The Hayloft: a 1950s Mystery Page 2

  “But…that makes me a spy.”

  Dr. Graves smiled. “Nothing as serious as that. I just need to get a little information, that’s all.”

  “Who wants this information?”

  The smile vanished. “Don’t ask too many questions. Remember, we’re dealing with the security of the United States. It’s the job of every loyal American to step up to the plate and do his part.”

  I gulped and said, “I don’t think I can do it.”

  Dr. Graves scowled. “Yes, you can. Because if you don’t, I don’t think I can admit you to Carter High School.”

  He started to tap his pencil again. I slumped in my chair. So this was the catch. Somehow, I had known there was one. How could I face my father if I were thrown out of two high schools within a week?

  “All right,” I said, gritting my teeth, “I’ll do it. What do you want me—?”

  “Excellent. Use your own judgment as to what to report. Anything subversive to the country—or the school. You’re a smart boy. And remember—talk only to me about this. Nobody else.”

  I heard quick footsteps approaching from behind. Dr. Graves looked past me toward the door to the office.

  “Sylvia,” he said. “You’re just in time.”

  “Good morning, Dr. G.”

  A girl swished into the room so fast that I expected to feel the air from her wind stream.

  “Sylvia,” Dr. Graves said, “I’d like you to meet a new student, Gary Blanchard. He’s a senior transfer from Atherton. Gary, this is Sylvia Doran.”

  Sylvia turned and held out her hand to me, saying, “Welcome aboard, Gary.”

  I belatedly stood up and shook her hand. I wasn’t used to shaking hands with girls, any more than I was with principals. I mumbled something in return.

  “Sylvia will show you around,” Dr. Graves said to me. And to Sylvia, “I told him that you’re president of the student council and know everybody.”

  “At least, everybody who’s worth knowing,” she said with a grin. “Come on, Gary, let’s blow this joint before the bell rings for first period. I know a place we can hide out until the stampede is over.”

  “Have him back here at the end of first period,” Dr. Graves said. “He needs to meet with Miss Thoman to get his classes set up. And I expect you to attend some classes today, too, young lady.”

  Sylvia turned and waved at Dr. Graves as we left his office, saying, “Don’t worry. I have everything under control.”

  I thought I heard him say, “That’s what I’m afraid of,” as we went through the doorway from the administration area into the hallway.

  “Don’t you have to go to class?” That was just one of many questions I wanted to ask this perky blond who was whisking me down an endless corridor with brand new lockers on either wall toward destinations unknown. The air had a fresh, clean scent to it, unlike the vague smell of mildew at Atherton, which was a much older school.

  Sylvia was wearing a long, straight skirt, a loose sweater, bobby sox, and saddle shoes, and her hair was short. Meaning that she looked a lot like many other girls I knew, except that she was cuter and shorter than most of them, a petite dynamo. But she walked so fast that I had to strain to keep up with her, and my legs were a lot longer than hers.

  The bell had just rung, and students poured out of the cafeteria as we passed the entrance. It must be acting as a homeroom, but I knew it was the cafeteria because I could see the tables set against the walls and because Sylvia gestured toward it and said the word, “Cafeteria,” as we flew by. From the sizes of the kids and the fact that many of them said hello to her, I gathered they were seniors. She greeted some of them and in an aside to me said, “I’ll introduce you to the people you need to know later.”

  We got clear of the throng and turned down another corridor. Sylvia pointed out the entrances to the boys’ and girls’ locker rooms. We continued to the end of this corridor and into a foyer where multiple doors lined one wall, as if for an auditorium entrance. Sylvia opened one of the doors and went through the opening into the dark. I followed her and was immediately blinded, but after a few seconds, I could see that this was indeed the auditorium.

  “Isn’t it beautiful?” Sylvia asked. “It’s got a balcony and everything. The school’s only a year old.”

  “You’re lucky. Atherton High is pretty ancient.”

  “Well, now you’re lucky, too. But there’s one bad thing about this auditorium.” She pointed up at the balcony. “Last year a student fell from there. He was killed.”

