“He can be catty, if that’s what you mean,” Sandy said. “He makes fun of girls more than he makes fun of boys.”
“Do the other kids like him?” Mr. Lucy asked.
“They like him,” Sandy went on, feeling confident with the theory now, “but I know they think he’s flaky. He doesn’t realize it, but half the time they’re all laughing at him.”
“He sounds immature,” Mr. Lucy said, looking as though he were talking to himself now, “and immaturity can be an awful weakness especially for an adult who has to deal with young people daily.”
“What should we do?” Sheila asked. Her voice was thin, nearly hysterical. “I don’t want to participate in class or do well on his tests just to get him off my back.”
“That’s not right,” Mr. Lucy said, his eyes finally flashing with some anger. “Not after the beautiful progress you and the rest of you have made.”
“So, what do we do?” Sheila repeated. She pressed her hands against her chubby cheeks and braced her elbows on the table.
There was another long silence. Johnny put his cup down and leaned forward. Mr. Lucy was looking at him intensely. The others could practically feel something passing between them. They were jealous, but also somewhat in awe.
“Mr. Lucy knows what we should do,” Johnny said. The three others looked from him to Mr. Lucy expectantly. His eyes never left Johnny’s.
“Yes, I do,” Mr. Lucy said, “and it’s only right; it’s only fair, no matter how other people might react to it.”
“How other people react is not important to us, is it?” Johnny said. He turned to the others and they all shook their heads.
“What we do must be kept in strict confidence,” Mr. Lucy said.
“No one will ever learn anything from any of us,” Gary said. He looked threateningly at the girls, but he didn’t have to. They wore looks of total devotion as they stared at Mr. Lucy.
“Good,” Mr. Lucy said. “I know exactly what to do.”
9
Stephen Zola lived in the Garden Lane Apartments, a modern complex recently constructed just outside of the Centerville village limits. It had a pool and the grounds were well manicured. Presently, there were fifty units with another twenty on the planning board.
Mr. Lucy’s kids knew that Zola lived alone. Richard Slattery and two of his friends, also high-powered students scoring in the top one percent on the college boards, had visited Mr. Zola a few times and bragged about it. After all, they were on “friendly, adult terms” with one of their high school teachers. He served them coffee and they “discussed” other students and school candidly. At least, that’s what Slattery claimed.
Mr. Lucy was happy to learn that Richard Slattery publicized his visits well. He said that fit in perfectly with the plan, even though, as Johnny explained, Slattery was what the other students characterized as a “brown-noser.” He played up to all of his teachers.
“Which bugs me because he doesn’t have to,” Johnny said. “He’s so bright as it is.”
“He’s a type,” Mr. Lucy explained. “No matter how well he can do on his own, he’ll always play up to those who judge him. He’ll be a company man. Don’t ever trust him or those like him.”
Johnny understood.
“Mr. Zola was probably like that when he was in high school and in college, huh?”
“Precisely. That’s why they get along so well.”
Everyone was confident after they left Mr. Lucy’s, even though no one spoke for a while as they walked. Under the circumstances, Mr. Lucy decided that Gary should be excused from his grammatical drills. He promised to do the work on his own anyway, but Mr. Lucy recognized that just now it would be difficult for Gary to concentrate on the assignment.
They walked down Highland Avenue, staying even closer together than they had before. The strategy against Mr. Zola had bound them tighter. It was as though they shared one giant imagination. Everyone saw the same visions; everyone pictured the same scenes and heard the same dialogue.
Remarkably, although there was some nervousness, there was no evidence of fear. No one expressed any hesitation; no one brought up the possibilities and the consequences of failure. It was as though failure as a possibility didn’t exist when it came to Mr. Lucy or anything he proposed.
Of course, the boys would be taking the most visible risks, but the girls had been part of the planning and saw themselves as much a part of the conspiracy as were the boys. In their minds it would be difficult, if not impossible, to separate themselves from the results.
It was Mr. Lucy, though, who pointed out how important it was that it not look like a conspiracy. The girls could be encouraging and supportive, but they shouldn’t be found at the scene or around the boys shortly afterward.
“I know how it is in schools,” Mr. Lucy said. “You four are getting identified and maybe even isolated by the others. You’re hanging out together everywhere nowadays, right?”
They admitted it and they saw his point. And the fact that he could so anticipate things made them even more confident. They were being tutored by the best, by the strongest, by the wisest.
When they reached the point in the village where they would part and go their separate ways to their separate homes, Johnny turned to the three others, his face tight with determination, a mirror of Mr. Lucy’s.
“Don’t call each other tonight and talk about it,” he said. “Someone in your house might overhear your conversation. Just for a precaution, let’s mix more with other students tomorrow. Get into conversations with different kids during lunch and in the halls. And whatever you do, don’t challenge or annoy Mr. Zola in any way.”
“I’ll go back to sleeping in his class,” Gary said. “Just for tomorrow.”
There was a short silence among them. Johnny could sense that they all wanted to touch one another. It was strangely similar to a team going into a huddle before a play in a game. He smiled knowingly and put his right hand out. Sandy looked down at it a moment and then put hers on top of his. Sheila did the same quickly and then Gary joined in. No one said anything. Johnny pulled away and they exploded into different directions.
