Torchie when we left the room. Torchie shrugged. “Not that much. You’ll get used to it. He’s really a good guy. Just make sure you don’t make any comments about things being missing when he’s around. He’s really sensitive about that ‘cause he’s always getting in trouble for stealing stuff.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” I glanced back into the room. Lucky was in the corner, reaching into the wastebasket. I couldn’t tell whether he was putting something in or taking something out. I guess it didn’t matter either way.
“Anyone ever get out of here?” I asked Torchie as we walked down the hall.
“Kids drop out when they get old enough,” he said. “Or they get arrested and go to jail. That’s only happened a couple of times, when there were real bad fights. Principal Davis doesn’t like to call the cops. You can graduate, of course. But that’s no good, because then you have to go to the alternative high school down in Danville. And that place is ten times worse than here.”
“No, I mean does anyone ever get back to regular school?”
“There’s the review,” Torchie said.
“What review?” I asked.
“Didn’t you read your handbook?”
I thought about the charred paper in my wastebasket. I guess I couldn’t blame Torchie. Even if he hadn’t set it on fire, I’d already tossed the handbook out. “Tell me about it.”
“They get together at the end of your first month and discuss whether you should stay. After that, you’re here for good.”
“They?” I asked.
“Your teachers,” Torchie said. “The ones who see you in class. It’s not really fair. There were four fires the day I had my review. They blamed me. For all four! Can you believe that? I heard it was the quickest review in the history of the school.”
I was only half listening to Torchie. My mind was replaying my first meeting with each of my teachers. So far, I’d pretty much guaranteed they’d hate me. One month. Maybe if I just kept my mouth shut and did my work, I’d have a chance.
There was only one class left for the day. I promised myself, no matter what, I wouldn’t make another teacher angry. It turned out to be a difficult promise to try to keep.
GOING NOWHERE
I guess every teacher had his own idea of how to teach a class at Edgeview. Mr. Briggs obviously belonged to the crowd that thought a teacher should be a buddy and a pal. Ms. Crenshaw was really into getting the class involved. Mr. Parsons was one of those teachers who experimented with all sorts of methods. Miss Nomad seemed to think a smile and a cheerful attitude would work wonders.
Mr. Langhorn, the geography teacher, had a more traditional approach. Mr. Langhorn depended on discipline from start to finish. Strict discipline. As he stomped into the room, I sensed a change in everyone’s mood. They had that pathetic look that a dog gets when it expects a whack on the snout with a rolled-up newspaper. Mr. Langhorn stood at his desk and glared at us for a moment. He wore his hair in a crew cut and it almost looked like he ironed his suits. I had the feeling he spent a good chunk of each day polishing his shoes.
Even though everyone was reasonably quiet, Mr. Langhorn began class by shouting, “Quiet! No more talking!” His voice was hoarse, like it had suffered from a lifetime of yelling. Little bits of spit sprayed from his mouth. I was happy the seats Cheater had grabbed for us weren’t in the front row. Being close to Mr. Langhorn for a whole class would probably be a lot like taking a warm shower.
For the next hour, he filled us with geography facts. Anytime anybody fidgeted a little or whispered, Mr. Langhorn shouted. I remembered
him yelling, shouting, ranting, raving, and snarling. I remembered him pointing at kids and demanding silence. I remembered him calling us all sorts of names. But I didn’t remember a single fact he told us about geography—not one ocean or river or capital. I knew he talked about geography. When
“I’ll keep that in mind.” I glanced back into the room. Lucky was in the corner, reaching into the wastebasket. I couldn’t tell whether he was putting something in or taking something out. I guess it didn’t matter either way.
“Anyone ever get out of here?” I asked Torchie as we walked down the hall.
“Kids drop out when they get old enough,” he said. “Or they get arrested and go to jail. That’s only happened a couple of times, when there were real bad fights. Principal Davis doesn’t like to call the cops. You can graduate, of course. But that’s no good, because then you have to go to the alternative high school down in Danville. And that place is ten times worse than here.”
“No, I mean does anyone ever get back to regular school?”
“There’s the review,” Torchie said.
“What review?” I asked.
“Didn’t you read your handbook?”
I thought about the charred paper in my wastebasket. I guess I couldn’t blame Torchie. Even if he hadn’t set it on fire, I’d already tossed the handbook out. “Tell me about it.”
“They get together at the end of your first month and discuss whether you should stay. After that, you’re here for good.”
“They?” I asked.
“Your teachers,” Torchie said. “The ones who see you in class. It’s not really fair. There were four fires the day I had my review. They blamed me. For all four! Can you believe that? I heard it was the quickest review in the history of the school.”
I was only half listening to Torchie. My mind was replaying my first meeting with each of my teachers. So far, I’d pretty much guaranteed they’d hate me. One month. Maybe if I just kept my mouth shut and did my work, I’d have a chance.
There was only one class left for the day. I promised myself, no matter what, I wouldn’t make another teacher angry. It turned out to be a difficult promise to try to keep.
GOING NOWHERE
I guess every teacher had his own idea of how to teach a class at Edgeview. Mr. Briggs obviously belonged to the crowd that thought a teacher should be a buddy and a pal. Ms. Crenshaw was really into getting the class involved. Mr. Parsons was one of those teachers who experimented with all sorts of methods. Miss Nomad seemed to think a smile and a cheerful attitude would work wonders.
Mr. Langhorn, the geography teacher, had a more traditional approach. Mr. Langhorn depended on discipline from start to finish. Strict discipline. As he stomped into the room, I sensed a change in everyone’s mood. They had that pathetic look that a dog gets when it expects a whack on the snout with a rolled-up newspaper. Mr. Langhorn stood at his desk and glared at us for a moment. He wore his hair in a crew cut and it almost looked like he ironed his suits. I had the feeling he spent a good chunk of each day polishing his shoes.
Even though everyone was reasonably quiet, Mr. Langhorn began class by shouting, “Quiet! No more talking!” His voice was hoarse, like it had suffered from a lifetime of yelling. Little bits of spit sprayed from his mouth. I was happy the seats Cheater had grabbed for us weren’t in the front row. Being close to Mr. Langhorn for a whole class would probably be a lot like taking a warm shower.
For the next hour, he filled us with geography facts. Anytime anybody fidgeted a little or whispered, Mr. Langhorn shouted. I remembered
him yelling, shouting, ranting, raving, and snarling. I remembered him pointing at kids and demanding silence. I remembered him calling us all sorts of names. But I didn’t remember a single fact he told us about geography—not one ocean or river or capital. I knew he talked about geography. When
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