“That’s right,” grunted a hulking form in the back of the room. “Cheryl Anne’s daddy is the king of this dump. She’s kinda like a princess.”
I tried a stern, teacherish frown. “What’s your name-Prince Albert?”
“Theodore Immerman, ma’am; everybody calls me Thud. I’m in charge of the sports section of the yearbook, if there is a yearbook. Are you gonna take Parchester’s place and tell us what to do, or just take the rest of the money?” Smirk, smirk.
“Why are you so sure Miss Parchester is guilty, Mr. Immerman? Isn’t it possible that there was a simple error on someone’s part?”
His massive shoulders rose like snowy Alps. “I don’t know, ma’am. I just know she had the checkbook, and now the money is gone. I sure as hell didn’t write myself any bonuses.”
The class tittered nervously, but Thud seemed pleased with his little joke. It was, I decided, in keeping with his intellectual capacity. A girl in the front row murmured that they could continue to organize the layout of the sophomore pictures, even though Miss Parchester was not available to supervise them.
I rewarded her with the roster, instructed the class to busy themselves with the layout of said pictures, and went to the cabinet to find more copies of the Falcon Crier. The Miss Demeanor column was quite clever for a post-pubescent mind, although I wasn’t sure if the ailing Rosie had written the examples before her quarantine, or if my daughter had done so. The coq au yin was a bit startling; the only chicken Caron had eaten at my dining-room table arrived in a cardboard bucket, an original recipe but not of mine.
Before I could dig out a copy of the newspaper, an argument broke out on one side of the room. Cheryl Anne Weiss was not happy with darling Thud, nor he with her.
“I can’t do it!” the blond girl squealed. Her ponytail swung around her head to flop across her eyes, and she swung it back with a practiced hand and an equally practiced scowl.
“You said you could, dammit!” Thud thundered. “You swore that he wouldn’t yank my eligibility!”
“He won’t listen to me, Thud. I tried as hard as I could, but now I don’t know what to do. I’ll think of something else.”
I slammed the cabinet door to get their attention. “Excuse me for disturbing you, but the discussion will have to be postponed until after class. I left my whistle at home.”
Thud’s simian brow sank until his eyes were barely visible, and his lips crept out. Cheryl Anne, on the other hand, gave him an impertinent sneer and flounced back to her desk. The ponytail and other things wiggled with disdain. The rest of the students resumed their whispers, feigning no interest whatsoever in the argument.
I decided to forego the newspaper and spent the rest of the period preventing a holocaust in the cave. Thud and Cheryl Anne exchanged numerous dark looks and made numerous inarticulate and threatening noises, but restrained themselves from further verbal combat. I kept the maternal frown on Lull power until the bell finally rang and I could send them away. As the two met in the doorway, they resumed their argument. I could hear them all the way down the hall, but I didn’t care. It was three-twenty-five.
The cafetorium was at the far end of the first floor. I found a seat toward the rear, smiled vaguely at those around me, and prepared for utter tedium. Other teachers looked equally excited. The Furies marched in and took possession of the front row; Miss Hart and Coach Finley slipped in to sit in the row behind me. Evelyn and Sherwood joined me seconds later, looking like naughty children who had come straight from the cookie jar. Sherwood bowed slightly and gave me a broad wink.
Mr. Weiss strode to the front of the room, with Miss Dort on his tailwind. He snapped at her to take attendance (to whom would she send it?) and glowered until she made her way from “Aaron” to a final “Zuckerman.” All were present.
“This will be short and to the point,” he barked. “Item one:
the schedule for Homecoming activities is on the mimeograph Miss Dort will distribute, along with the names of dance chaperones and stadium-concession supervisors. There will be no changes, tradeoffs, or excuses. If your name is there, be there. Thirty minutes early.”
Miss Don snapped to attention and passed out the pale purple mimeographs, eyeing us challengingly. When she arrived in the rear, she curled her lips at me. “You’ll cover for Parchester at the dance, Mrs. Malloy,” she whispered with the expression of a barracuda swimming alongside a cellulitic snorkler. I managed a nod.
Mr. Weiss tapped his foot until Miss Dort finished her chore and scurried back to his side. “Item two: the auditors will be here next week to examine every club ledger, along with the journalism account and our general accounts. I want records in my office tomorrow morning before home room. I want copies of expenditures for the previous year. I want a list of deposits and checks for this semester-in duplicate. Your books had better balance to the last cent. No excuses.
A groan went down the rows, and a particularly unhappy one from Miss Hart behind me. According to Caron, she had oodles of accounts. No hot date that night. From Sherwood Timmons came a barely audible, “Quem Dens vult perdere. prius dementat- those whom the Gods wish to destroy, they first make mad. The man’s a veritable draconian these days.”
“Any questions?” Mr. Weiss said, looking over our heads.
Paula Hart raised her hand. “Mr. Weiss, the seniors are frantic to know what will happen with the yearbook. Several of the girls actually burst into tears in my room because they’re so worried they won’t have a memento of their final year.”
To my surprise, Mr. Weiss did not roar at the insubordination. He located Miss Hart in the corner and smiled with all the sincerity of an airport missionary. “I have not reached a decision about the Falconnaire. The seniors would be concerned, naturally.” He tugged on his chin, then glanced at Miss Dort. “Tell the substitute-ah, the Malloy woman-to get on with the yearbook, Bernice. Miss Hart and I wouldn’t want our senior class to be disappointed, would we?”
“Wait a minute,” the Malloy woman yelped. “I have no idea how to ‘get on’ with the yearbook. I don’t make books; I sell them. They come ready made.”
“The Falconnaire staff can handle it,” Miss Don said firmly.
Paula Hart tapped me on the shoulder. “I’ll help whenever I can, Mrs. Malloy, and I’m sure Coach Finley will, too.” Jerry nodded without enthusiasm.
In the front of the room, Mr. Weiss’s expression turned to stone. “Coach Finley may find himself occupied with other matters, Miss Hart. I received certain information today from Farber College that may shed a new light on Coach Finley’s career at our school.”
That earned a collective gasp, followed by furtive looks and whispers. Sherwood murmured, “Has Weiss made alapsus lingua, do you think?” His comment earned a kick from Evelyn. “A slip of the tongue,” he translated in a wounded tone as he rubbed his shin.
Jerry stood up, his hands on his hips like a playground combatant. His blue eyes were circles of slate, his dimples tucked away for the moment. “What’s that supposed to mean, Mr. Weiss?”
“That means, Mr. Assistant Coach Finley, that you and I shall have a long conversation as soon as the auditors are gone.
“As long as I have your attention, Mr. Weiss,” Jerry continued tightly, “What about Immerman’s eligibility? He said you refused to consider a temporary suspension of the rule until mid-semester grades are in. That means he can’t play in the Homecoming game. Our policy says that-”
“I am aware of our school policy. I do not need a first year assistant coach to explain it to me, nor do I care to engage in an argument about my decisions. Immerman is no longer eligible to participate in extracurricular activities, in that his grades are below one point two five. Is that clear?”