Evan Hunter - The blackboard jungle

But when did I give up, he wondered, when did I start taking the easy road, Miller’s easy road? Or have I given up? Yes, I’ve given up. No, I haven’t.

But I have, I have. And when? When the baby was born, when my son was not born. Before that? No, before that was “The Fifty-First Dragon,” and oh what a lesson that had been, God what a lesson that was. Just give me a lesson like that once a week, just once a week, that’s all, and I’d teach for the rest of my life. I’d take all the crap all the Millers and Wests in the world have to hand out, I’d let myself be called on the carpet everyday by all the Smalls alive, if only I could reach them like that once a week, just once a week. Or if one kid, just one kid that’s all, one kid got something out of it all. If I could point to one of these bastards and say, “I showed him the way,” if I could only do that, but who have I shown?

I’ve shown no one. It’s a big laugh, all right, but I’ve shown no one. And after all my big talk to Miller, all my big talk about hard roads and easy roads, with Miller wanting to be shown, and I couldn’t even show him. It’s Miller who’s shown me. It’s Miller who offered the easy road, join the crowd, fool around, play around, be a fake. Miller showed that to me, and I took it, and now we’re both on the easy road, a fake student and a fake teacher. But how can I blame myself?

They’re all the same, just the way they were when I first started, not changed one goddamned bit. But am I to blame?

Yes, you’re to blame, all right. You’re to blame because somewhere along the line you stopped trying. And you can say it’s because you don’t give a damn anymore, and you can say you’ve got your own headaches, but you still stopped trying. When Josh Edwards stopped trying, he also stopped teaching. He gave it up, and that was the honest thing to do, but you’re not honest. You’re filling the chair, but you’re not filling the job. You’re taking the easy road, and I’m glad I don’t have to live with you.

There are a lot of guys taking the easy road, Rick thought, but I never thought I’d be one of them, but I’m certainly one of them now, and that’s a hell of a thing to admit. The shining example, the one who was going to show Miller all about the hard road, and Miller’s skin is black, by Christ, he was born with a hard road, and yet you blamed him for taking the easy road that time you talked with him, even though you couldn’t explain the hard road, even though you still can’t explain it, especially not now when you’ve succumbed to the bastards.

Bastards again. All right, bastards.

They’re all rotten, and they’re all bastards, and I agree with Solly Klein now, and I should have seen it in the beginning, Solly, for you are all-wise, Solly, and you know all about baseballs crashing into blackboards alongside your head, and you know all about this machine that won’t run no matter what you do to it — no it’ll run but it won’t produce. You know all about this big goddamned treadmill with all its captive rats scurrying to get nowhere, scurrying to get right back where they came from. You know all about it, Solly, and you tried to tell me but I wouldn’t listen because I was the Messiah come to teach. Except even a Messiah wouldn’t be heard in this dump.

So why the hell bother? Why should I teach? Why should I get ulcers?

“Keep your eyes on your own paper, Belazi,” 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?

“All right, Belazi,” Rick said suddenly. “Bring your paper up. I’m subtracting five points from it.”

“Why? What the hell did I do?” Belazi shouted.

“Bring me your paper.”

Belazi reluctantly slouched to the front of the room and tossed his paper on the desk. He was a big boy with a sinewy, big-boned frame, and he stood with his thumbs looped in the tops of his dungarees as Rick marked a large — 5 on the paper in bright red.

“What’s that for?” Belazi asked.

“For having loose eyes.”

Belazi snatched the paper from the desk and examined it with disgust. Rick stared at the boy, remembering his first meeting with 55-206, and his announcement that they’d be making a trip to the bookroom. Belazi had piped, “Is this trip necessary?” A wise guy as well as a cheat. Rick thought. Oh, the hell with them all. Belazi wrinkled his face into a grimace and slowly started back to his seat.

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

“What?” Rick asked.

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

“Yes, West. What did you just say?”

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

“Bring me your paper, West.”

“What for?”

“Bring it up!”

“What for, I said.”

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

“Aw, bring him the paper,” Miller said, smiling good-naturedly.

“What the hell for?” West said to Miller. “What the hell did I do?”

“Go on, Artie,” Miller said easily, “bring him the paper.”

“I don’t see why I should,” West persisted, the smile gone from his face now.

“Because I say so, that’s why,” Rick said tightly.

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

“Look, Artie,” Miller said. “Why...”

“Keep out of this, Greg,” West snapped. “Just keep the hell out of it, understand?”

Miller’s eyes opened wide in surprise, but the smile clung to his mouth. The other boys in the room were suddenly interested. Heads that were bent over papers snapped upright. Rick felt every eye in the class focus on him.

They were rooting for West, of course. They wanted West to win. They wanted West to defy him, like that time he’d threatened to piss all over the floor. Rick couldn’t let that happen.

He walked crisply up the aisle and stood beside West. The boy looked up provokingly.

“Get up,” Rick said, trying to control the modulation of his voice.

My voice is shaking, he told himself. I can feel it shaking. He knows it, too. He’s mocking me with those little, hard eyes of his. I must control my voice. This is really funny. My voice is shaking.

“Get up, West.”

“I don’t see, Mr. Daddy-oh, just why I should,” West answered. He pronounced the name with great care.

“Hey, Artie,” Miller said, “whuffo you...”

“Get up, West,” Rick interrupted. “Get up and say my name correctly.”

“Don’t you know your own name, Mr. Daddy-oh?”

Rick’s hand snapped out and grasped West by the collar of his shirt. He pulled him to his feet, almost tearing the collar. West stood an inch shorter than Rick, squirming to release himself.

Rick’s hand crushed tighter on the collar. He heard the slight rasp of material ripping. He peered into the hateful eyes and spoke quietly. “Pronounce my name correctly, West.”

The class had grown terribly quiet. There was no sound in the room now. Rick heard only the grating of his own shallow breathing. Alongside West, his eyes wide, the smile gone from his face now. Miller sat and watched.

I should let him loose. Rick thought. What can come of this? How far can I go? Let him loose!

“You want me to pronounce your name, sir?” West asked politely.

“You heard me.”

“Fuck you, Mr. Daddy...”

Rick’s hand lashed out, slapping West squarely across the mouth. He felt his fingers scrape against hard teeth, saw the blood leap across the upper lip in a thin crimson smear, saw the eyes widen with surprise, and then narrow immediately with deep, dark hatred.