Chapter 12 -- Chicago and Confrontation

Love talkin', is all very fine, yeah
Jive talkin', Just isn't a crime
And if there's somebody,
You'll love till you die
Then all that jive talkin',
Just gets in your eye

--Jive Talkin' (Bee Gees)

I picked up the phone in the kitchen and called my mother to tell her that Kristen was taking me somewhere--a surprise--and that I'd be home before ten o'clock tomorrow evening. My mother didn't have a problem with that.

Kristen drove me in her Camaro to a small airport about ten miles away. Apparently, she chartered a flight that would take us to Midway airport in Chicago.

"Chicago?" I asked Kristen. "Why not just drive there?"

"I told you I wanted to do something special," Kristen explained.

The pilot was a friend of Kristen's father, who piloted Kristen's family on many occasions. He knew Kristen as well, and greeted her by name when she approached him. "Hey, Kristen! Is this your boyfriend?"

"Jerry, this is Jim," Kristen said by way of introduction.

"Daniel has told me a lot about this fine young man," Jerry said, shaking my hand. "I'll be staying in Chicago overnight, and I'll be waiting to take you back."

Jerry led us to a Cessna turbo-prop airplane. It was, to say the least, much smaller than the jets that Kristen and I took back in November. He stowed our luggage for us.

I was nervous when Jerry indicated that I was to sit in the co-pilot's seat and Kristen took the back seat. "Are you sure you don't want to sit in the front?" I asked Kristen, a bit afraid of being behind a steering wheel.

"Oh, I've done that before. I'll let you have the fun today."

Jerry noticed my nervousness and told me that everything would be all right. After I was belted in, Jerry got out of the plane and gave it a final once over to make sure that everything was as it should be.

"Tell Jerry that he should make sure he has enough gas to get to Chicago," Kristen said, her nose crinkling at my obvious discomfort.

"Gas?" I stammered.

Jerry laughed as he entered the plane. "Don't let Kristy here get you nervous," he said, laughing. "I've only ran out of gas a few times, and not in the past few weeks, even!"

"That's Kristen, and you know better, Uncle Jerry!"

Jerry winced at the "Uncle" prefix and said, "Stop torturing Jim, then," Jerry insisted. "Is this your first flight, Jim?" he asked me.

"N-no, sir," I answered. "It's my first time behind the wheel, though. I never even drove a car."

"Well, driving this baby is a piece of cake. The weather promises to be nice this weekend, so you might get a chance to control the plane. It will give me a chance to catch forty winks on the way into Chicago!"

"No, thank you," I said, incredulous that he would allow a sixteen year old behind the controls.

"Uncle Jerry, you're just as bad as me!"

"Kristen back there first flew... when was it, dear? You were twelve?"

"Eleven," corrected my love.

"Really?" I asked.

"It's really simple. The hard parts are the take off and the landing, and I'll be doing those today."

As it turned out, I did get a few moments at the controls in the air, and I was surprised how easy it was. However, I was quite nervous the entire trip, and Jerry seemed to notice this and understood. He made no further jokes about taking a nap.

Aside from that, the trip to Midway was uneventful, although it seemed to me that Jerry was quite distracted when he was approaching the city. In retrospect, it made sense... Chicago was a very large hub, even in the 1970s.

In Chicago, Kristen rented a car--a Datsun that looked a lot like Wendy's except, to Kristen's disappointment, it had an automatic transmission. We drove to a motel near the airport to unpack our bags. I noticed that we arrived before the normal check-in time, but they allowed us in despite that.

From the motel, we headed downtown, and I discovered that Kristen made reservations at the venerable Berghoff Restaurant.

"Good afternoon, Miss Swift," the Maitre d' said as she entered the restaurant. "Your table is waiting for you."

My beloved Kristen and I walked past a few surprised tourists as we were led to our seats. The waiter handed us three menus, but Kristen and I declined the wine list.

"What's good here?" I asked Kristen.

"Anything with a German name, of course. I'm partial to their seafood dishes," Kristen answered.

As it was, neither of us ordered off the menu. The waiter arrived and described a list of daily specials, and the two of us chose our meals from that list. I ordered a Schnitzel that came with a mushroom sauce, and Kristen ordered the lake trout that the waiter assured us had been caught that very morning in Lake Michigan.

"So, what do you think?" Kristen asked after the waiter left.

"This place looks old," I said, truly impressed. I heard people talk about this restaurant, but never thought that I'd ever set foot in it.

The waiter quickly arrived with our Root Beers, which was as close to the famous Berghoff Beer that we intended to get. The two of us clinked our glasses together and took a sip. Kristen, of course, managed to get some of the foam on her nose, causing me to giggle and offer her my napkin.

