Part 1 (2/2)
A buzzer sounded. The corridor rapidly cleared as students disappeared into every open doorway like water pouring down drains.
With the corridor to myself, I rubbed my forehead and wondered if the pole had left a mark. A familiar spring breeze swirled past me. My thoughts turned nostalgic.
The outdoor stucco walls were the same mud-brown color I remembered, the doors aqua-blue. The open central corridor still stretched the length of the campus, with alternating rows of cla.s.srooms and gra.s.sy areas on each side.
Approaching one of my former cla.s.srooms, I peered inside. A small, redheaded woman with a hairstyle that predated my lifetime stood in front of the cla.s.sroom. She wielded a wooden pointer like it was a broadsword. Behind her was a map of Gettysburg with red and blue arrows indicating troop movements.
”Reminiscing?”
I turned toward the voice behind me to find a smiling, horseshoe-bald Hispanic man with a thick, black mustache. He held a sheaf of papers in one hand. Extending his other hand, he introduced himself. ”Carlos Ruiz Mendoza.” His smile widened, revealing a gold tooth.
”Grant-”
”Austin. Yeah, I know. The a.s.sembly. Congratulations, by the way. The Pulitzer. Quite an achievement.”
I shrugged modestly, but didn't disagree. ”Are you a teacher?” I asked.
”Remedial reading.” He said it like he was apologizing. ”The way I see it, if I do my job, by the time my students complete the course they'll actually be able to read your book . . . They won't, of course.”
We both laughed.
”It's not exactly Stephen King,” I admitted.
Mendoza motioned toward the cla.s.sroom. ”Do you know Rose?”
Inside the cla.s.sroom the teacher, Rose, had leveled her broadsword at a sandy-haired student who slumped in his chair and stared at her defiantly.
”I haven't had the pleasure,” I said. ”This was Coach Walker's room when I was here.”
”Walker . . . quite a character from what I hear,” Mendoza said. ”He pa.s.sed on two years before I arrived. Stories still circulate, though.”
I laughed. ”Believe them. Walker knew only one way of doing things-as a football lineman coach. History, football, it was all the same to him.”
”Were you on the team?”
”Football? No. Tennis was my sport. But Walker coached it too. The man didn't know a foot fault from a double fault, but he had us in great shape. We were the only team in the district doing bear crawls on the courts.”
Mendoza laughed.
”But I learned some valuable life lessons from him,” I added. ”If nothing else, Coach taught us to hustle. I learned that hustle can beat superior talent; not always, but often enough.”
”Good lesson.”
”Got me where I am today.”
By silent agreement, we continued down the corridor.
”I didn't have the smarts for scholars.h.i.+ps,” I explained. ”Worked my way through college throwing baggage around at the local airport and pinching pennies.”
”Ah, the Cup o' Noodles degree,” Mendoza said.
I grinned. ”You too?”
”Midnight s.h.i.+ft at a twenty-four-hour convenience store.”
I liked this man.
With matching strides we walked in silence for a moment, then he said, ”You've come a long way since your microwave-soup days, Austin. The Oval Office. Air Force One. The G-8 Summit in Paris. Few men get to see the things you've seen.”
”I'm glad someone was listening to my speech.”
Mendoza gave me a sideways glance. ”Was school a.s.sembly behavior all that different when you attended?”
”I guess not,” I admitted. ”We once had a conductor stop his orchestra mid-symphony because we started batting a beach ball in the stands.”
Mendoza nodded. ”Some are better than others. Last month we had a band . . . a rhythm group, actually. They beat on trash cans, banged lids, swished brooms, that sort of thing. They were good. The students loved them.”
”So you're saying if I want to make a hit with teenagers, I need to bang trash can lids together.”
”Of course not,” Mendoza scoffed. Then, with a twinkle in his eye, he added, ”But it wouldn't hurt.”
”I'll take that under advis.e.m.e.nt.”
”Seriously, Grant-long after the din of trash can lids fades away, what you have done will be remembered and revered. The Pulitzer Prize, son! They don't hand those out in Cracker Jack boxes!”
”Seems I've heard that somewhere before.”
”You are, without a doubt, the most famous alumnus this school has produced.”
I thanked him as humbly as I could. But, truth was, I'd traveled the width of the country to hear those words. If only Myles Shepherd had heard them, my day would have been complete.
”Coming back here,” Mendoza continued, ”after all the exotic places you've been, all the famous people you've met, this must seem rather mundane to you.”
”I don't know,” I replied. ”Singing Hills High will always be a part of who I am.”
Mendoza pulled up in front of a door labeled FACULTY. He offered his hand again. ”I'm glad I had this chance to chat with you, Mr. Austin. Something to tell my grandchildren someday.”
Before letting go, I said, ”Tell me, Mr. Mendoza, is Myles Shepherd still in the same cla.s.sroom?”
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