Chương 7: Book 1 - Chapter 6

The following day, Thursday, started with nothing but trouble.

"Listen kid, I've been dropping you off here for three years. Get off the bus!"

"Mr Reynolds," I said, as politely and calmly as I could.

"I'm supposed to go the high school for the rest of the year. I'm taking advanced classes."

"For the last six weeks of school? What are you trying to do run away? Is there a test today or something?" I pulled out my new ID, and showed it to him.

"See, I registered at the high school yesterday. They gave me a brand new ID." He scrutinized it, then pulled a clipboard from a slot next to his seat. He hummed to himself as he flipped through it.

"John Cook?" he finally asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Go have a seat. It looks like you are going to the high school, but I want you up front everyday on my bus, not in the back." I sat down in the empty front seat as I heard the rise of amused gossip from the Middle Schoolers and High Schoolers behind me.

"Yes sir. I'd be up here anyway with my little sister." When I arrived at the high school, I moved slowly through the crowd of much bigger kids, working my way straight to the school office. I found myself at head height for seemingly every swinging backpack. I waited politely in line at the front desk, which was very busy. Larger kids kept going around me to the counter, and I was never called on. When the bell rang, the students departed, and I walked up to the counter.

I didn't recognize anyone I met the previous day, and no one seemed to notice me. They kept busy with their normal work.

"Excuse me? Can some one help me?" I asked finally as the second bell rang. The older office lady finally looked down at me.

"Are you lost, kid?"

"No, ma'am. I'm the new 9th grader. I'm here to pick up my books." She laughed derisively.

"I thought I had heard everything. What do you want kid?" I handed her my high school ID.

"Ma'am, as I said, I'm here for my books. Superintendent Clayton personally assured me yesterday that they would be waiting here for me this morning, along with my class schedule."

"Is this your big brothers ID?" she asked.

"Ma'am, is there a supervisor or perhaps the Principal you can call?"

"I am the supervisor, and this is my office. I don't know anything about any books for some kid pretending to be a freshman."

"Ma'am, I've been here for 25 minutes waiting to get my books. I'm now late on my first day. I ask again, please fetch Principal Endicott. I do not know why you were not informed that yesterday afternoon I came to this very office to get my ID card. I do not know why you were not informed that I would be here this morning. I do not know why you will not please find someone who does!" I said, barely holding back the frustration I was feeling.

"Don't you get smart with me you little punk. I'll give you a whipping you'll not forget."

"I think that is just enough, Ms Balfour," came a firm voice from the back of the office.

"You will not threaten a student again, especially not our newest prized pupil." She whipped around to face the man as he walked up.

"This little punk kid just came in here pulling a prank with his big brother's ID," she said loudly, waving my ID in the air.

"Principal Endicott, thank you. If you could please retrieve my student ID before you fire her, I would appreciate it," I told him. He snatched the ID from her hand, then turned his stern gaze upon her.

"Ms Balfour, you are dismissed." He handed me the ID, and I clutched it in relief as Ms Balfour stood there looking stunned.

"Ms Avis," he called down the hallway. She appeared a moment later and gave me a smile of recognition.

"Please accompany Ms Balfour and see that she collects her personal items only, and leaves the school grounds without keying anybody's car," he told her, and her smile blossomed into full delight.

"Now Mr Cook," he said turning to me, "Since you are tardy, I will write you a pass, but first come with me to my office." I followed him around the counter and down the hall, passing a suddenly sputtering and vividly cursing Ms Balfour, whose face was tight with fury. We reached a narrow hallway, turned down it, and entered the door marked 'Principal Endicott.' He took the time to get comfortable at his desk, a bit of grin beginning to show. It bloomed into a welcoming smile as he finally adjusted his seat.

"I sincerely apologize for that woman's behavior. She has been here longer than anyone else, and frankly, should have been dismissed much sooner. Her attitude has been a disservice to this institution and its students. Oh well, at least the school board won't question the decision when I tell them the story.

"Now, let's see. I've had a deeper look at your schedule, and your work so far has been impressive. I'm not going to force you to keep at this pace, but will trust that you will set a pace that feels comfortable for you. I can trust you not to push yourself too hard, correct?"

"Yes, sir. So far it's only been busy, not difficult. I can't imagine how bored out of my mind I would have been at the normal pace of school." Stolen story; please report. He gave me an acknowledging grin at that indisputable truth.

"Well, we have a few administrative items that I wasn't ready to handle yesterday." He handed me a piece of paper.

"This is your locker number and the locker combination. Follow me and I'll show you where your mailbox is first." He lifted his considerable bulk out of his chair, and I followed him back towards the office, but we went down the hall past the main office to a utilitarian mail room with a counter on one wall but cubbies on the other three. There on the counter sat a very large pile of books, neatly stacked. He pointed at a lower cubby that had my name on it, along with several pieces of paper inside.

"This is your personal mailbox," he said, gathering the papers inside, placing them neatly on top of the pile of books. He pointed at a box in the corner marked 'internal mail' saying, "That is the drop point if you need to send a note to a teacher." He pointed at the shelves above the counter.

"Use the blue forms from that shelf to request one on one time and put it in the box. Check your mailbox first thing each morning. Teacher response time is usually one school day, if you send a message on Friday, don't expect a response till Monday. Do not ever put something in someone else's cubby. Everything must go in the outgoing mail box.