"The place is old," Kristen said. "I think it opened at the turn of the century."

"It looks wonderful. I'm amazed at the service."

Kristen smiled. "The food here is quite excellent, and some of the waiters have been here for years."

"What else is on the agenda?"

"Too early in the year for baseball," Kristen said with a shrug. "Wrigley Field would have been killer. Let's just walk around the loop and act as if we were tourists."

"Sounds great to me," I said with a grin.

"Everything sounds great to you," Kristen pointed out.

"Everything that involves you... yes."

"Sweet!"

The meal was as excellent as we expected. Kristen left a large tip.

After that wonderful weekend with Kristen, school almost seemed to be a let-down.

A high point of the day was after third period music class, when I showed Mr. Proilet some arrangements that I worked on over the vacation.

"Jim," my teacher said. "These are getting better and better!"

"Thanks," I said, a bit happy about the praise.

Pulling the last set of sheets from the bottom of the pile, Mr. Proilet looked at the conductor's score and frowned. "Try as I might, I can't place this tune. You didn't put a title on this."

I looked at the arrangement that drew my teacher's attention and blushed. "This wasn't meant for the band... at least, not yet."

"Oh?"

"It's a song that I'm working on writing. It's not finished."

"A song for your muse, huh?" Mr. Proilet asked with a gleam in his eye.

"Yeah," I said, reddening even more. "Another song for Kristen."

Mr. Proilet glanced at it for a few moments before handing that arrangement back to me.

The two of us stood near the doorway to the music room. Mr. Proilet looked around to make sure we were alone. "What did you do to Ms. Taylor, Jim? She seems furious today, and she seems to think that I've unfairly interfered in a discipline situation."

"I don't know," I said with a sigh. "I avoided doing anything even remotely disruptive on Friday. I didn't even open my mouth once. She seemed a bit more mollified. Maybe that's the solution to whatever it is that is bothering her."

"Well, I know for a fact that she's definitely not mollified. In fact, I think she's out for your blood for some reason."

"Huh?"

"My boy, my advice to you is to be on your best behavior today. Ms. Taylor is angry about something and it's about to explode."

"What do you mean?" I asked, a bit worried at the seriousness of my teacher's words.

"Just be on your best behavior." Mr. Proilet seemed that he was about to say something more, but then shook his head and said, "Do you have your music room pass?"

"Yeah. It's in my attach case. The hall monitors know me; nobody asks me for it much anymore."

"Keep it handy when you go to the lunchroom, OK?"

I shrugged. I opened the case and pulled out the pass.

"Good, Jim. Please tell Kristen that I'll have the keyboard ready for her on Thursday."

"All right."

I left the music room feeling the paranoia that Mr. Proilet instilled in me. I walked slowly toward the end of the school where the cafeteria was located.

A voice jarred me out of my reverie. "Jim Crittenhouse?"

I didn't recognize the voice, and I looked up to see a hall monitor glaring at me... the same hall monitor that previously let me pass without question since the beginning of the school year. "Yeah?"

"Hall pass," the monitor said, her voice harsh.

Luckily, my pass was in my hand, since I heeded my music teacher's advice. "Here."

"It's undated," the lady said accusingly.

"Yes. It's good for the rest of the school year. See where Mr. Proilet and the Assistant Principal signed it?"

The hall monitor scanned every inch of the pass, looking at me as if she just caught me sneaking out of the girls locker room.

Finally, the lady said, "Well, it seems mostly in order. Maybe your teacher should be issuing these once a week instead of for an entire school year. These things can be misused, you know."

"I'll let him know," I said.

The hall monitor was about to give me back my pass, but then pulled it back, saying "Maybe I should keep this one."

"Huh? You said it was in order!"

"I said it was mostly in order."

The two of us stood in the hallway in confrontation. Other students passed by, slinking away behind the hall monitor's back. The hall monitor barely noticed the other students, but was only intent on me for some reason.

I looked at the hall monitor's name badge. I said, "Mrs. Sneely, maybe you should take me to the front office if you have a problem with my pass. You've accepted this pass many times before and there was never any problem with it until now. Maybe Mr. Yank can resolve this matter."

The lady glared at me. Mr. Yank was the name everybody called Mr. Yankovitz, the school's Principal. She knew that I just called her bluff. Of course, if she took me to the office, she'd be "abandoning her post," allowing miscreants such as me to wander the halls causing all sorts of mischief. She also knew that there was nothing wrong with this pass. Looking as if I just forced her to suck a raw egg, she finally handed the pass back to me. "This is the last day I will accept this pass from you, young man. Have a proper pass next time, or I will indeed escort you to the office. Do you understand?"