  My cousin, Ralph. So this was the place where he had met his death. I shuddered but tried to hide it. I said, “That’s terrible.”

  “Yeah. Ralph was a nice boy. Everybody liked him. He broke one of the seats in the middle there when he fell. It’s been fixed.” Her mood brightened. “Come on.”

  Sylvia plunged down the aisle in the dark. I wondered whether we were supposed to be here. I didn’t want to get into trouble on my first day. And I didn’t want to upset my parents any more than they were upset already. When we got to the stage, instead of stopping, she placed her hands on it and, with an athletic move, she vaulted up onto it.

  This so took me by surprise that I didn’t even look to see how much leg she exposed. I consoled myself with the thought that it was too dark to see, anyway. I made it onto the stage as Sylvia went into one of the wings where it was even darker. Then suddenly the whole stage became visible.

  “Let there be light,” Sylvia said, standing beside a switchbox. And then, gesturing, “We even have dressing rooms of sorts.”

  She led me into one of the small rooms. It wasn’t bad. It featured mirrors outlined with lights. She sat on one of the chairs and motioned for me to sit on another.

  “I have some questions to ask you,” she said.

  She had some questions to ask me. That was a laugh. “Don’t you have to go to class?” I asked for the second time.

  “Oh, I have history first period. It’s usually pretty boring. I can read about it later.” She dismissed history with a wave of her hand. “But let’s talk about you. Why did you transfer here just two weeks into the school year? Did you move?”

  I should have rehearsed the answer to that question more. I hesitated, and then managed to say, “Well, I didn’t exactly move. I’m staying with my aunt and uncle. My…father’s sick, and my mother’s spending most of her time taking care of him.” It wasn’t a very good lie, but I hoped it would satisfy her.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. I hope…I hope he gets well soon.”

  I accepted her sympathy as gracefully as I could, since I had obtained it under false pretences. At least, it had sidetracked her from asking the name of my aunt and uncle. Thankfully, they had a different last name from mine. I wasn’t emotionally ready to acknowledge a relationship to Ralph yet.

  She asked more questions and ascertained that I played basketball. She looked at me and exclaimed, “I remember you from the Carter-Atherton game last year. You were the reason we lost. You killed us.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t go that far…”

  “Don’t be modest. I was right beside the court and saw the whole thing. You never missed a shot. I’m glad you’re on our side now.”

  One reason I had enjoyed the victory was because Ralph had been playing for Carter. I had finally beaten him at something.

  I said, “Thanks. Are you a cheerleader?”

  “Was. I retired at the end of last year. It takes too much time.”

  “I remember you.” It was the diplomatic thing to say. And I was nothing if not a diplomat. Well, at least I was practicing to be one.

  “You don’t have to say that just to make me feel good.”

  “No, I do. I guess being student council president must take a lot of time.”

  “You know, Gary, that’s mostly an honorary position. We attend a lot of meetings, but we don’t actually do very much except to rubberstamp what Dr. Graves wants. It’s what goes on behind the scenes that I’m interested
in.”

  I wanted to ask her more about this behind the scenes stuff. Maybe I’d find out something to report to Dr. Graves. A wave of nausea swept through me. I was a fink. The most contemptible kind of person. But I had to do it if I wanted to stay here at Carter. Before I could think of a leading question, Sylvia changed the subject.

  As we talked about other things, I remembered the Carter-Atherton game and especially the Carter cheerleaders. Because one of them—not Sylvia—had been the most beautiful girl I had ever seen in my short life. She had made it difficult for me to concentrate on the game, and it had been fortunate that we had outclassed Carter, which was the real reason we had won. I wondered if that girl was still in school or whether she had graduated. I had an urge to ask Sylvia about her but stopped myself as I realized how uncool that would be.

  Sylvia looked at her watch and said, “I want to show you around the school a little. I promised to get you back to the office by second period. And I need to go to my second period class today. We’re having a pop quiz.”

  I wondered how she knew about the quiz. Wasn’t a pop quiz supposed to be a surprise? She turned off the lights. I jumped down from the stage and turned to help her, but she was too quick for me and jumped down on her own. We exited the auditorium and headed along the corridor.

