Chapter 10 — It’s Not Fair
J
ohnny Cluett sat at his study hall desk, oblivious of the rows of other desks bolted to the floor and occupied by rows of shirts and sweaters and uncombed heads – oblivious too of the Supervisory Presence of Mr. Johnson. Mr. Johnson, math teacher, unregenerate college athlete, down-the-line disciplinarian, was not at all oblivious of Cluett. He was suspicious of him, for Cluett was small, slight, and quick on his feet but had no interest whatever in formal athletics. He saw Cluett as a clever boy in a foxy sort of way, one who had a reputation as the leader of last year’s “eighth-grade Mafia,” a group constantly in and out of trouble and much discussed in faculty meetings. Mr. Johnson had never had Cluett in class but believed that he needed stepping on and suspected that he had escaped the consequences of many crimes. The Eye of Suspicion rested on Cluett. Johnny was deeply involved in his English paper. The assignment was to describe a rope ski tow. Johnny had seen one, had been plucked to the top of the hill at the Camden Snow Bowl last winter. He knew just how it worked. But to get it into words on paper was not easy. He began: “A rope ski tow is a long, long rope which goes up a hill and it goes over a big wheel and it goes over other wheels coming down and you hang on to it and go up.” He read it over. It was lousy. He hadn’t even said it was on a ski hill. He crumpled up the paper in frustration and threw it on the floor. “On a hill covered with snow…” “Cluett, pick up that paper and put it in the basket,” roared Mr. Johnson. “What do you think this is, a public dump?” Johnny returned with a jolt from the Snow Bowl to the study hall, picked up the paper and started down the aisle with it. Allen Merton stuck his foot out. Johnny saw it, stumbled over it noisily, and pitched the paper into the basket with a basketball motion. “Cluett, sit down! This is a study hall, not a basketball court.” “Yes sir. Sorry, sir.” Johnny returned to his seat, not daring to kick Merton’s foot again, and tried to get back to the Snow Bowl. “There is this steep hill all covered with snow. People want to ski down it but they don’t want to clime up it so there is a long rope that goes up it called a ski tow. You hang on to the rope and it hawls you up.” Dead stop! The springs of creativity were dry, but Johnny knew he had not done the job. “Kin I sharpen my pencil, sir?” “No, Cluett, you cannot disturb the whole study hall merely to sharpen your pencil! If you could perform the same operation on your wits, it might be worth it. Here, use my pencil but be sure I get it back. “Thank you sir. Yes, sir.” Back to the Snow Bowl. “The rope hasn’t got any end to it and just goes round and round over wheels and there is a motor at the bottom that makes it go and you have to have a ticket to get in line to grab it.” The spring was dry again, but this time Johnny was satisfied that he had it. He looked at the clock, slapped his notebook shut, and got a hard, level glance from Mr. Johnson. “One more outt of you, Cluett, and you get a handful of demerits.” It isn’t fair, thought Johnny. I haven’t done anything. There are plenty of other guys pulling stuff in here and old Johnson always has his eagle eye on me. Merton tripped me and he never said anything to Merton. Billy Edwards has been passing notes to Pete 48
