. Who was Department Chairman there?”

“Mr. Ackerman, sir.”

“Mmm, yes, a good man.”

“He helped me a lot, sir.”

“You speak rather softly,” Stanley said suddenly, lifting his brows again. “Can you be heard at the back of a classroom?”

“Well, I did a lot of dramatics in college, sir, and they could always hear me in the last row of the theater.”

“Really?” Stanley asked, seeming truly interested.

“Shall I project a little?” Rick asked, smiling.

Stanley leaned back and smiled with him. “Go ahead. Project.”

Rick felt for his voice at the pit of his diaphragm. “ Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more,” he quoted loudly, strongly, “ or close the wall up with our English dead. In peace there’s nothing so becomes a man as modest stillness and humility: but when the blast of war blows in our ears, then imitate the action of the tiger.”

He stopped there, hoping Stanley would not want him to go farther because he could not remember any more of the quotation. The blonde at the railing had turned and was looking at him curiously.

“An aptly chosen quotation for this particular example,” Stanley said smilingly, pleased. “ Henry the Fourth , wasn’t it?”

Rick hesitated for the first time during the interview. The passage he’d quoted had been from Henry V , Hank the Cinq as they’d called it in school. Was it possible that Stanley, the chairman of the English Department, did not know this?

“I think it’s Henry the Fifth ,” Rick said politely, smiling, gambling that Stanley knew and was simply testing him.

Stanley nodded knowingly, more pleased now. “Damn right it is,” he said. He did not hear Rick sigh. “Can you be here Friday for an Organizational Meeting, Mr. Dadier?”

“Certainly, sir,” Rick said, still not realizing the job was his.

“Fine. Give your license to Miss Brady in the adjoining office. She’ll list you on the books and make out a time card for you. You know how to punch a clock, do you?”

“Yes, sir,” he said happily.

“Fine. The meeting is at noon Friday, but I’d like you to be here by eleven or so. I’ll introduce you to Mr. Small, our new principal, at that time. You can report to the English office. That’s on the fourth floor, Room 439. Any questions?”

“Just one, sir,” Rick said. He hesitated, and then asked, “The discipline problem here. Is it...”

Stanley’s eyes tightened. “There is no discipline problem here,” he said quickly. “I’ll look for you on Friday.”

He rose quickly and took Rick’s hand, and Rick rose uncertainly.

“Yes, sir,” he said. “Thank you, sir.”

He strode briskly from the desk and through the gate, remembering to keep his shoulders back and his head high. He went directly into the adjoining office and asked for Miss Brady, who turned out to be a spinsterish sort of person with mouse-brown hair pulled into a tight bun at the back of her thin neck. He handed her his license, and she asked for the book the Board of Education had supplied him with, the one with all the dates listed in it, the one that would keep a record of the days he had worked. He handed it to her, and she explained that she would keep this in her possession, even though the listing of the dates was a mere formality when it concerned a regular substitute as differentiated from a day-to-day substitute. She also told him he could have his license back in about ten minutes if he cared to wait, but he abruptly remembered Jerry standing outside in the corridor, and he told her he’d pick it up when he came in on Friday. She nodded noncommittally, and then gave a birdlike shrug which plainly said, “It’s your license, mister.”

He did not want to leave the security of her office, nor did he wish to meet Jerry. He still felt irrationally guilty about having taken the job from his old friend. He decided, though, that it would be worse to put it off any longer. He squared his shoulders and walked out into the corridor.

Jerry met him with a smiling face and an extended palm. “You got it, didn’t you?” he said happily. “Congratulations.”

Rick took his hand, feeling even more guilty in the face of Jerry’s obvious sportsmanlike joy. “Thanks,” he said. “I’m sorry I...”

“Say, what did he have you doing in there? Reciting poetry?”

“He wanted to know if I could project or not,” Rick said embarrassedly.

“I knew I didn’t make it the minute we started talking,” Jerry said sheepishly. “I could tell he didn’t take to me.”

“Hell, there are other jobs,” Rick said.

“Oh, sure.” Jerry smiled. “I’ll find something.”

“Have you tried New York Vocational?”

“No,” Jerry said. “Where’s that?”

“On 138th Street and Fifth Avenue. I was going to head there right after I left here. I think they have an opening.” He felt better about revealing this information. He knew they did have an opening, and it somehow took the onus off his having stolen this job from Jerry.