  As we approached the girls’ locker room, the door suddenly swung open and a girl stumbled out, apparently pushed, clad only in a white bra and white panties. Then she ran back inside, and the door closed behind her. I didn’t see her face.

  I turned to look at Sylvia. She was looking at me with a half-smile. “Does that happen very often?” I asked, trying to keep my composure. It was not a feature of life at Atherton High.

  “Oh, once a while.”

  “Do you know who that was?”

  “It’s probably better that you don’t know. But that outfit, although a little sparse, is a lot more attractive than the bloomers we girls have to wear in gym class.”

  “Yeah.” I certainly agreed, although I hadn’t discussed gym uniforms with a girl before.

  “Mark my words, Gary, a revolution is coming.”

  “It is?”

  “Yes, and it’s going to start with women’s fashions.”

  It couldn’t come soon enough for me.

  CHAPTER 3

  Lunch at Carter High was in three shifts. Three short shifts. It was eat and run. I found this information out from Miss Thoman, the guidance counselor, as she and I put together a schedule for me. Not an easy schedule either: Advanced Algebra, Chemistry, World History, English, and Latin 4. And gym class, which I had every day. I was certain it would be my favorite period.

  I started going to class during third period, when I had Chemistry. I met several of my classmates and learned that I wasn’t out of sync as far as the subject matter. A little good news.

  By the time I arrived at the cafeteria for the last lunch, I was famished. Most of the seniors had the third lunch. Presumably we could go the longest without eating. Sylvia met me there, as she had promised she would. We pushed our trays through the line and got some of the slop they were serving. The state of New York had a program that allowed us to get a second carton of milk for two cents, so I did.

  My lunch cost twenty-seven cents. The cashier was a girl from our class. She was stacked and wearing her sweater tighter than most. As she gave me my change, my hand almost brushed against her sweater. With my recent luck, if it did, she would haul off and punch me in the nose.

  The cafeteria was on two levels. The lower level was for students. The tables and benches were attached to the walls, and I saw that they could be retracted into the walls for dances. Clever. A jukebox in the corner blasted out the Bill Haley and the Comets version of “Rock Around the Clock.” Rock and roll was still new, and some adults saw it as the latest form of teenage depravity. There had been a jukebox in the Atherton cafeteria that took nickels. Sylvia told me this one was free. Ralph had listened to this jukebox.

  At the far end of the room was the faculty eating area, one step above the rest of the room. Where the teachers could be separated from the rabble, but still watch us. Sylvia led the way in that direction. I figured she was headed to one of the empty tables just below the faculty area, which students seemed to be shying away from.

  However, she continued on up the step and set her tray on an empty table, facing the rest of the room, and motioned for me to sit beside her. Didn’t any of the rules apply to this girl?

  “We can see everybody from here,” Sylvia said. “And I can tell you who’s who. I’ve prepared a list of kids you need to get in good with.”

  She pulled a folded piece of paper out of her purse and handed it to me. I perused it quickly. There were about a dozen names on it, mostly girls. She began pointing out students to me, both on and off the list. I would never remember all their names.

  We could see everybody, but everybody could see us, too, as I was uncomfortably aware. This didn’t help my low profile. Sylvia didn’t seem to mind. I gathered she was used to being the center of attention.

  Several teachers stopped by our table and said hello to Sylvia. She introduced each one to me, and I struggled some more with names. After a few minutes, the teachers left to return to the gladiatorial arena of teaching. At about the same time, several boys came to the table right below us in the main dining area. They ignored us and started setting up empty milk cartons in some sort of a pattern.

  I looked a question at Sylvia. She spoke to me in a voice that they couldn’t hear over the general hubbub.

  “The leader of that group is Barney Weiss. He’s the one with the nice hair. He’s the school brain.”

  Barney wasn’t a bad looking boy, and his dark hair was perfectly combed. It wasn’t as long as that of the boys who wore DA’s, but longer than mine. I preferred crew cuts. I watched as he set up four rows, containing one, three, five, and seven cartons.

