In God we trust_ all others pay cash - Jean Shepherd [86]
Ahead of me Simonson shoved his smudgy scrap of paper, bearing the title Sam, The Young Shortstop. From behind me Helen Weathers poked my ear with Lassie Come Home, and I, violins playing pianissimo in my soul, added my magnificent epistle to their scrubby lot. Miss Bryfogel simply stacked the book reports together, shoved them in a drawer, and we went to work on gerunds.
At long last my heavenly tryst with Miss Bryfogel ended. The bell rang, and caressing her lovingly with my burning, myopic eyes I drifted out into the hall, knowing that the trap was set. She had a whole weekend to think about me and our life together. Now that she knows the Higher Things to which I aspire, the pinnacles I have conquered, there can be no stopping us!
Saturday and Sunday flew by on the wings of ecstasy. And then Monday—blessed Monday. It was the first time in the recorded history of education in the state of Indiana that a normal, red-blooded, Male kid ever sprang out of bed at 7 A.M., a full fifteen minutes early, and took off for school without so much as a single whine.
The day dragged endlessly, achingly toward that moment of sublime triumph that I knew must come, and the instant I walked into Miss Bryfogel’s classroom I knew I had made the Big Strike. I was not even at my seat when she called me up to her desk. I turned, the way I had seen Clark Gable do it many times. Miss Bryfogel, her voice sounding a little odd—no doubt due to passion—said:
“Ralph, I’d like you to stay a few minutes after class.” The Jackpot!
I swaggered back to my seat, a man among children. Fifty-five minutes later I stood before Miss Bryfogel’s altar, ready to do her slightest command. She opened:
“Ralph … ah … about your book report. That was a very well-written book report.”
I said:
“Heh, heh, heh. Good.”
I was not used to this. Nobody ever talked about my work. I was strictly a C+ man, and C+ men never get praised. Miss Bryfogel was talking in a strange, low voice.
“It was very well written. Did you really … enjoy the book?”
“Yes. It was a very exciting book.”
Then Miss Bryfogel did something I had never seen a teacher do before. The first faint whisper of Danger wafted through my ventilating system. She just sat and looked at me for a long time and finally said, very quietly:
“Ralph, I want you to be very truthful with me.”
Truthful! Was Miss Bryfogel laboring under the delusion that I was leading her on, toying with her affections? I said:
“Yes?” I was beginning to sweat up my corduroys a little.
“Did you read the book or did you copy that from somewhere?” Well, there is one golden rule of all book reporters: never admit you didn’t read the book. That is cardinal.
“Yes … I read it.”
“Where did you get the book? Did you get it out of the library? Did Miss Easter give you that at the library?”
The Animal in us never sleeps. The dog lying on the hearth, eyes half-closed, senses Evil. His back hair rises out of pure instinct. The acrid scent of TROUBLE, faint but real, filtered in through the chalk dust and the lunchbags. My mind, working like a steel trap, leaped into action:
“Well … ah … ah … a kid gave it to me. Yeah, a kid gave it to me!”
Miss Bryfogel closed in.
“A kid? Anybody from class?”
Uh oh! Look out!
“Ah … no! A kid … I met on the playground at recess. A big kid.”
“A big kid gave you that book? That’s a big book, isn’t it? A thick book.”
“Yes, it’s the biggest book I ever read.”
“And a kid gave it to you? Does he go to Harding School?”
“Ah … I never saw that kid before. No, I don’t know where he’s from. A big kid … by the candy store.”
Miss Bryfogel swiveled her chair and stared off at the Venetian blinds for what seemed like two years. Slowly she turned back to me.
“A big kid by the candy store … gave you Boccaccio’s Decameron?”
“… ………… yeah.”
“Did he say anything to you?”
“… yeah. Yeah, he said … ‘Here’s a book!’ ”
“He said ‘Here’s a book?’ And he gave you that book?”
“… …… yeah!”
“By the candy store? Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”