Evan Hunter: The blackboard jungle

He found a table for them close to the Boss’ table, and then seated them with all the maternal care of a mother hen, while Solly watched with all the disinterest of the barnyard rooster. It wasn’t until he noticed the girl that he dropped his magazine and took out his reading glasses, perching them expertly on his broad, flat nose.

The crew-cut Kid College had not interested him, nor had the intense-looking, bespectacled boy with the dark hair and the serious eyes. But the girl was something else again.

Her hair was very black, and she wore it trimmed close to her face and neck, and the neck was delicately curved and very white. Her face was a pale white, too, like a flawless piece of alabaster, or an untouched, rounded bit of balsam. She had large, liquid brown eyes which dominated the paleness of her face, and she wore a light crimson lipstick which contributed to the fragile, delicate appearance of her features.

There was nothing delicate or fragile-looking about her body, though, and Solly scrutinized it from the insurmountable, protected heights of middle-age. She was big-breasted and narrow-waisted, and she wore a thin nylon blouse through which the delicate lace of her slip and the slender straps of her brassiere could be clearly seen. Solly wondered if she would wear that blouse on Monday, because if she did, there would surely be a rape. Either from the students or the teachers or maybe both. Unless they locked her up in the bookroom where no one could take advantage of the view.

She wore a straight black skirt that followed the line of her flesh-padded hips. The skirt was very tight, and the rolled line of her panties showed through the skirt where it tightened over her buttocks. This one , Solly thought, has never even heard the words Vocational School.

Or perhaps this is just for today, just so she will be the star of the North Manual Trades picnic. Organizational Meeting, and chowder party. On Monday, the beginning of the school term, she would come in wearing a dress down to her ankles, and up to her throat. She would also wear gold-rimmed glasses and no lipstick and the boys would look upon her as a spinster aunt, provided she did something about the line of her panties tight against her behind.

Still, a girl as young and as pretty as that in a vocational high school. Solly shook his head in muted wonder.

There was a hushed murmur at the back of the library, and then the door opened and Mike Angelico rushed into the room, like a page in the royal chambers. He walked briskly down the aisle which had been left between the tables, and Miss Brady, the Boss’ secretary followed behind him. Hawkner, who had been at the school for close to seventeen years, entered with a broad smile on his broad face, and behind him was William Small, the new principal, God bless him and keep him, and heal his head.

The men teachers rose, and Small accepted this small tribute with a small nod of his rather large head. He was rather large all over. He looked like a misplaced fullback, and Solly hoped he was as tough as he looked. He still remembered the time Juan Garza, a little bastard of a troublemaker, had thrown an inkwell through the window in Ginzer’s office, and then almost thrown Ginzer out after it. They’d have a tough time throwing Small through any windows, unless the meat was just meat with no spine in it. He watched Small as he deposited his notes on the table top, Mike Angelico on his left, and Miss Brady on his right. A thin scar ran from Small’s right temple to just below his cheekbone, and Solly wondered if it were an occupational wound.

Small did not sit. He kept standing, and when the room was absolutely silent, he said, “Well now,” and that was all.

Martha Riley, who was a lady of about fifty, and who had been teaching math at Manual Trades since before Moses, giggled and then stifled it immediately, and Small smiled like a benevolent despot, and cleared his throat.

“First, welcome back to all the old faces,” he said in a rhetorical voice, “and welcome for the first time to all of the new faces. Since I’m a new face, welcome to me, too.”

The assembled teachers, remembering Martha Riley’s recent outburst, hesitated. Then Mike Angelico gave out with a hearty chuckle, and accepting this as their cue, the staff of Manual Trades acknowledged the Boss’ razor-sharp wit with a polite round of subdued laughter.

“I mean it when I say ‘Welcome,’ ” Small said. “I mean it because I mean to make this school one of the best damned schools in the vocational educational system, and a school where knowledge and practicality will always be welcome.”

There was a stunned silence, and then Mike Angelico nodded his head in appreciation, and the staff buzzed appreciably, showing they appreciated Mike’s nod of appreciation.

“Oh, I know vocational schools,” Small said. “I taught for two years at Bronx Vocational, and three years at Manhattan Aviation, and three at Manual Training in Brooklyn, and I even taught at Benjamin Franklin, which is not a vocational high school but which gave me a little memento that made me grateful there were such things as vocational high schools.” He touched the thin scar on his face here, and everyone nodded in tribute to his heroism under fire.

“I’ve taught at New York Vocational,” Small went on, “and Central Commercial, and Brooklyn Automotive.” He paused here for the gasp of acknowledgment, because Brooklyn Automotive was possibly the worst goddamn school in the whole setup, and they all knew it. When the gasp did not come. Small said in a voice like muted gunfire, “I was administrative assistant at Brooklyn Automotive for seven years.”

Mike Angelico flinched at this, but not because he was admiring the courage or skill of the new principal. Mike Angelico had been at North Manual Trades for eighteen years. He had been administrative assistant at the school for ten of those years. He had been administrative assistant when Anderson was principal, and he had been administrative assistant when they dragged in Panucci from Chelsea Vocational for the principal’s spot, and later when they brought in Ginzer from Evander Childs. He had been administrative assistant all that time, and now they had brought in another outsider for the principal’s job, and Solly knew that Mike did not wholly appreciate this incontestable fact.

Even so, Solly reflected, Brooklyn Automotive is no goddamn picnic and maybe Small is a good man after all, despite his half-assed jokes.

“So I know vocational schools,” Small said. “I know them very well, and I know what they’re supposed to be doing in the community that is our city, and I also know what they are doing. Now understand this. I don’t care what North Manual Trades was doing, but I know damn well what it’s supposed to be doing, and that’s what it’s going to be doing, starting this term, starting this day, starting right this minute!”

Mike Angelico started to applaud, but Small cut him short with a withering glance. It was apparent The Boss had not finished.

“We’ve got a good staff here,” Small went on. “The teachers who have been here all these years are some of the best to be found in the system. I’ve checked the records of the new ones, and I think we’ve got a fine crop of level-headed people who can handle any situation that may arise.

“The point is this,” and here he stabbed the air with a large forefinger, “I do not want any situations to arise!”

“When those kids come into this school on Monday morning, I want them to know immediately who is boss. The teacher is boss, and I want them to know that, because we are not running any goddamn nursery school but we are running a school that will teach these kids to be useful citizens of a goddamn fine community, and pardon my French, ladies, but that’s exactly the way I feel about it.”