He piled his flat lab report on the stack at the corner of the front table. There were already a dozen reports in the pile; Thomas was one of the last people getting to class. He took his seat at one of the smaller student tables next to Greg, who told him Hesta had called during first period.
Damn. They’d been missing each other’s calls since Sunday.
“Let’s get started, fellows,” said Carella.
A second later Robert Staines skidded into the room.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said. He took it for granted that Carella wouldn’t mind.
“Where’s your lab report?” asked Carella. He was all business.
“Yeah, right, the lab report,” said Staines. He motioned to the disorderly load of spiral notebooks, loose papers, and textbooks under his left arm. “It’s in here somewhere.”
“Put it in the pile and sit down.”
“Actually,” said Staines, “it’s not exactly finished.”
“See me after class,” said Carella.
Staines said he had to clean his room after class. During the 10:15 recess your room got inspected by one of the teachers on duty, and if it was messy, you got demerits.
“You should have cleaned your room this morning. See me after class.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” said Staines.
“Watch your mouth,” said Mr. Carella. “Sit down and shut up.”
“Didn’t you hear what happened? One of the newboys jumped off the gym roof,” said Staines. He was looking particularly blond and gorilla-ish today, with scuffed old cordovan loafers on his tiny little feet that everybody said were like pigs’ feet, jeans with a tiny hole in the crotch, and a gigantic gray and red ski sweater. His nose was running, and he hadn’t shaved, so that light glinted off the stubble on his face.
“Sit your buns down, Staines, and plan on staying for a while.”
Staines took his seat at a table behind Greg and Thomas. There were four pairs of the black-topped tables in all, with seats for sixteen, but there were only fourteen boys in the class. The walls of the lab were covered with charts—the periodic table of elements, the different eras of prehistoric existence, human anatomy, and the parts of a cell.
Mr. Carella started the class with a little speech. He said it was in honor of Russell Phillips that he wore his best clothes. “Russell died, and I’m sick about it, and when I go to mass in Montpelier, I’m going to light a candle for Russell and pray that his soul finds peace. Have any of you guys prayed for Russell? Maybe you should.”
Everyone was very quiet. He told them nobody was going to use this death as some lame excuse for not doing his homework, that Russell was dead and we were alive, that we were in biology class to study life. He said they were starting a unit today on the life force, the sex act, and that they were going to treat it seriously. The room was quieter than the library.
“I hope that if any of you guys get depressed, you won’t hesitate to come and talk to me or to your advisor or to somebody,” said Mr. Carella. “We care.”
His eyes got very bright and wet, and he brushed them with quick light flicks of his fingers.
“Let’s do some biology,” he said.
And they did biology for the rest of the period. They talked about the male reproductive system and the female reproductive system and estrogen and testosterone and ovulation and penetration and masturbation and herpes and gonorrhea and AIDS. At first Mr. Carella was really clinical and serious about the whole thing, but after a while he started joking around in his usual way and made everything fun. “This is that thing you’ve been dreaming about, fellows,” he said. He had his hand on the big plastic vagina and was rubbing it in a really seductive way. “White women, black women, even Italian women, they’ve all got the same thing. It’s not so mysterious when you look at it in biology class, is it? Well, tomorrow I thought I’d ask my friend Jamie Lee Curtis to come in from Hollywood and show us a real one.”
Mr. Carella was just a killer in class.
Robert Staines raised his hand and asked whether Mr. Carella thought it would help some of the less experienced boys at Montpelier if the school went coed.
Mr. Carella pretended to go berserk. “‘The less experienced boys,’ Staines?” he said. “You have plenty of experience yourself, of course, is that it?”
“Lots of fun over the holidays,” said Staines.
“The holidays,” said Mr.Carella. He stood and thought for at least a minute without saying anything. When he spoke again, he had switched tones back to the serious one. “We joke too much,” he said. Then he went into a speech about how sex was a very powerful, very dangerous force to abuse, how it was what generated life and was a gift from God that deserved respect. “We can identify every fluid and every organ and every step of the process, gentlemen, but we can’t explain that incredible urge or that explosion of power we get from sex. I can’t teach what passion is, boys. But I can sure tell you not to treat it lightly.”
The bell rang. That was the way it always was in biology class, over before you expected it.
“Hold it,” said Mr. Carella. He read from a piece of paper announcing a special assembly in the chapel at 11:30. Typical of the school to choose a time when nobody would miss any classes. At 11:30 you had consultation period, where teachers could
