Sam clearly meant business, but his talk wasn’t threatening, and his smile never faded.
Most students hardly noticed me as they entered the bus that first day, and I ignored the few stares as Ed introduced me to the Busch brothers. Lyle, also a freshman, was a muscular boy, shorter than me with brown hair. Tom was in seventh grade, thin with dark brown hair, and looked to be growing taller than Lyle. They wore good clothes and sported healthy smiles.
“We’re from an orphanage, too,” Lyle said. “East of here. I’m fifteen, Tom’s thirteen. We live with the Bensons.”
“Hey, we’re the same age,” I said. “What kind of orphanage were you at?”
“Big church orphanage.”
“Must be a lot of orphans around,” I said.
“We had thirty to forty kids,” Lyle said.
“Mine has about 250 now, but used to have 500 or so,” I said, suddenly realizing the State School was a very large place.
“Wow!” Lyle said. “That’s an army. How’d things go with so many kids?”
“With paddles and radiator brushes for starters,” I said.
Ed whistled, then let the subject drop.
“Mrs. Benson is John’s sister, isn’t she?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Lyle agreed. “She signed so John could get you. I guess his two sisters from Caledonia signed, too.”
I looked out the window as the bus pulled up to a newer school building. So that’s how they got me.
Ed walked with me into the school and pointed at a door. “That’s the office,” he said. “Just walk up to the counter like you own the place and you’ll get faster service.” We waved each other off as I entered the office, where I waited until the secretary approached the counter.
“Good morning, young man,” the secretary said. “Haven’t seen you before. Coming to school or just visiting?”
“Supposed to register for school,” I mumbled, leaning on the counter.
She smiled, “I might guess the same. Name and grade?”
“Peter Razor, ninth grade … “
“Oh, darn, I hate when things are too easy,” she said with a sly smile while reaching under the counter. “Looks like you’re already registered.”
I frowned, chewing my lower lip.
“Yes, sir! We’re expecting you,” she said. “Your transcript from the State School and Owatonna High arrived last week.” She studied the papers. “Seems you’re supposed to get better grades then you do. Well, you can fix that by studying harder.”
I hoped Houston High didn’t have any teachers that hated Indians.
“Anyway, here’s your schedule,” she continued. “You can still make it before the bell. Room 212, Mr. Johnson.” She pushed a paper at me. “Good luck and welcome to Houston High.”
I never found out if my labels from the State School—mentally lazy or day dreamer—made it to Houston, but my old millstone, bright, did. That made teachers expect more and gave prejudiced teachers something to disprove with ridicule and sarcasm.
Inside Room 212, I waited while Mr. Johnson talked with students. He didn’t seem to notice me, until suddenly he had taken the paper from me.
“Let’s see … Peter,” Mr. Johnson said, scanning the schedule. “Come with me.” He gave me a textbook and walked me to an empty desk. “Sit here.” He tapped the shoulder of the boy at the desk ahead and introduced us. “Jorde. Peter, here, has your classes. Would you kindly take him in tow for a few days? If he became lost, he might starve to death in the corridors. I wouldn’t mind, but others might.” He turned to me with a half smile. “Jorde will show you around.” He returned to his desk.
Jorde twisted to face me. “Hey, Pete. You good at algebra?”
“Not my best subject,” I said.
“Darn! Thought I’d have help,” Jorde said feigning a grimace, but it couldn’t cover his smile. He pointed behind me, “That’s Emmet, he lives on a farm.” I shook hands with Emmet, then turned back to Jorde.
“Don’t you? Live on a farm, I mean?”
“Nah. Wouldn’t know which end to milk. Besides, I work in our garage.”
The bell rang. “Come on, Meester Razeer,” Jorde said, smirking. “Have to load our brains.”
“Where to first?” I asked.
“Algebra. The more I learn, the dumber I get.” Jorde smiled again. It was his trademark, a natural, permanent smile plastered there even when he felt bad about something.
Jorde pointed as we passed large double doors in the hall.
“Gym,” he said. “Wednesday and Friday after lunch.”
My first day in school went well, considering it was not entirely spent on studies. Jorde helped me in algebra, with Emmet observing, and I helped them in science.
Ed was a sophomore, and I seldom saw him during school hours, but we developed a habit of walking together from the bus to his driveway, then gossiping briefly before parting. Wednesday, my second week on the farm, we stopped, as usual, at Ed’s driveway.
“Come to the 4-H meeting tonight,” Ed said. “It’s at our house. Mom told me to tell you.”
“What’s 4-H?” I asked, then glanced quickly at the bluff tops. “I mean, what do you do there?”
“It’s a club where you learn about modern farm things and take a project each year to the fair,” Ed explained. “It’s fun.”
“I’m just John’s worker, he wouldn’t go for that,” I said.
“Heck, you wouldn’t need a project,” he said. “Just come have a good time.”
“I’ll see, but maybe not,” I said.
John’s car was gone when I arrived home. Emma tended little Mary as I entered the house, and it was the second time I’d seen the girl. Little Mary seemed always to be in the Schaulses’ bedroom.
Emma didn’t look up when I entered, just mumbled a greeting as I passed her on my way to the attic, and ignored me again on my way out to work.
Early chores were nearly done when I heard the car enter the driveway. Peering through the barn window, I watched John step from the car, testing the ground with each step as he aimed himself at the house. Wondering about his tardiness, I backed into the barn to finish chores.
Having observed how Mrs. Steele acted after drinking, which seemed harmless, I was not alarmed. Mrs. Steele, matron of C-16, was quiet, never abusive to me, appearing comical at times, especially upon emerging, unsteadily, from extended seclusion in her apartment.
John entered the barn to prepare milking equipment.
I called out a greeting.
John grunted.
I persisted, “Ed said his mother and them invited me to a 4-H meeting tonight at his house.”
“We’s work to do. It be late after chores,” John said.
“Can I get off early?”
“You here to works. You in school all day, don’t work to pay you keep.”
“Six hours a day’s not enough for my keep?” I questioned. “And all day Saturday?” My stomach ached.
“Not your