"Now, follow me to your locker, you can come back for your books later," he said, leading me out a back door that opened into the main school hallway. The lockers lined part of the hallway, with classrooms coming off both sides of the wide hallway in both directions. I could hear the noise of ongoing classes faintly, and smell the harsh cleaners used on the floor tiles. He stopped at a long bank of lockers and gestured for me to approach, so I stepped up to locker 247, spun the dial, and opened it.

It was empty, and clean. I placed my school bag inside, closed it, and spun the lock closed. I stepped back to look at the Principal, with a grin full of the excitement I was feeling to be here. Giving me a big grin in return, he waved me encouragingly down towards the east end of the hallway.

"Let's head to the typing classroom," he said. When he got to the room he opened the door. I walked in behind him finding a room with high ceilings and a bank of windows looking out over a grass field. It had long tables that filled the room. The chairs were tucked in haphazardly under the tables. But on the table, in front of each chair, sat a blue electric typewriter.

"I actually teach this class myself, so follow me over to my desk," he said. A smaller table at the front of the class held a single blue IBM typewriter. A large magnifying lens sat suspended over it, and a big mirror hung off the wall above it. He saw where I was looking.

"The setup was specifically designed so the students could see me demonstrate for the class," he explained as he sat down.

"Watch as I demonstrate feeding paper," he said. I carefully observed from the side as he fed a clean blank sheet into the machine.

"Got that?" he asked.

"Yes, sir."

"This is how you clear a paper jam, replace a ribbon, and finally this is the on and off switch," he said as he demonstrated each step. Seeing it was ready for use, he set his hands on the keyboard.

"Since you play the piano this should be relatively easy to learn." He paused to look at me to insure I was listening.

"Practice is the only thing that will improve speed and accuracy. This is your starting position. There are little bumps on these two keys so you can be sure that you are at the correct starting position." He then showed me the right way to pick out each letter, demonstrating which finger to use from each hand.

"There are two shift keys. Though it might feel ok to reach for it with a pinky on the same hand reaching for a key, you should always use the opposite hand. Doing otherwise will slow you down and cause mistakes.

"Now, you sit at the typewriter while I watch." He watched in the mirror, so he could observe my technique.

"Start by placing the paper in the machine." When he saw I did it correctly he lifted a book.

"I'm going to read slowly. Start typing what I read."

"No don't use your thumb to reach for the B. Thumbs stay on the spacebar. B is reached with your left pointer finger," he said, holding the digit up to be sure it was identified. He read for only another minute.

"You're doing good. Here is the book," he said handing it to me.

"I was reading from page thirteen. Finish typing it." I glanced at the page, and set the book down on the table next to me. Looking at the typewriter I started typing.

"Don't look at your hands…" he started to say, then paused.

"Why are your eyes closed?"

"I'm concentrating," I said as I kept typing the page, my speed slowly building. He walked beside me and examined the book, comparing it to the page I was typing.

"I see what all the fuss is about. You memorized the whole page just by glancing at it?" I disagreed.

"Not a glance, I did have to read it. I also memorized the keyboard, so I know where all the keys are." My future memories gave me hundreds of thousands of hours typing on typewriters and computer keyboards. It was a task I would be very proficient at, as I always knew before I made a mistake, so I could correct it before it happened. I reached the end of the page to type and looked up at the Principal.

"Your assignment for this class will be to duplicate this stack of papers," he said pulling a stapled packet from the tray on the table.

"They are in a variety of different formats, but mostly letters. It will give you the practice you need, as well as familiarize you with the correct way to format personal and business letters.

"Each page you type will need your name, student number, and the class the assignment is for, at the top. This is a school wide requirement, for all typed reports, in every class."

"Great, I'll get started, should I keep typing here, or move to one of the other typewriters?"

"Here is fine," he said, adjusting himself so he could watch with the mirror. He watched carefully as I burned through the stack rather quickly, after reading each page and gathering enough blank paper for the assignment.

"Well John, I'm impressed. You're already a better typist than some who've been in this class all semester." He handed me a stapled packet of papers, "This is your typing final. It's 20 pages to duplicate, you have a 15 minute timer, and this shield must be in place so you can not look at your hands. Do you think you are up to the task?"

"Yes, sir." He set everything up. Seeing that I was comfortable, he nodded.

"You may begin," he said, and started the timer. I quickly read through the papers. There were documents, letters, and a few other items that a person might need to type. I would have to copy the style and formatting in addition to the words. It was a piece of cake. I finished in eight minutes. I looked up, and Principal Endicott had the biggest grin on his face.

"I think I can give you an A on that class, John. Well done! My God, that was an amazing display of raw talent!" He took a breath, shaking his head in disbelief.

"One final thing before the bell: this is your hall pass. You can not give it to anyone else, but for the rest of the year you can come and go as needed. This room remains unlocked during school hours, so if you need to type any assignment, as long as a typewriter is available, you are welcome to use this room."

"Thank you, sir. I think I'll go put my books away before the bell rings."

"Yes, that should be just enough time. You have Home Ec next period, and I'll let the study hall know that you were with me this morning for your first two periods."

"Thank you, sir." I went back with him through the office door, past the front desk to the mailroom, and gathered my heavy books. I looked at my class schedule, carried my stuff to my locker, and put everything away. I then followed the map to the Home Ec room, which was at the far west end and one of the larger classrooms.