And they all did the same the next day—they followed Johnny’s suggestion and stayed away from one another, except for that one moment right before the last period of the day when Johnny and Gary confronted one another outside the boys’ room in the lower corridor. Johnny’s nod meant that it was all a go. Things had proceeded just as Mr. Lucy predicted they might.
During his fifth period study hall, when Johnny knew Mr. Zola had a free period, he got a pass from the study hall monitor to go to see him. He purposely did it toward the end of the period so there would be little time to talk.
Mr. Zola worked in his room during the fifth period, preparing his lab for a demonstration to be carried out during the next class. In a school as small as theirs, it wasn’t hard to get to know everyone’s pattern from time to time, and in fact, on two occasions, Mr. Zola had asked Johnny to come to him from the study hall for a conference fifth period. Both times, pre-Mr. Lucy, it was to be bawled out for bad work or no work.
As Johnny walked to Mr. Zola’s room he fortified himself by conjuring up images of Mr. Lucy, especially the expressions on his face when he spoke and the look in his eyes whenever he came to a conclusion or gave advice. He reviewed some of that advice and thought hard about power and control. He remembered how much easier it had been than he thought it would be to handle his father and how good things were at home for him since he had followed Mr. Lucy’s commands. Surely Mr. Zola was no challenge for him, not with the arsenal of techniques with which Mr. Lucy had provided him. He was confident, and before he reached Mr. Zola’s room, he was even anxious for the challenge.
For a moment Johnny stood in the classroom doorway unseen and watched the unsuspecting young teacher preparing his lab lessons. Johnny concentrated, putting all his mental power into his gaze, just the way Mr. Lucy said he put his when he was about to attempt somethi
ng that required strength and determination. It must have worked, Johnny thought, because Mr. Zola turned around as though he felt the intensity.
“Masterson? What’s up? Where are you supposed to be?”
“Study hall,” he said, “but I have a pass.” He held up the slip of paper.
“To where?” Zola glared at him suspiciously.
“To here,” he said.
“Here?”
“To see you, Mr. Zola, but…” Johnny let his voice drop and looked away.
“But what?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I oughtta forget it.” He looked down at his note as though the problem was on it.
“Forget what? What is this?” Stephen Zola’s interest was piqued. He put down the beaker and walked toward the classroom doorway. “Come on, what is it? You cheated on the last test?”
“No, nothing like that,” Johnny said indignantly. He stared into Zola’s eyes, his own eyes burning with intensity, the blue seemingly getting more blue. “I wanted to talk to you because I thought you could understand and you could help. I get the feeling you know something anyway.”
“Know something? About what?” Mr. Zola’s face softened. The classroom clock above them ticked down to the last minute before the passing bell, just as Johnny had anticipated.
“About Mr. Lucy,” Johnny said. He made it seem as though the words were stuck in his throat.
“Lucy? Who’s Mr…Wait a minute, isn’t that the tutor you and a few others have been using?”
“Yes sir, but…they shouldn’t. No one should,” Johnny said quickly.
“Why shouldn’t they?”
“I can’t talk right now, Mr. Zola. What I wanted to know was whether or not I could talk to you about it.”
Mr. Zola just stared at him for a moment.
“Why don’t you talk to your father and mother about it?”
“I guess you don’t know my father and mother.”
“Well, what about him?”
The passing bell rang.
“Is there any possibility of my talking to you later on?”
“I have a meeting after school, but I suppose…”
“No, I can’t stay after school. My father has me doing something at home. I’ve got to leave right away. Look,” Johnny said, putting on the most sincere expression he could muster, “I thought of you because you seem to have seen through some of this. You seem to understand already. But if you don’t think you should…”
“No, it’s not that. All right, when do you want to talk?”
“Do you think I can drop over to see you tonight, say around seven-thirty?”
Students began approaching the classroom door.
“Okay,” Mr. Zola said quickly. “Seven-thirty is fine.”
“Thank you,” Johnny said and left the room. After Johnny furtively signalled A-OK, Gary proceeded with step two.
“I’ve got to see Mr. Carman,” Gary said. “It’s very important.”
Sandy Feldman, the principal’s secretary, looked up at him over her wide-rimmed, thick-lensed glasses that had slid down the bridge of her nose. There was some ink from the duplicating machine on her chin. She had just had trouble with it because a sheet of paper got stuck between the rollers and she had to reach in and pull it out. Her fingers rubbed up against a roller and she brought the ink out with it. Then, she scratched her chin. It was the third time the machine had given her trouble this week.
She put down the face mirror and looked up at him, disgust and impatience written all over her.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No.” He stared down at her.
“Well, Mr. Carman’s had a very bad day. He just got into his office and…”
“This is an emergency. I’ve got to speak to him. He’ll be angry if I don’t,” Gary added, practically spitting out the words. He knew that would swing her. He could sense he made her uncomfortable. She knew him well. His long hair and habitually aggressive look unnerved her. He always looked explosive to her and even more so now.
