All-American

by John R. Tunis

  “Uhuh... uhuh...”

  Sandra continued, talking fast. Between his mother’s movements and the surprise of the telephone call, he could hardly understand what the girl was saying. Could he what? Could he come over for a little while? Inside something went thump-thump-thump. He found it hard to reply. His mouth was dry. It made no difference, for she continued without pause.

  “...Have you heard Artie Shaw’s... Concerto for Clarinet... you heard it... you haven’t?”

  “Yes... I mean... well, I guess not.”

  “An’ I got Cab Calloway’s ‘Jumping Jive.’ Don’t you just love him, Ronny? An’ his ‘Minnie the Moocher.’ Oh, definitely, I love him...”

  “Yeah, he’s snazzy.”

  “Do you know the house?” Know the house! Of course he knew the house. He knew the house all right. “It’s the one with honeysuckle in front of the porch.” Again something went funny inside Ronny. That honeysuckle vine was noticeable from the street. It had a long swing hammock behind it, well concealed from the street. And the other way round, thought Ronny.

  “Yeah. Uhuh. Uhuh.” That seemed to be about all he could manage to get out. How could you talk to a girl when your mother was doing a one-act show with eyes and hands right in front of you?

  “Then you’ll be right over?” There was almost anxiety in her voice, and he felt queer for the third time.

  “Ok. G’bye.” The telephone was hardly down when his mother spoke.

  “Now, Ronald.” Whenever she began in that tone it meant trouble. Oh, gosh. “Now, Ronald. You must not go out this evening. Please forbid him to go out, Dad.”

  That’s it. Passing the buck to Dad. Gee, this was terrible. This was worse than the Academy. A fellow had a call from his girl, and his parents acted like... like it was a reform school.

  Unexpectedly his father came to his rescue. “No, I won’t forbid Ronald to go out. He knows better than either of us whether or not he can afford to go out. You’ve got to let him assume responsibility for his own acts....”

  “But he’s been out twice this week already, once to that stamp club and then to the movies. Now these girls!”

  “It’s not either these girls, it’s Sandra Fuller.”

  “Sandra Fuller?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, whoever she is, she can’t be a nice girl, pestering you at home like this. If I’d called your father up...”

  “Oh, Mother...”

  “Now, now. Look here, this is entirely up to Ronald. He should make his own decisions. He knows he can’t even take his College Boards for Yale unless he gets A’s and B’s in all his studies. He must stand at the top of his class.”

  “But, Dad, I told you, I got a B in the last history test; B plus it was, honest I did.”

  “All right, all right. It’s up to you, Ronald. You’re old enough to be on your own now. You chose to leave the Academy and go to High School. So you must decide these things for yourself. If you feel able to go out tonight, that’s your responsibility.”

  It was a responsibility he felt quite willing to accept. Why not? The French was a pipe; he knew that. The history was easy, too. The English theme could be done without trouble in his first study period. Of course the Latin was harder. Yes, that was harder. And Mrs. Taylor was plenty strict. True, the lessons were shorter than those at the Academy; but the one for tomorrow was really difficult, and she expected you to know it. It began Quid nunc Catilina. Not to be laughed off.

  Oh, well. The thought of Sandra’s hair, blonde, down the back of her neck, and that rose-colored sweater, and the hammock behind the honeysuckle on the porch pushed the next day with its Latin class from his mind. He went upstairs.

  Thank goodness! There was one clean shirt in his drawer, his best one, too. Then a necktie. His were a sorry, messy lot, creased and wrinkled. He tiptoed into his father’s room and took a brand-new tie, blue with gray stripes, a necktie that cost money. It matched his shirt perfectly and his best blue suit. Downstairs his mother was still talking, and he could hear words and sentences rising from the living room.

  “...These girls today... never get into college, he’ll never...”

  He wet his hair, brushed it, put on his suit coat, and in order to avoid more conversation and more complication did not go down the front way but sneaked out by the back stairs. This meant he could not go into the hall closet for his coat; but fortunately the evening was warm. Out the back door for his bike. Ordinarily with Dad in that mood he could have asked for the car and probably got it. However, what with the necktie and his mother’s unconstructive attitude, he decided it best to say nothing and remain unseen.

