He raised his voice and stepped toward me, and finally, I blinked. He stared, waiting for a response. I gazed around the classroom and saw the way everyone was looking at me, each with an expression half of wonder, half of amusement. Some of the boys were already giggling, and that fed the fire of rage building in Mr. Leshman.
"Well?" he demanded. "Well what?" I replied, and the entire class roared with laughter.
Mr. Leshman's face turned ruby red. "I'll tell you well what, young lady. You go see the dean this minute," he shouted, and pointed at the door. "Go on!"
I shook my head. "Why? What did I do?" I asked him, which made everyone laugh again,
"Get yourself to the dean's office," he said, pronouncing each word distinctly and holding his arm out, his forefinger pointed at the door.
There was a hush in the room while I gathered my books, closed my notebook, and rose. I hunched my shoulders to use my body the way a turtle uses its shell and hurried out of the room. The back of my neck burned with the embarrassment that scorched my spine, e. I could barely breathe, because my throat had tightened with a stiffness close to rigor mortis.
The dean's office was next to the principals office. His name was Dean Mannville, and he looked like a former professional wrestler, with a physical presence that was intimidating and eyes that were unmerciful, eyes that looked as if they had witnessed capital punishment. He was bald, with large facial features. If he ever smiled, it was behind closed doors. The students actually believed he was a retired hit man. No one, not the meanest, toughest students, could stare him down-- or eyeball him, as he would say. He had no hesitation about throwing someone out or turning him or her over to the police if he or she had committed any sort of criminal act. In his eyes, there was always a war under way in the building. A sign above his desk read: "This is a school. Anyone who prevents learning is the enemy and will be so treated."
His office was small, with no windows. When anyone was sent there, the dean would close the door and, according to students who had told me about it, he or she would feel very threatened. Sometimes, they were left sitting there for hours with the heat turned up. There was the story about one boy who had been violent and supposedly even attacked the dean, who then battered him in defense, beating him so much that he had to be taken to the hospital in an
ambulance. The boy claimed he never attacked him, but once that door was closed, who would believe him? Some kids thought the story was an urban legend, something created to keep the mystique of the dean's unflinching hardness believable. Whether it was true or not, it worked.
Of course. I didn't think the dean would be physical with me, but this was the first time I had ever been sent out of class for disciplinary actions. and I was frightened, not only of what would happen to me but also of the effect it would have on my parents. Mama didn't need an ounce more grief, and here I was about to give a pound of it to her. And Daddy certainly didn't need another reason to be mean these days.
The dean's secretary told me to sit and wait when I informed her I had been sent out of class. Minutes later, one of my classmates. Peggy Ann Harkin, arrived with the referral form Mr. Leshman had filled out about me. She smiled with glee when she handed it to the secretary.
"Leave your body to science," she whispered as she walked past me and out the door.
The door to the dean's office was closed. I tried not to act frightened or upset. I really didn't
understand why Mr. Leshman had gotten so any at me. Other students in his class had done worse things and not been sent out. He had just taken my response the wrong way. I didn't mean to be insubordinate, which was surely what I was being accused of doing. I rehearsed my defense and waited, my heart thumping.
The dean's door finally opened, and a boy named David Peet stepped out with his head down, his shoulders turned forward and inward. He was a redheaded boy in the junior class and recently had been removed from the boys' basketball squad for vandalism at an opponent's school. He damaged lockers after a game. I didn't know what new offense he had committed.
The dean handed his secretary a slip of paper that looked like a parking ticket.
"Mr. Peet will wait here for his father to pick him up." he told her. "Put this in his file, if there's any room left," he added. He turned to David. "Sit down, and keep your mouth shut. I don't want to so much as hear you breathe too loudly."
David glanced at me and sat, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor.
The dean picked up my referral and, without looking at it, gestured to indicate I was to go into his office. I rose and walked into it. He closed the door behind himself and went around to his desk.
"Sit," he commanded. He then read the referral and smirked. I wasn't sure if he was disgusted with me or with the referral. He looked up at me and sat back,
"Okay," he said. "Let's hear your side of this."
"I didn't mean to be insubordinate. I didn't hear the question, and he thought I was being disrespectful, I guess."
"You think Mr. Leshman doesn't know when a student is being a smart-ass in his class? He's been teaching here twenty-five years. I would say he's seen just about everything."
"I didn't mean to be disrespectful," I said. "I've never been in trouble in class."
"There's always a first time. Showing off for someone, a boy perhaps?"
"No," I said quickly.
He leaned forward and clasped his big hands. "I know how that can be," he said suddenly in a softer, almost kind tone of voice. "Someone eggs you on, and you get in trouble for it. That what happened?"
"No. No one egged me on or anything. I was just..."
"What?"
"I was just thinking about something else and didn't hear him."