one another.
“Finished already?” Glen asked. The class period was only three quarters over, the entire period having been given over to the exam.
“Yeah,” Jerry answered flatly. The strange blending of emotions had gone from his eyes, leaving them dull and listless. He paused for a second, waiting for any further comment. Then, slowly, almost regretfully, he turned and made his way back to his seat.
Glen sat for a moment staring at his desk. Finally, wondering if his curiosity were too apparent, he reached for the paper Jerry had left.
The test was limited to five questions, but they were not simple ones. They required essay answers, some of them lengthy ones intended to show how well his students had grasped the content of their subject rather than their ability to memorize. The first three answers on Jerry’s paper were of little significance, brief and with little evidence of any interest on his part in the subject matter. The third, to his surprise, was lengthy, nearly two pages of writing.
The question had been one of comparison, the literature of today weighed against the literature of previous periods. Glen read the cramped, painfully small script slowly, his lips pursed thoughtfully.
“...early writers had several advantages. In the first place, they had the best ideas first, the first chance at plots and peoples. In the second place, the bad things they wrote have been forgotten, and only the better works still exist. But today’s writer has the advantage of writing about what people today know, and how they live and think. I like the old writers best....”
It wasn’t profound, and yet, there was merit to it. The boy had thought, and thought well on his subject. Without realizing it, Glen smiled. He turned back to the first page, wrote a large B at the top, then added a plus sign. It was, he knew, probably more than the work merited on its own. On the other hand, taken in context with the bulk of Jerry’s work, it was a singular effort, one well deserving of a reward which might well be regarded as an investment.
The bell rang, sounding the end of the period. The students shuffled about, some of them hurriedly finishing their tests and bringing them up to the desk, others crowding toward the door that led to the hall. Jerry was slow to leave, only starting toward the door when the room was almost emptied.
“Jerry,” Glen called impulsively, noting the sudden tension when the boy stopped. “Got a minute?”
The boy came without an answer to stand in front of the desk. Glen dropped his eyes to the test paper, still in his hand.
“Tell me,” he began, lifting his eyes to Jerry’s. “Do you like English?”
“Some of it,” Jerry answered after a pause. It was hard to tell whether he was being evasive or not.
“The classics? I gather from your test that you prefer the older writers.”
“Some of them,” Jerry shifted his weight, changing his books from one arm to the other.
“Why?” It was like swimming upstream against the current, Glen was thinking. He was getting nowhere, making no contact with the mind of the boy. Jerry only grimaced and shrugged in answer to the question.
“Better go along,” Glen told him, returning the test paper to the stack. “You’ll be late for your next class.”
“How did I do?” Jerry asked without moving.
Glen looked up again, surprised by the question and the interest it implied. “Very well. I think you can do a lot better, but it’s good. I gave you a B plus on it.”
Jerry blushed and grinned, a pleased yet bashful smile. He turned then and started toward the door. Puzzled, Glen looked away, wondering what the grin had really meant.
“Mr. Sanford?” Jerry was at the door, half in, half out of the room. “Thanks,” he said simply. Then he was gone.
Glen stared after him for a minute or two. Then, putting the papers carefully into the drawer of his desk, which he locked, he got up and made his way to the hall. This was his free period, ordinarily a time devoted to grading the various papers accumulated on his desk throughout the morning. Instead, he made way down the hall to the administrative offices. Mrs. Devraux was there, seated at her cluttered desk just outside the office of the principal.
“Good morning, Mr. Sanford,” she greeted him, flashing a too-sweet smile at him.
“Morning,” he answered briskly, not eager to become involved in one of her gossip-ridden conversations. “Can I see the file on the Allen boy—Jerry Allen?”
Mrs. Devraux stood and crossed to the large files behind her desk, rifling through them. She pulled out a manila folder and brought it to the counter. “Here you are,” her curiosity all too apparent. “Any trouble with him?”
“Not particularly,” Glen told her, opening the file. Seeing no promise of interesting news, Mrs. Devraux sniffed and returned to her desk.
Glen scanned the material in the file, pausing from time to time to examine some piece of information critically. Pete hadn’t exaggerated his appraisal of Jerry’s potential. The kid was bright enough according to everything in the file. Yet his grades ranged from mediocre to appalling. His attendance record showed a high percentage of absenteeism, even more tardiness, and once or twice he had been sent to the offices by an irate teacher.
Still, there was nothing really malicious or ugly in his behavior record, only a puzzling lack of interest or effort. He went on to the personal information. The father was not listed, and after the mother’s name was a notation in pencil—divorced.
Glen went back to the chart that showed the grades. English had fared better than most subjects, starting modestly well but curving downhill from the beginning of the term.
History was another exception, the first grade period ranging even higher than English, but following the same downhill trend. Was that the clue he was seeking, he wondered? Jerry had indicated an interest in antiquity, and his grades seemed to bear out this fact, dropping as the past became present.
He perused the rest of the chart. Physical education, one of the classes in which Pete would have the boy, was erratic, ranging from excellent reports to poor ones. Nothing else seemed particularly significant.
He glanced up as Mrs. Wade, one of the History teachers, came into the office and asked for the principal. She gave Glen a pleasant nod.
“Problems, Glen,” she asked, leaning against the counter near him while Mrs. Devraux checked with the principal.
“Wish I knew,” he answered, closing the file and pushing it across the counter in the direction of Mrs. Devraux. “Tell me, don’t you have Jerry Allen in your class?”
Mrs. Wade sighed and gave him a sympathetic nod. “Yes, and he is a puzzling one, isn’t he? Is he any better in English than he is in my History class?”
Glen grinned and shook his head. “I doubt it. Tell me, how is he in History, any interest at all in the subject?”
“Well you know, I thought there was at first. He started out well, and showed some real promise. But it all tapered off after a short while and I haven’t been able to get a spark out of him since. I don’t think modern history appeals to him at all.”
“But antiquity did?” It was something, a possible clue to where Jerry’s interests lay, and it fitted with Glen’s own conclusions.
“Yes, I think so, up to the Middle Ages even, but nothing beyond that.”
The door to the principal’s office opened and Mr. Meier came out with another teacher. “You wanted to see me?” he asked, addressing his remark to Mrs. Wade. He nodded a curt greeting in Glen’s direction.
“Yes, nothing too drastic,” she answered, gathering her things together. “I won’t take more than a minute.”
“Thanks, Alice,” Glen told her as she started toward the office. He tapped the counter for Mrs. Devraux’s attention,