  It was a longish ride, even longer than he realized, and uphill much of the way. Already a drizzle had set in which made the going slippery and slow. His suit most probably’d be all out of press when he got there, too. At last he saw the corner ahead. There was the house, right beside the street light. He noticed as he put the bike inside the yard that the honeysuckle shielded the hammock from the light.

  He was hot, and paused a minute to wipe off his face. Darn it, no handkerchief. You always forgot things when you were hurried. Shaking the mud from his spattered trousers, he went up the porch and fumbled for the bell. Inside there was a tinkle. Soon the door would open and she’d be there to greet him. He straightened the knot of his necktie.

  Actually it was a long while before anyone appeared or there was any movement within. Suddenly the porch around him lit up and the door opened. It was not Sandra.

  “Good evening.”

  “’Evening. I’m Ronald Perry.”

  She stood smiling pleasantly. “Oh, yes, I think I’ve heard Sandra speak of you.”

  This was better. But still she didn’t ask him inside. There was an unpleasant silence.

  “Did you want to see Sandra?”

  Did he want to see her! What a question! “Yes’m.”

  “I’m afraid she isn’t at home this evening. She went out riding with a boy and two girls who called for her. Did she expect you?”

  Once more he was warm all over. Only this was a different kind of warmness. It was the kind of warmness he had felt alone and exposed in the cafeteria when his tray had fallen to the floor. The warmness of confusion and disgust. It was also the warmness of disappointment. Perspiration trickled down his forehead.

  “Yes’m. I mean, no’m.” What was he saying? He stumbled backward down the steps, embarrassed and awkward, hardly hearing her words.

  “...So sorry, she’ll be so sorry to have missed you. She’s spoken of you... I remember...”

  “Yes’m. Yes’m... good-bye... er... goodnight, yes’m.”

  He picked up his bike, tripped over the spokes, and tore his best blue trousers. Heck! Now look! Well, there you are. Women are like that. He went to the curb, yanked at his bike and sat down on the seat, ready to push off. It was disagreeably damp. By this time the rain was coming down harder, and he put up the collar of his suit coat.

  A car came slowly past under the street light, the one that didn’t shine on the hammock on the porch because of the honeysuckle vine. It was an ancient T-Model Ford, all painted white with wisecracks written over it. At the wheel sat a figure with a familiar face. As the car slid past he recognized the straight red hair and grinning mouth of Stacey. Derision was written all over that freckled face.

  “Oh, Ronny, hi-ya, Ronny!”

  Ronald sat motionless on the wheel. The rain came down faster, oozing inside the collar of his coat and soaking his best shirt and that new striped necktie. He started to shove off when he noticed an enormous sign painted across the full length of the car. It said:

  DON’T LAUGH! YOUR DAUGHTER MAY BE INSIDE

  He looked in at the two girls as the car went slowly past. One was Sandra Fuller.

  II

  Gosh! You’d think these kids were about ten years old. Now at the Academy...

  There were snickers when he slapped his coat into his locker, titters when he came downstair
s to the first study period, snickers in every class throughout the day. Always behind his back, always so he could hear them. The school that morning did little else but whisper and titter and snicker over the happening of the previous evening. Everyone knew about it; Stacey had taken good care of that. Stacey and that Sandra woman.

  Although Ronald had the first period free, with the events of the night before on his mind he found himself unable to work. Try as he would to concentrate, he was continually interrupted by snickers or whispers. Nor was he the only pupil unprepared, he discovered. Right at the start of the Latin class, Mrs. Taylor called on that grinning, red-haired idiot.

  “Will you please begin this morning, Jim. Page 273, no, 274, first paragraph. Antiquis temporibus dei et dea ob injurias...”

  Stacey, who up to that moment had been the recipient of considerable admiration for his feat of the previous evening, was silent. No wonder. Mrs. Taylor often crossed up the class by not starting at the opening lines of the lesson in order to see whether you had really done the work or only the first part. Suddenly Stacey came back to the class, to Abraham Lincoln, to reality.

