Adlai E Stevenson High School - Ambassador Yearbook (Prarie View, IL)

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The office was not host to an entirely melancholy lot, for the wall opposite the chairs in the office also saw the look of satisfaction from those who knew that they had accom- plished something admirable. It saw the look of aspiration from those who wished to obtain a recommendation for college. It saw the look of contentment from those who anticipated congratulations for something well performed. And, to deviate from the students, the wall saw the look of reserve from teachers about to apply for a job-well aware of the great teacher shortage and the inevitability of their obtaining a position on a staff after seeking one in only a few places. It saw the suave look of the salesman who wished to sell something which he was sure the school could not survive without and hoped to convince the administra- tion of the necessity of his product. And it saw the weary look of the secretary who had to book appointments for all these people. The room was quiet, or at least as quiet as three scratch- ing pencils working on layouts allowed it to be, when the door burst open. A voice called into the room. “We’re going down to lunch now-We just got finished helping the photographer—You better send someone down to help him finish.” The door slammed shut and the rest of the Am- bassador Staff returned to work. The sun warmed the tiles on the floor. There was no sound in the classroom except a faint rustling of paper coming from notes in the hands of the room’s sole occu- pant, a tired teacher. With a small smile, he closed his books and prepared to leave. He too had been studying. What good did that little pink piece of paper do? You couldn’t sell it; you were not supposed to write on it or lose it. Yes, but it did give you some freedom. “C” lunch had just begun. There was no one in the lower lounge or adjoining hall; everyone was eating. But in that hall the phone was off the hook. Had a conversation been interrupted? Was the receiver just left off by chance? Or did someone just take it off on purpose? The bell had rung. War was declared. The first sound heard was the slamming of doors, then quiet for a few minutes while the opposing generals reviewed their individ- ual battle plans. The time to attack had come. One gen- eral stepped up where he could see his whole army and dS tr

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on the floor has become thinner because of the incessant tramping of busy feet. First it was worn down by those un- familiar with a new location, plodding alien halls in search of an unknown destination. Finally, it was worn by the mechanical pace of the veterans, those who go to the rooms habitually because of a gradual assimilation of the school’s layout through years of experience. A slightly tattered black briefcase sat on the front desk. It contained an accumulation of years of patiently acquired knowledge, waiting to be passed on to young, no-so-patient students. This knowledge represented countless hours of study. More hours would be added to the total. But time doesn’t really change things too much. A pretty, long-haired brunette was walking down the hall. Someone behind her, a boy, walked into the hall from one of the classrooms. Seeing her, the boy quickened his pace The office was host to a number of students throughout the year. The select few who were invited displayed to the wall opposite their waiting chairs a large variety of facial expressions. This wall saw the look of bewilderment from those who were not aware of any wrong-doing but never the less felt that they were capable of it. It saw the look of hostility from those who knew exactly what they were there for and eagerly waited for a showdown. It saw the look of anxiety from those who knew what they were there for but still hoped that word hadn't reached the office yet. It saw the look of reconciliation from those who had tried to stand up for what they thought right but finally realized their inevitable defeat. It saw the look of ingratitude from those who were unaware of the value of a counseling ses- sion. And it saw the look of defiance from those who would openly oppose authority. to catch up. When he reached her side, he began talking as if it were the most casual, unplanned meeting in the world. It was 3:40 on Friday. School was over for the week. The halls were deserted, almost. A locker slammed, and one lone figure walked down the hall. The three books, a coat, an overstuffed notebook, and various other things he carried in front of him made him unrecognizable. He was off to a weekend of the same kind of thing he did every day in school: sleeping, studying, eating, more studying and more sleeping. The only deviation from this cycle was that on the weekend he was without the company of his friends. An English class was in progress, and everyone was partic- ipating in the discussion. Occasionally one of the students who was not talking would steal a glance back over his shoulder or a girl would giggle, but they were all interested. They would have been completely absorbed in a discussion of Miss Havisham if the photographer hadn't been in the back of the room taking pictures. s

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began to direct his operations. The opposing general too, demanded quiet and then began directing his defense and attack. The noise mounted as each side fought for priority over the other. After a considerable length of time, another bell could be distinguished over all the noise; band and chorus were over for the day. Something was happening in the cafeteria. Besides the usual rush to get a table, get in line, eat, read the Statesman, buy play tickets and talk all at the same time, something else was going on. People were dashing all over with flowers in their hands. Carnations were being passed out. Happy Valentines Day! There was never so much confusion as there was during the time changes in the fall and spring. Each clock beat out an hour every minute and a minute every second, as if ex- tremely impatient for the day to end. Weary students watched the clocks with anxiety, hoping that eventually they would see the correct time. No one could tell when one class was over or when the next one would begin. The speedy clocks did not make the days seem any faster at all; the added hours only made the day seem that much longer. It took a person five hours to trudge from one class to the next, and then he had to sit for three days in the classroom before the dismissal bell rang. After a dreary 445 hours, the bewildered student was finally able to call it a day. Impatience—“No, grades will be given out at the END of class.” Aimless thoughts were drifting about. “Did I flunk gov- ernment or will 1 have to repeat it?” “I wonder if I am going to get that ‘A’ in English; I’d better after all the work I did in there.” “If I could only get a ‘C’ they won’t take the car away.” “At least I’m not failing, he told me I was getting a ‘D’.” “But 1 did take that test, I shouldn’t get an incomplete.” Just another day in another semester. 7