One of the boys in the back of the room called out, inspired, “Helicopter! Send out a helicopter!”

Now the class roared with laughter—wave upon wave of wild adolescent laughter—imbecilic, uncontrollable, splendid in its volume: and there was Schwilk, poor hapless Schwilk, the butt of it all, trapped at the front of the room.

When the bell finally rang Marya threw her books together and made her way out of the room with the pack, not troubling to glance back at Schwilk, or to hear his feeble protest, “You haven’t understood!—you’ve distorted everything!—you’re no better than savages—savage beasts—”

WHY DID IT happen, the eighth-graders were asked, afterward.

Why did you hate Mr. Schwilk so much . . . ?

They tried to explain that they hadn’t hated him. He was all right, really. He was strict, and a hard grader, and he made fun of some kids, but he was funny, and probably he made them learn things . . . and he hadn’t ever hit anyone. . . . (It wasn’t uncommon in Innisfail for teachers to strike offensive students in class, or to send them to the principal’s office for punishment.) But Schwilk was just—Schwilk: and things got out of control.

After the pandemonium in March, after the spectacle of Schwilk, perspiring and red-faced at the front of the classroom, a kind of collective harassment began, not only in eighth grade but in all the grades: until, near the end, not even the worst troublemakers seemed to be in control of what was happening. Why do you hate Schwilk, why do you give him such a hard time? students from the high school asked, but there never was a coherent explanation. Lester Hughey said, without pity: “That fairy bastard cocksucker—ask him.”

A FEW DAYS later Mr. Schwilk made the strategic error of punishing his eighth-graders for their general “rowdiness” by springing a surprise grammar test on them: but, as if by agreement, only about a quarter of the class handed it in. (Marya, newly emboldened, ripped her paper in two—and was gratified to see a few other students, seated near her, following suit. Poor Schwilk, hunched over his desk and pretending to be deeply absorbed in a book, never so much as glanced up.) Outside class they were exhilarated, fired with a delicious sort of energy. After all, what could Schwilk do?—could he really fail them all?—the very best students along with the worst?

Another time, Schwilk wanted them to memorize a poem by Emily Dickinson, which he had printed carefully on the blackboard before the start of class. But when he recited it, in his high, quavering, absurdly passionate voice—

I like a look of Agony,

Because I know it’s true—

Men do not sham a Convulsion,

Nor simulate, a Throe—

The Eyes glaze once—and that is Death—

Impossible to feign

The Beads upon the Forehead

By homely Anguish stung.

naturally everyone, including Marya, burst into laughter.