  The noise level at our end of the cafeteria became more subdued as this transpired and we could hear Barney when he spoke in a naturally loud voice.

  “Well, who’s going to challenge me today?” He and the members of his posse looked around the room. At first, there were no takers.

  Then a tall, athletic-looking boy with his shirt collar turned up ambled down the aisle and said, “I’ll take you on.”

  Barney lost some of his confident demeanor. He said, “Are you sure you want to, Joe?”

  I remembered who Joe was. He was one of the boys Sylvia had pointed out to me. He was the quarterback and captain of the football team.

  “Sure I’m sure,” Joe said, depositing himself in the seat across the table from Barney with a thump. “Let’s see, what shall we have you do if I win?”

  Barney looked clearly uncomfortable. He remained silent, which I gathered was uncharacteristic of him.

  Joe drawled his words. “How about this? If I win, you have to run around the school. Naked. At lunch time.”

  There were scattered guffaws. I took a quick glance at the faculty tables. All of the teachers had left. I looked back at Barney. Surely he would refuse. But then a kind of gleam came into his eye.

  “All right,” he said.

  Joe looked a little surprised, but he recovered quickly and said, “What if I lose?”

  Barney hesitated. Then he said slowly, “You have to win Saturday’s game.”

  “Is that all?” one of Barney’s friends asked.

  Barney nodded and said, “Go ahead, Joe. You start.”

  Joe removed one of the cartons from one of the rows. Barney removed one from another row. I glanced at Sylvia. She was paying rapt attention to the game.

  I said to her, “Barney’s going to win.”

  “How do you know?”

  “That’s nim.”

  She looked at me. “Do you know how to play it?”

  “Sure.” My uncle taught me. He was a mathematician.

  “Could you beat Barney?”

  I hesitated. “I’m tryin
g not to draw attention to myself.”

  Joe was forced to remove the last carton, making him the loser. He pounded his fist on the table, making the cartons dance. There were some good-natured jeers at his expense. I suspected that nobody had beaten Barney.

  One of the kids said to Joe, “Now you have to win Saturday.”

  Joe quickly recovered his composure and said, “I guarantee it.”

  He walked off with what I assumed was his usual swagger.

  “Can you teach me how to play nim?” Sylvia asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Class is about to start. I’ll tell you what. How are you getting to school?”

  “By car.” The 1949 Ford Ralph had been driving. The first model with the Cyclopean “eye” in the middle of the grill. It had a few years and a few miles on it, but it was a good-looking car and infinitely better than riding long hours on the bus.

  “Do you mind very much coming in early, say 7:30, tomorrow morning?” Sylvia put her hands together in supplication.

  “Why not?” It wouldn’t hurt to do a favor for Sylvia. She seemed to know everything that went on in the school. She might have more information about how Ralph had died. My curiosity was aroused, especially since Dr. Graves had shut me out. I was used to having adults shut me out. My father was an expert at it. As to Dr. Graves, it might give me a chance to get some of the information he wanted. Which would help keep me in school.

  “Meet me in the wings behind the stage, where we were today.”

  I looked at her in surprise.

  “It’s okay. Nobody will bother you. And at that hour there’s hardly anybody here, anyway.” As we walked out of the cafeteria, she said, “What class do you have now?”

  “Math,” I said, looking at my schedule. “I think it’s on the second floor. Room 215.”

  “Take the stairs to the right. It’s about halfway down the corridor.”

  “What do you have?”

  “Gym. I can’t wait to get into my bloomers.”

  “I’m sure you look good in them.”

  “I’m sure you’re a liar.”

  ***

  I had a hard time sleeping that night, my second at the farm. That’s what we called the home of Aunt Dorothy and Uncle Jeff. It was a small farm, fifty-some acres, and they didn’t farm it—they leased the farmable land to a neighbor—but its fertile fields grew healthy crops of grain. It had a country lane with a fence on each side, and it had woods. It had farm buildings, including a big red barn. All in all, it looked like a farm.