As they did so she stared intently at them, as if she were watching for something in particular. None of them knew what it was, and even the independent boys from the back of the room had nothing to say as they took their usual seats. “Fine,” Miss Reuben said, when it had been done.
All was still. They sat waiting, fearfully.
“You children have had quite a good time the last couple of weeks,” Miss Reuben said. “You’ve had your summer vacation in advance. You’ve done exactly as you please. I hope you enjoyed it, because in the next month you’re going to be looking back to it and thinking to yourselves how lucky you were.
“Do you care to know what the result of your behavior was? You drove an old lady out of this school. An old lady who was one of the original teachers here at Garret A. Hobart Grammar School. Before your parents were born.
“And in another month she was going to retire. You made her last month here impossible. You made it impossible for her to have her last month, which she deserved.
“You made her ill.
“Of course, I know not all of you were equally responsible. I had a long talk with Mrs. Jaffey.
“I asked her who was responsible. Which of you.
“Do you know what she said?
“Mrs. Jaffey wouldn’t tell me which of you. ‘They’re all fine children,’ she said. What do you think of that? You hounded her out of this school where she taught forty-one years and you made her ill, and do you think she’d tell on you? No, not a word.”
Even the larger, tougher boys had slunk down in their seats. Shame and unhappiness touched them all.
“Do you know what you’re going to do?” Miss Reuben said, in a voice that grew gradually louder. “You’re going to write to Mrs. Jaffey and tell her how sorry you are.
“I’m going to find out which of you are the smart-alecks. I’ll find out. I can tell.
“I’ve taught children a lot older than you. Back in the East where I come from I taught a high school class.
“Some of you are going to bide your time and then you’re going to test me. All right. We’ll see. I’m waiting.”
From the rear of the room a rude noise sounded.
Miss Reuben arose from her chair. “All right,” she said. She walked slowly down the aisle toward the back of the room. Her face was red and her forehead and lips were swollen. As she passed the children they saw that her eyes were bright and sharp and shining, like a bird’s eyes.
No one said anything. They cowered.
At the back of the room Miss Reuben stopped by a boy’s desk. That boy had not made the noise. Miss Reuben gazed down at him until he slouched with apprehension. They all saw him trembling, and some of them sniggered. At once Miss Reuben spun around and said,
“Be still!”
They were instantly still.
“Stand up,” Miss Reuben said to the boy.
The boy got to his feet, shoving his chair back clumsily.
“What’s his name?” Miss Reuben asked me class.
Together, they all said, “Skip Stevens, Miss Reuben.”
Swallowing with nervousness, Skip Stevens said, “I didn’t do it.”
“Do what?” Miss Reuben said. “I didn’t accuse you of doing anything.” She said it in such a manner that all the rest of them knew it was a joke, and they screamed with laughter.
As soon as they were finished, Skip Stevens garnered himself together and said as steadily and clearly as possible, “He did it.” He pointed to Joe St. James, who had done it.
Miss Reuben said to him, “Come up front, Skip. You’re going to sit in front of the desk.” Without glancing back, she started off up the aisle to her desk. Skip Stevens knew that he had to follow. He had done nothing, but he had to go along with her. His head down, conscious of his mortification, he shuffled along after her.
“Get a chair,” Miss Reuben ordered him.
He went to find an empty desk-chair from the back. But Miss Reuben said,
“Over here. Right beside me. Where I can watch you.”
So he had to drag a chair up and sit directly beside her. He tried to keep his eyes fixed on the floor; he tried to pretend that she was not there, close to him.
Time passed. The class was silent, afraid she would notice them and ask them something or make them do something.
What have I done wrong? he asked himself, his head down, eyes fixed on the floor. Why am I here? How did this ever come about?
There’s no reason for her to do something like that, he thought to himself. It’s unfair. Hatred of her grew in him, but, far more than that, the sense of guilt, of having made a mistake, maintained itself. The hatred passed away, but the feeling that he had been unable to do the right thing remained. It’s my own fault, he thought to himself. I made a mistake and I’m paying for it. She’s right. I hate her, he thought, but she’s right. Goddamn her.
He put his hands up over his face, covering his eyes.
“Have any of you ever been to New York?” Miss Reuben said presently, again smiling at them in her stern, efficient, impersonal way.
Finally, when no one said anything or dared to stir, a girl raised her hand.
“When was it?” Miss Reuben said.
The girl said, “Three years ago, Miss Reuben.”
To Skip Stevens, Miss Reuben said, “Go to the supply closet and get out the ruled paper and pass it around to each pupil.” She showed him the size sheet she had in mind. “For the first thing this morning,” she said, arising and going to the board, “I want you to write a composition.” On the board in huge printed letters she wrote:
MY IDEA OF NEW YORK CITY
“I want you to imagine you’re on a trip East, to New York,” she said. “I want you to tell me all the things you suppose you’d see there. Write about the subway, if you want. Or Coney Island. Or the stock market. Or the Yankees. How you think a ballgame would be to watch. Or the museums. Whatever you’d like.”
Without resistance, each student accepted the piece of paper that was handed out. The students began at once to scratch away. He returned to his seat, directly by Miss Reuben’s desk, and picked up his own pencil to write his name at the right-hand top of the paper. The only noise in the room was the handling of the paper, the breathing of the students, the pencils and erasers.
His seat was so close to Miss Reuben that he could smell the flowers that she wore. In the stuffy, closed-up room the smell reminded him of blackberries. Of lying in the garden, in the late afternoons at the end of summer, among the sweet, warm blackberries under the vines.
What the hell do I know about New York, he thought to himself. I’ve never been there. I’ve driven all around, but I’ve never driven that far East. It’s just something more to make us suffer. Something to make me feel more shame.
I can’t do it, he decided.
Presently Miss Reuben said, “Skip Stevens.” Her eyes were fixed on him, directly at him across the desk. “Why aren’t you writing?”
He had pushed away his paper and put down his pencil. On the paper was nothing but his name and the title of the composition.
“I can’t do it,” he told her. He sank down in his seat and avoided looking at her; his voice faded off into a mumble so that he could hardly make it sound. “Is it okay if I don’t write it?” he asked.
Miss Reuben said, “Everyone else continue writing.” Bringing her chair around she leaned toward him and over him, saying, “Why can’t you write about New York?”
“I never have been there,” he said. The smell of blackberries became so strong that he held his breath. He did not dare breathe; he felt hot all over, and his skin itched. He thought he might sneeze.