“Just a minute.” She continued to wipe her hands and began muttering under her breath. A few moments later, she buzzed the principal. “I have Gary Rosen out here and he says he must see you.”
“What’s it about?”
“He wants to know what it’s about.”
“It’s personal,” he said, sneering.
“He says it’s personal.”
“All right. Send him in,” Bill Carman said, the annoyance clearly visible in the tone of his voice.
“Go on,” Sandy told him. She waved her hand as if she was chasing away an insect.
Gary smiled when he turned away from her and walked to the principal’s office door. Mr. Lucy was right when he said that most adults resent young people. “Maybe it’s because they remind them of what they’ve lost,” he said, and Gary thought that was certainly true when it came to his mother. He didn’t know what he could say about his father, except they were both like creatures from different planets.
“What’s the problem, Gary?” Bill Carman asked even before Gary got completely into the office. The principal was sitting back in his desk chair and a cup of coffee was steaming on his desk. He had his top shirt button undone and his tie loosened. The strands of his hair were wild and loose as though he had just run his fingers through them.
Gary closed the door softly without speaking and went to the chair in front of the principal’s desk, reviewing Mr. Lucy’s instructions as he did so. Look reluctant, Mr. Lucy had said. Look pained, but don’t overdo it.
“I got to tell you something, Mr Carman. I got to tell someone.”
Bill Carman sat up in his seat. He put the coffee aside and leaned on his desk.
“Well, what is it?”
“It has to do with me and Mr. Zola.”
“Oh. Look, Gary…”
“No, you don’t understand,” Gary said quickly. “It’s not a problem in class. I didn’t get into trouble with him or anything.”
“It isn’t? So, what is it?”
“It’s something I did with him…at his place. Something he made me do,” Gary said, and looked down. There was a long pause. Bill Carman swallowed hard and then instinctively buttoned his top shirt button.
“I don’t understand, Gary. When you say ‘his place,’ you mean…”
“His apartment. I’ve gone to his apartment.”
“Yes?”
“He invited me. I wasn’t doing so well in his class, you know, so I thought…well, some others have done it,” he added quickly.
“Done what, Gary? I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
“Things,” Gary said. It’s not to going to be easy for you to say, Mr. Lucy had told him. It’s got to look like you can’t do it. That’s very important. It will affect the principal. I know the man; I know how he’ll react. Trust me.
“You’ve got to tell me exactly what you mean, Gary.”
“Bad things,” he said, and brought his hands to his face.
Bill Carman was sure the blood had left his face. He actually felt it drain away. He was never fond of Stephen Zola; the man was not his type. To Carman, Zola personified the new breed of teachers they had been getting lately—the distinctions between them and the young people they taught were diminishing. It was hard to determine who was imitating whom.
Carman didn’t like to think himself a prude, but when he was a teacher, it was not acceptable to be seen frequenting the same discos the high school students frequented. A jacket and tie were a mandatory part of the teacher’s presentation. There was a clear difference in language. It wasn’t important to seem on the same level as the student—in fact, it was important not to.
This tutor he had directed Gary and some other students to, Mr. Lucy, that was the kind of man who went into teaching. Where had they all gone? To industry? The legal profession? Bill Carman had come to believe that teaching as a career had been emasculated. And now, to hear this about one of those new types he had
to tolerate…
“Do you realize how serious a thing you are saying, Gary?”
“Yes, sir,” Gary said. He looked up. His face was red and his eyes looked teary.
“Have you told anyone else this?”
“No, sir.”
“Not your parents.”
“Oh no. They wouldn’t understand. Please don’t tell them.” He looked like he would panic any moment. Bill Carman was afraid he might have an hysterical kid in his office. A horrible scenario passed through his mind: Gary crying hysterically, his secretary running in, students in the hall being attracted to the noise, the whole story exposed and in his office!
Part of this was his fault. He blamed himself for not getting around the building enough, for not observing his newer teachers enough. He should have been more like the old-fashioned administrators; he should have poked his nose into everything. Now, something like this, coming as a surprise…the members of the Board of Education will wonder how come he had no inkling. Was he so out of touch with his staff and his students? Make him the superintendent of schools?—what a laugh. What a tragedy.
“All right, all right. Take it easy. This doesn’t have to go any further than this office, Gary, but I’m going to have to know some details, and I want to continue to impress upon you the seriousness of what you’re saying. If this turns out to be a false accusation, you can kiss your public school education good-bye, not to mention all sorts of legal problems, lawsuits…you understand that?” Carman hoped that his outline of possibilities would dissuade the boy and end it all here, but he looked more determined.
“Yes, sir. It started when he told me to come over to his house to go over some things I didn’t understand in class. I thought that was nice of him, so I went. When I got there, he offered me a glass of wine.”
“Wine?”
“Yes, sir. I didn’t want to appear impolite, even though I’m not very fond of wine. My mother’s always drinking wine…I hate it. But I drank some of it. It tasted like shit. Excuse me.”
“No, go on,” Carman said, impressed with the authenticity and frankness.
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