You Must Remember This

Chapter 21: A Throng Of Bearded Men

When Mr. T came back from the break room to see an orderly queue of roughly fifty students that hugged the wall and went all the way down the hallway, he knew he had to have a talk with Frank. Many of the newcomers were freshmen, whose initial energy from arriving at a new school had faded into droopy complicity; they mimicked the posture and mannerisms of the veterans around them, and thus looked beaten and worn. Alan, in his ingenuity, had commandeered a desk from another classroom and sat with a clipboard registering new arrivals, who then went against a white wall to have their ID photos taken. Mr. T stood there admiring the spectacle, along with a few other teachers, until Frank came to check in, who seemed just as surprised as they were.

"Isn't it a bit mean to get all these kids' hopes up only to waitlist them? And if you weren't planning on doing so, I think my classroom would be a bit, shall I say, cramped." Mr. T asked, still keeping one eye on the endlessly snaking line, which also included some current sophomores that felt they missed out last year. "Especially if this is going to be an everyday thing. Have you looked into renting the multi-purpose room?"

"They don't let students do that generally, but maybe I can pull some strings."

"Or what about holding the meeting outside? We can bring some tables out, cordon off the area, and with the spectacle you'd be sure to attract some curious glances." Mr. T could tell by Mr. Simon's bemused expression that this suggestion could backfire, but as Mr. T did love to dine alfresco, he saw no reason not to move the festivities out of his cluttered classroom.

"And you're sure that nobody would mind?"

"Oh, I'm sure somebody will complain at the next staff meeting, but how will they stop fifty-odd upstanding school citizens? And if they don't like that, they can always let you use the MPR." This seemingly being a perfect plan, Frank walked down the line to shake hands and greet all his new converts, and Mr. T slid by them to enter his besieged classroom. Mr. Simon and the others held back, and when the bell rang, the throng dispersed. "Don't you remember your first day of high school being like this?" Mr. Simon sarcastically delivered.

For an August morning, the weather was warm, although the meteorologists predicted the weather to turn in the afternoon. Tom rounded the corner into the student parking lot quickly enough that a father with his kid walking to the elementary school startled back; he honked at them as warning, even though he was not close enough to hit them. Driving quickly felt good: the wind whipping through Tom's air invigorated him, even though it was 10 AM, and nobody could mistake his red convertible for anyone else's car, especially with its aggressive shine. His father had stopped him from immediately ordering a custom license plate, thinking it crass; if not for that, he would be driving the Langley-mobile. Tom was disappointed that his car attracted few glances from anyone besides Ted, who accosted him as soon as he started walking up the steps:

"Nice ride. Where'd you get it?"

"One of my dad's clients had a spare car, and he heard I had just received my license and felt generous."

"So a bribe?"

"Well," Tom thought out loud, "this was after the case closed. My dad has rich clients—is it really unbelievable they have a few spare cars?"

"Save the next one for me." Ted had made a resolution before the year began to move past any prior missteps and finally have a normal high school experience; as much as it pained him to think it, maybe the universe had given him a sign. His school, with its weather stains and peeling paint, was not a hunting ground. It was not an utopia or a gilded hall of human virtue like everyone else seemed to think. It was a prison, one which trapped free minds like him and stabbed them in the back when they talked too much—not a prison, perhaps, but an insane asylum. Those poor freshmen who explored the school warily, searching for their new haunts, who would tell them that every step had been traced before, that there was probably still gum stuck under the tables older than them, and that the teachers wouldn't remember their names after a few years? School was a rip-off, plain and simple. Some of Ted's musings were indeed prompted by seeing Tom's new set of wheels, desiring very much to have his own to ride along the highway somewhere, and realizing that even if he had his own convertible, he could not go anywhere because he was at school.