I took the pass. "Yes, ma'am," I answered, oozing the respect that I definitely did not feel for that woman.

"Get going to class!"

I walked quickly down the hall and out of range of the hall monitor from hell. Oh, yeah, I thought to myself. I've got to get to that important lunch class, don't I?

In the lunchroom, Kristen, Patty, and Sherry were already eating.

It was Patty who noticed something. "What's up, Jim?"

"I just got stopped by the Hall Monitor Gestapo!"

"Huh? Which one?"

"Mrs. Sneely," I answered. "She was right outside the music room. She hasn't asked me for my pass in over a month, and today it's no longer good enough."

"That's weird," Patty said.

"My poor, picked-on baby," Kristen said, pursing her lips in mock kisses.

I took a few deep breaths to put the nasty incident behind me, and listened to the girls talk. About ten minutes before the end of the class, Patty turned to me and said, "Jim? Can the two of us talk in private?"

I looked at Kristen for permission. She simply shrugged.

Patty and I said good-bye to our friends, and we found another table that was mostly empty. "You are definitely upset, Jim. Is it about the Hall Monitor?"

I wondered how much to tell Patty. I figured that there wasn't much harm in talking with her. "Yes," I answered. "The weird thing about it was that Mr. Proilet warned me to have my pass out. It was as if he was warning me that something bad was about to happen."

"That is weird," Patty agreed. "Did he say anything else?"

"He told me that Ms. Taylor is on the warpath with me. I've been very quiet in her class, and she seemed maybe a bit closer to normal on Friday. I have no idea why she's so angry at me all of a sudden. It doesn't seem fair."

"Is she the teacher who has you on detention?"

"Yeah," I said.

"I can't offer too much advice there," Patty said, frowning. "I've never been a behavioral problem in school. You might want to ask Camille. She used to be a bit rowdy a few years back. There's one thing I can tell you, though. Don't ever let yourself be bullied by a teacher. Every teacher has to answer to somebody, whether it be the Assistant Principal, her colleagues, the Principal, the school board, or even the local community. They live in a glass jar, and as much as they want you to think that they are the kings and queens in their own little world, that's rarely ever really the case. If you think you are right, then you should stand up for what you believe."

I listened to Patty's advice. For somebody that couldn't offer "too much," she said a mouthful.

The bell rang and I went off to my next class, wondering why Ms. Taylor seemed to hate me so much.

I entered English class with trepidation. Ms. Taylor glowered at me, but I was thankful that she didn't say anything.

I wasn't called upon to answer any questions in class, nor did I offer any kind of participation other than to take a pop quiz.

After the class ended, I remained in the classroom. I remembered how difficult Ms. Taylor became last Thursday when I insisted on taking off between the end of class and the beginning of detention. I didn't want to add any fuel to the apparent fire within Ms. Taylor.

Unfortunately, Ms. Taylor was not to be so easily mollified. "Mr. Crittenhouse, let's take a walk to the front office, shall we?"

I was taken aback by Ms. Taylor's request. I simply nodded, and followed my teacher silently through the halls to the front office.

The receptionist looked at Ms. Taylor and me, and told Ms. Taylor that Stanley Yankovitz, the high school Principal, would be meeting us in his office in five minutes.

My teacher didn't seem pleased. "Stan? I thought that..."

The receptionist cut her off. "Ms. Tomago is dealing with another problem with another teacher. I've taken the liberty of giving Mr. Yankovitz the information that you gave to Ms. Tomago." She then turned to me and said, "You, Jim, can wait in Mr. Yankovitz's office."

"But Ms. Tomago... !"

Again, the receptionist interrupted Ms. Taylor. "Mr. Yankovitz will be here in five minutes, Rene. He wants to see you before he sees the student."

"OK," Ms. Taylor said.

The receptionist gestured me toward Mr. Yankovitz's office.

After I entered the room, I heard my mother's voice. "Jim! What's this I hear about you being on detention?"

"Mom?" I asked, confused. Parents were rarely notified during simple detention other than the optional fact that a student would be staying late and there might need to pick the student up instead of taking the bus. However, there were two intramural buses that circled the entire town about fifteen minutes after detention was over, so transportation was rarely an issue.

"The school called me today, and told me that you were being very disruptive! They said you even threatened somebody!"

I sighed. Things were definitely coming to a head, now. Ms. Taylor upped the ante. Now, there were actual accusations rather than the vague "disruption" complaint. Since I never threatened anybody--it wasn't really my nature--I felt I was on better ground. I remembered Patty's advice about not letting myself be bullied by a teacher.

