Read Online All-American by John R. Tunis - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: John R. Tunis
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the Academy, out of everything he was used to and into a very different league.
IV
Stacey leaned toward him. “Hey, Ronald, lemme have a look at your French paper, will ya?”
Ronald glanced up, uneasy. Mr. Robinson, the history teacher, was handing out corrected papers, with his back turned. So Ronny slipped his French lesson across, feeling uncomfortable. At the Academy this was never done, first because the teachers would catch you, second because they were there for help day and night, and third because as a rule every boy came to the first period prepared. At Abraham Lincoln as a rule almost every boy came to the first period unprepared.
Mr. Robinson came down the aisle toward him, handing out papers and calling names. “Gracie... John... Rosie... Bob... Sue... Paul... Barbara... Susie... Donald.”
The first names jarred on Ronny’s ears. At the Academy the masters called you by your last name: Perry, Davidson, Treadway, Rodman. Most teachers at Abraham Lincoln called you by your first name. He much preferred the Academy method.
Hang it, he always preferred the Academy method; he wished he didn’t but he did. Why was it always necessary to compare everything with the Academy? No matter what happened he invariably seemed to be thinking back to Academy days, not always with regret, either. Trying to stop it did no good. He must try harder, must end this business somehow.
Then Mr. Robinson placed his own paper before him. Turning it over he saw the mark on the back—B plus. Stacey, across the aisle, leaned across, took it from his desk, looked at the mark, and without saying a word but with an air of disgust which was plainly genuine, dropped it again. In some queer way Ronald felt ashamed of his paper. The teacher came toward them and slapped Stacey’s down. Ronald couldn’t help reading the large handwriting on the outside:
“This was stolen from the Encyclopedia.”
There it was. He was shocked. Cheating, outright cheating, shocked him. He gasped. Stacey half-turned in his seat, looked over, glaring.
“Hey, what’s the idea, you looking at my paper, huh?”
Ronny was confused, feeling Stacey’s hostility and not for the first time. Painfully he realized the distance that separated him from that chattering roomful of boys and girls. To them he was a stranger; suspected by most, disliked by many. Look, he wanted to say, look, I don’t like the boys at the Academy; they were my friends, they aren’t anymore. I came down here to be one of you, to be friends with you, because I wanted to, of my own free will. But you...
They were laughing, paying no attention. He was still an outsider, that kid from the Academy, the football star who had beaten them last fall.
It was the football crowd he should have known, with whom ordinarily he would have been pals. Yet it was the football crowd who had never forgotten Meyer Goldman’s injury. In the front row sat Dave Mancini, one of the tackles, who had merely nodded once and paid no more attention. At the side was Mike Fronzak, the right tackle, who never seemed to see him. At his left was Ned LeRoy who hardly noticed his presence in the room.
LeRoy wore a badly fitting, greenish sweater with a checked shirt underneath. His short curly hair receded from his high forehead; his square black jaw stuck out prominently. For several days Ronald had wanted to talk to him, but LeRoy never gave him any chance. If they passed in the corridors, LeRoy was always looking the other way. Never since his earliest days at the Academy had Ronald felt so lonely. They didn’t give you the silent treatment here. They just never bothered about you. It was all impersonal. This place could be tough, too.
While the distribution of papers continued, there was a constant buzz and hum of conversation, a noise which would have meant a wholesale handing out of detentions at the Academy. However, no one seemed to mind and the teacher paid no attention. Once only did Mr. Robinson
IV
Stacey leaned toward him. “Hey, Ronald, lemme have a look at your French paper, will ya?”
Ronald glanced up, uneasy. Mr. Robinson, the history teacher, was handing out corrected papers, with his back turned. So Ronny slipped his French lesson across, feeling uncomfortable. At the Academy this was never done, first because the teachers would catch you, second because they were there for help day and night, and third because as a rule every boy came to the first period prepared. At Abraham Lincoln as a rule almost every boy came to the first period unprepared.
Mr. Robinson came down the aisle toward him, handing out papers and calling names. “Gracie... John... Rosie... Bob... Sue... Paul... Barbara... Susie... Donald.”
The first names jarred on Ronny’s ears. At the Academy the masters called you by your last name: Perry, Davidson, Treadway, Rodman. Most teachers at Abraham Lincoln called you by your first name. He much preferred the Academy method.
Hang it, he always preferred the Academy method; he wished he didn’t but he did. Why was it always necessary to compare everything with the Academy? No matter what happened he invariably seemed to be thinking back to Academy days, not always with regret, either. Trying to stop it did no good. He must try harder, must end this business somehow.
Then Mr. Robinson placed his own paper before him. Turning it over he saw the mark on the back—B plus. Stacey, across the aisle, leaned across, took it from his desk, looked at the mark, and without saying a word but with an air of disgust which was plainly genuine, dropped it again. In some queer way Ronald felt ashamed of his paper. The teacher came toward them and slapped Stacey’s down. Ronald couldn’t help reading the large handwriting on the outside:
“This was stolen from the Encyclopedia.”
There it was. He was shocked. Cheating, outright cheating, shocked him. He gasped. Stacey half-turned in his seat, looked over, glaring.
“Hey, what’s the idea, you looking at my paper, huh?”
Ronny was confused, feeling Stacey’s hostility and not for the first time. Painfully he realized the distance that separated him from that chattering roomful of boys and girls. To them he was a stranger; suspected by most, disliked by many. Look, he wanted to say, look, I don’t like the boys at the Academy; they were my friends, they aren’t anymore. I came down here to be one of you, to be friends with you, because I wanted to, of my own free will. But you...
They were laughing, paying no attention. He was still an outsider, that kid from the Academy, the football star who had beaten them last fall.
It was the football crowd he should have known, with whom ordinarily he would have been pals. Yet it was the football crowd who had never forgotten Meyer Goldman’s injury. In the front row sat Dave Mancini, one of the tackles, who had merely nodded once and paid no more attention. At the side was Mike Fronzak, the right tackle, who never seemed to see him. At his left was Ned LeRoy who hardly noticed his presence in the room.
LeRoy wore a badly fitting, greenish sweater with a checked shirt underneath. His short curly hair receded from his high forehead; his square black jaw stuck out prominently. For several days Ronald had wanted to talk to him, but LeRoy never gave him any chance. If they passed in the corridors, LeRoy was always looking the other way. Never since his earliest days at the Academy had Ronald felt so lonely. They didn’t give you the silent treatment here. They just never bothered about you. It was all impersonal. This place could be tough, too.
While the distribution of papers continued, there was a constant buzz and hum of conversation, a noise which would have meant a wholesale handing out of detentions at the Academy. However, no one seemed to mind and the teacher paid no attention. Once only did Mr. Robinson
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