  “H’m, yes’m, h’m... now... in ancient times the...”

  “Where do you see ‘now,’ Jim?”

  “No’m... in ancient times... the gods and goddesses... on account of... no, because of... I mean on account of...”

  “On account of is quite correct.”

  “On account of...” There was a longish pause. “Oh, yes, on account of the... the... the...” He hesitated, scowling at the printed page before him.

  “Ob injurias supplicam,” said Mrs. Taylor expectantly. But she was not a teacher to fool with. Some teachers let you get away with anything; not Mrs. Taylor. She knew her stuff and knew immediately whether you knew yours. If you didn’t, you were in for trouble. Ronny buried his head in his book, wishing for the hundredth time since the previous evening that he had taken the advice of his mother and stayed home to work.

  Mrs. Taylor broke into Stacey’s mumblings. “Well, Jim, it’s quite apparent you were not studying last night.” She looked up quickly from her desk as a titter ran over the entire classroom.

  “Ruth? Tommy? No? Unprepared? What’s the matter with this class today? Ronald Perry, will you help us out, please. Translate, starting at the top of page 273.”

  Ordinarily it would have been simple. Often at the Academy he had done longer and harder assignments on sight; but with that girl watching from her seat up front, with Stacey slumped in his chair across the aisle, scowling and muttering phrases that drew subdued snickers, Ronny felt rattled. His voice was dry and hollow, his tone uncertain.

  Mrs. Taylor interrupted. She stood no fooling. You knew your stuff—or you didn’t. This time her remark cut him. “Evidently you were out last evening also, Ronald.”

  Now the class roared. It was no subdued titter, it was not a ripple of amusement shared among themselves, it was a hearty laugh that swept the entire room. If anyone did not know about the evening’s episode, it was, Ronald saw again, no fault of Stacey’s. Only Mrs. Taylor failed to get the point. She looked up in astonishment now, glancing around the class and wondering what she had said to cause such merriment.

  The laughter continued. Everyone laughed except Ronald. Mrs. Taylor made a mark in her classroom book. He knew what this meant. She was giving him an X for being unprepared, almost the first X he had received since coming to Abraham Lincoln High.

  The moment the class ended, Sandra came toward him; but he grabbed his books and fled. She was the one person he wished to avoid.

  The snickers and titters followed him all day, even upstairs while he tried miserably to eat in the cafeteria where Gordon Brewster insisted on sitting at his side. From the adjoining tables he could hear remarks and whispers, and finishing his meal in silence he refused to talk to Gordon. Silently also he went down to Mr. Horvath’s class in algebra, Gordon panting along at his heels like a trained dog.

  Latin was one thing, algebra was another. For just a few minutes the titters disturbed him when Mr. Horvath asked him to come to the board and solve a problem. The back of his neck felt red and his face was hot; but this disappeared as soon as he got into the working of the equation. Before long he forgot about the class behind, solved it, and putting down the chalk returned to his seat.

  “Yes... that’s right; now, Stacey... will you please try the next one. On page 49.” Unlike the other teachers, Mr. Horvath always called you by your last name.

  Jim stumbled up, his red hair bristling, his face determined. He wiped off Ronald’s slanting handwriting in such a way as to arouse a chorus of snickers over the entire room. Then he put some figures on the board. Mr. Horvath, watching from the side where he was leaning against a windowsill, interrupted.

  “X over 2? Is that correct? X over 2? Can’t you even state the problem correctly, Stacey?”

  The redhead wiped out the figures hastily with a sweep of his arm and substituted the right ones. Then he stepped back a little, looked at the blackboard, stood there for a minute, came closer and began writing. After a bit he hesitated and erased it all once more. At last he went to work.

  “No, no, no, that’s not it at all, Stacey.” The voice of the teacher was exasperated. Ronny liked this man; he also knew his stuff and allowed no fooling. His discipline was strict, he permitted no talking, and was death on copying and cheating. “We have no time to waste today; this is a long lesson.” He bent over his black classroom book. Aha, thought Ronny, giving him an X.