"What do you know about this threat?" I asked my mother. "This is the first that I've heard this one. Last week, Ms. Taylor said I was being disruptive, but never explained what, exactly, I was doing that was upsetting her."

"Jim, your teacher is serious!" my mother said. "According to her, you have been a severe behavioral problem, you've threatened another student, and she's recommending suspension!"

"Suspension?" I asked, incredulously. "But I haven't done anything! I've never threatened anybody!"

My mother looked me deeply in the eyes, and finally her look softened. "Look, Jim, I'm on your side. I trust you, and if you say you haven't done anything, I'll take you at your word."

I felt better having my mother there. Together, we suffered in silence with verbal and sometimes physical harassment at the hands of my real father. If there was anybody who I could rely upon to be on my side in the face of unjust accusations, it was her.

I was bolstered by the presence of my mother, rather than being put on defense, which might have been the intention of whoever called her. The two of us waited for my teacher to arrive with the Principal.

The Principal, Stan Yankovitz, was a youngish man in his thirties, and usually walked around the school wearing a collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He was known to the kids as Mr. Yank, and it wasn't a derogatory nickname. He had a reputation of being stern when necessary, but the word among the students was that he was also very fair. He was the complete and utter opposite of Ms. Tomago, the Assistant Principal who was a more elderly lady who always seemed to side with teachers during disputes, despite any evidence offered that a teacher might be mistaken.

Luck was certainly with me that day. Apparently, Ms. Taylor thought she set it up so I would be confronting Ms. Tomago. Instead, I got Mr. Yank.

My music teacher warned me that Ms. Taylor was out for my blood, but I never suspected that she would take things so far and so quickly.

I looked nervously at my mother, and took a few deep breaths. I closed my eyes and remembered Patty's words of advice earlier that day. It actually made me feel better.

The five minutes that my mother and I spent together in that office weren't spent talking, but in silent communication between my mother and me. I no longer saw the look of alarm at my possibly having threatened another student, but she still looked worried that my academic future might be in jeopardy. She wasn't extremely confident that I would prevail, but she knew that I didn't lie to her. Her trust in me made me feel a bit better. As I mentioned before, we suffered through unfair accusations in the past at the hands of my father, so we were both prepared for the worst. I believe that whatever she saw or read in my own expressions also helped bolster her confidence.

There was a quick knock on the door as the door opened. Mr. Yank and Ms. Taylor entered the office.

The Principal introduced himself and Ms. Taylor to my mother and me. I shook his hand and received a firm one back from him. Ms. Taylor didn't offer her hand to me.

"Rene tells me that you've been a disruptive influence in her class for a number of weeks," Mr. Yank said, getting straight to the point. "She says that she put you on detention last week and you resisted immediately to the point of having another teacher berate her in front of her students. Finally, she says that on Friday, you threatened another student and she has evidence of that charge." He turned to my teacher. "Is that a valid summary of what you've told me and Ms. Tomago?"

"Yes, Stan," Ms. Taylor replied. "In fact, Ms. Tomago told me..."

"She's unavailable right now, Rene," Mr. Yank answered softly. "OK, those are the charges as I have been able to discern them."

"Charges?" my mother said, her face white.

The Principal sighed. "Please excuse me, Mrs. Crittenhouse..."

"Cummings," my mother answered, automatically.

"Excuse me?"

"My last name is Cummings. I've remarried."

"I'm very sorry," Mr. Yank said. "This is all being pushed through so fast, not all the paperwork has reached me. Some of it is in the hands of my assistant..."

"Ms. Tomago should be here," Ms. Taylor insisted. "She is very well acquainted with this case."

"This is not a case, Rene," the Principal said testily. "This is a conference between a student, his parent, and his teacher, and I'm here to ensure that the school's interests, as well as the student's interests, are met." He then addressed my mother. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Cummings. I have studied law, and passed the bar in Ohio, so I may be prone to use words such as 'charges, ' in a matter such as this. Let me assure you that this is not a legal action, nor are the police involved at this point. That being said, if Ms. Taylor's assertions prove to be true, you and your son are entitled to legal representation. I would rather keep this more informal--I'd like to establish the actual facts in this matter."

My English teacher looked furious but held her temper; one of the first times I've seen her do so since I came back from vacation.

The Principal continued. "All right, Rene. You make three accusations. The first is that James here is a disruptive student in your class. The second is that he asked another teacher to berate you in front of your class. And the third and most troublesome accusation is that he physically threatened another student. Are these accusations correct?"