7
That evening Laurie Saunders told her parents about her last two days of history class. The Saunders family was sitting at the dining-room table finishing dinner. Through most of the meal, Laurie's father had given them a stroke-by-stroke description of the 78 he'd shot in golf that afternoon. Mr Saunders ran a division of a large semiconductor company. Laurie's mother said that she didn't mind his passion for golf because on the course he managed to get out all the pressures and frustrations of his job. She said she couldn't explain how he did it, but as long as he came home in a good mood, she wasn't going to argue.
Neither was Laurie, although listening to her father talk about his golf game sometimes bored her to death. It was better that he was easy-going, rather than a worry- wart like her mother, who was probably the brightest and most perceptive woman Laurie had ever encountered. She practically ran the county's League of Women Voters by herself and was so politically astute that aspiring politicians seeking local offices were always asking her to advise them.
For Laurie, her mother was lots of fun when things were going well. She was full of ideas, and you could talk to her for hours. But other times, when Laurie was upset about something or was having a problem, her mother was murder — there was no way to hide anything from her. And once Laurie had admitted what the difficulty was, she wouldn't leave her alone.
When Laurie had started telling them about The Wave at dinner, it was mostly because she couldn't stand listening to her father talk about golf for another minute. She could tell her mother was bored too. For the last quarter of an hour Mrs Saunders had been scratching a wax stain out of the tablecloth with her fingernail.
“It was incredible,” Laurie was saying about the class. “Everyone was saluting and repeating the motto. You couldn't help but get caught up in it. You know, really wanting to make it work. Feeling all that energy building around you.”
Mrs Saunders stopped scratching the tablecloth and looked at her daughter. “I don't think I like it, Laurie. It sounds too militaristic to me.”
“Oh, Mom,” Laurie said, “you always take things the wrong way. It's nothing like that. Honest, you'd just have to be there feeling the positive energy in the class to really get what's going on.”
Mr Saunders agreed. “To tell you the truth, I'm for whatever will make these kids pay attention to anything these days.”
“And that's what it's really doing, Mom,” Laurie said. “Even the bad kids are into it. You know Robert Billings, the class creep? Even he's part of a group. No one's picked on him for two whole days. Tell me that isn't positive.”
“But you're supposed to be learning history,” Mrs Saunders argued. “Not how to be part of a group.”
“Well, you know,” her husband said, “this country was built by people who were part of a group — the Pilgrims, the Founding Fathers. I don't think it's wrong for Laurie to be learning how to co-operate. If I could get some more co-operation down at the plant instead of this constant back-biting and bickering and everyone trying to cover his own you-know-what, we wouldn't be behind in production this year.”
“I didn't say that it was wrong to co-operate,” Mrs Saunders replied. “But still, people have to do things in their own way. You talk about the greatness of this country and you're talking about people who weren't afraid to act as individuals.”
“Mom, I really think you're taking this the wrong way,” Laurie said. “Mr Ross has just found a way to get everybody involved. And we're still doing our homework. It's not like we've forgotten about history.”
But her mother was not to be appeased. “That's all very well and good. But it just doesn't sound like the right thing for you, Laurie. Babe, we've raised you to be an individual.”
Laurie's father turned to his wife. “Midge, don't you think you're taking all this a little too seriously? A little bit of community spirit is a terrific thing for these kids.”
“That's right, Mom,” Laurie said, smiling. “Haven't you always said that I was a little too independent?”
Mrs Saunders was not amused. “Honey, just remember that the popular thing is not always the right thing.”
Oh, Mom,” Laurie said, annoyed that her mother would not see her side of the argument at all. “Either you're being stubborn or you just don't understand this at all.”
“Really, Midge,” Mr Saunders said. “I'm sure Laurie's history teacher knows exactly what he's doing. I don't see why you should make this into a big deal.”
“You don't think it's dangerous to allow a teacher to manipulate students like that?” Mrs Saunders asked her husband.
“Mr Ross isn't manipulating us,” Laurie said. “He's one of my best teachers. He knows what he's doing and, as far as I'm concerned, what he's doing is for the class's good. I wish some of my other teachers were as interesting.”
Laurie's mother seemed ready to keep arguing, but her husband changed the subject. “Where's David tonight?” he asked. “Isn't he coming over?” David often came over in the evening, usually on the pretence of studying with Laurie. But inevitably he'd wind up in the den with Mr Saunders talking about sports or engineering. Since David hoped to study engineering just as Mr Saunders had, they had lots to talk about. Mr Saunders had also played high school football. Mrs Saunders had once told Laurie that it was surely a match made in heaven.
Laurie shook her head. “He's home studying tomorrow's history assignment.”
Mr Saunders looked surprised. “David studying? Now there's something to be concerned about.”
Because Ben and Christy Ross both taught full time at the high school, they had grown accustomed to sharing many of the after-school chores around their house — cooking, cleaning, and running errands. That afternoon Christy had to take her car to the garage to get the exhaust replaced, so Ben had agreed that he'd cook. But after that history class he felt too preoccupied to bother cooking. Instead he stopped at the Chinese take-away place on the way home and picked up some egg-rolls and egg foo yung.
When Christy got home around dinnertime, she found the table not covered with plates for dinner, but with books, again. Looking over the brown paper take-away bags on the kitchen counter, she asked, “You call this dinner?”
Ben looked up from the table. “I'm sorry, Chris. I'm just so preoccupied with this class. And I've got so much to do to prepare for it, I didn't want to take time to cook.”
Christy nodded. It wasn't as if he did this every time it was his turn to cook. She could forgive him this time. She started unpacking the food. “So how is your experiment going, Dr Frankenstein? Have your monsters turned on you yet?”
“On the contrary,” her husband replied. “Most of them are actually turning into human beings!”
“You don't say,” said Christy.
“I happen to know that they're all keeping up on their reading,” Ben said. “Some of them are even reading ahead. It's as if they suddenly love being prepared for class.”
“Or they're suddenly afraid of being unprepared,” his wife observed.
But Ben ignored her comment. “No, I really think they've improved. At least, they're behaving better.”
Christy shook her head. “These can't be the same kids I have for music.”
“I'm telling you,” her husband said, “it's amazing how much more they like you when you make decisions for them.”
“Sure, it means less work for them. They don't have to think for themselves,” Christy said. “But now stop reading and clear some of those books away so we can eat.”
As Ben made room on the kitchen table, Christy set the food out. When Ben stood up Christy thought he was going to help her, but instead he started pacing around the kitchen, deep in thought. Christy went on getting the meal ready, but she too was thinking about The Wave. There was something about it that bothered her, something about the tone of her husband's voice when he spoke about his class — as if they were now better students than the rest of the school. As she sat down at the table she said, “How far do you plan to push this, Ben?”