  “It looks to me, Stacey, as if you weren’t studying last night.”

  Like Mrs. Taylor he was wholly unprepared for the sudden outburst that followed. Jim, who had put the chalk down with relief and started for his seat, grinned at the noise. The teacher still leaning against the windowsill looked up at the quick roar of the class, that little black book in his hands. “I see nothing funny in this.” The class did. They laughed again, and louder. All, that is, save Ronald.

  Mr. Horvath shook his head, realizing that something was going on which he couldn’t appreciate. He made the telltale mark in his book. There goes the X, thought Ronald, and serves Stacey right, too. There’s some justice in things, anyhow.

  “Gordon Brewster, will you solve this one for us?” The black-haired boy came forward eagerly, almost a little too eagerly. It was easy enough for Ronny to see why Stacey disliked him. With quick, competent gestures he erased the meaningless mass of figures left by his predecessor, and began writing. The chalk made screechy noises on the board.

  “Please don’t make the chalk squeak,” said Mr. Horvath from the window. Gordon, engrossed in the task before him, half turned, inquiringly. “I say please don’t make the chalk squeak, Brewster. Hold it by the end.”

  “Oh, yessir, yessir.” He went on, more quietly. His fingers flew across the board. The figures grew, multiplied rapidly. At last he finished and turned toward the teacher by the window. There was a moment’s silence while the class watched.

  “Yes, that’s it.” His head went down once more as he entered a mark in his black book, and Gordon started for his seat. He had to pass Stacey and at that exact moment, just as he had done in the cafeteria, the Irish boy stuck his foot into the aisle. Not much, but enough so Gordon tripped and would have fallen had he not reached out and caught Ronald’s desk. The teacher looked up in the confusion, guessing what had happened.

  “That’ll do, Stacey. You better pay close attention to these problems; they’re important. Remember you can’t do them if you aren’t prepared, and if you ever get behind in this class you’ll have great trouble catching up. And don’t forget, the baseball season’s coming.” This reference to baseball meant that unless he did better Stacey would fail in algebra and perhaps be unable to play. Stacey took the remark in silence and the class continued.

  Finally the bell rang, the last of the day. From the room above, from those across the hall, from each side came the scraping of chairs, the banging together of books, t
he laughter and talk, that torrent of noise which meant liberation. Release from school and work and teachers and lessons for at least a few hours. Instantly the hall outside was filled with chattering groups.

  Ronald hastily slapped his books in a pile and dashed for the door. This time Sandra was right behind him.

  “Ronald! Wait a minute. Please wait a minute.”

  He had no wish to wait, for her or anyone else. To get away, to get out and home as soon as possible was all he wanted, so he slipped into the hall before she could say another word. She was there, at his side, then in a few steps she was lost in that mob moving in both directions up and down the long corridor.

  On the third floor he stopped for a minute at the water fountain, and while leaning over heard Stacey’s voice booming nearer. As he straightened up the red hair went past. Ronald walked down the hall behind him. As usual Stacey was amusing himself at the expense of Gordon Brewster.

  “Hey! Quit that, will ya, Stacey?” Gordon, just ahead, turned to remonstrate but was laughed off.

  “Aw, go on, you cluck—you.”

  Stacey continued walking close behind Gordon, stepping on his heels every few feet. Ronald reached his locker and paused. He leaned over. 8. 17. 9. He opened it, threw in his notebook and algebra, took out the Cicero, the French grammar, and reached inside for his coat.

  “Hey, Ronny. Wait a sec.” Gordon was panting at his side.

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m gonna go home with you, ok?”

  No! Not ok. Not ok at all. Ronny wanted to be alone, to stay by himself more than ever, yet there was an appeal in that voice he could not resist. The note of fear in it angered him, too, and as he straightened up from his locker he noticed the frightened look on the face of the other boy. This kind of thing must stop. Meyer Goldman was right; there’s only one thing, stand up to the guy. Don’t let him get away with it.