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

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A school is made up of more than just important events scattered here and there throughout the year. It is also the place, the people, and those little things that not too many students consciously notice that gives a school a certain feeling or character. These front steps, what did they lead to? How much re- luctance had they felt in the morning, and how much joy in the afternoon? How many emotions had they felt pounding over and into them? But these front steps, where did they lead to? The stage was empty. The lighting panel and sound board were locked. The doors to the dressing rooms were closed. The auditorium was empty, no, not really empty. The walls still held the tension, later giving way to laughter. The floors were scuffed from shoes trying not to hit the places where the soft pine boards squeaked, and socks slid along the smoother sections. One forgotten glove had been left on the floor of the dressing room. And in the auditorium, the memories just melted in with those of past plays. A ray of sun, feeling its infinite power, reflected off an open window into the opposite lower classroom. It dis- turbed a thought. It was just an idle thought, not one of those that would shake the world. Maybe it would be con- tinued at another time, maybe not. The roof extended over the two flights of stone steps leading to the entrance. It covered up the groans and insults hurled at no one in particular at eight and laughing at three- thirty. That roof attempted to shelter young ones from the world, yet eight months later reluctantly let go others that were four years older, yet only a little wiser, adventurers off to individually face the world. The purpose of the school had been fulfilled, but now the lives were out of the hands of the school to guide; there were new problems to face. A black-top area encircles the football field. This area is about a quarter mile long and twelve feet wide. The Queen’s court, mounted in convertible cars, circled the field on it before stopping in front of the bleachers. A custodian swept the loose gravel off so the cheerleaders wouldn’t slip. This made the football field look rather attractive, a deep green encircled by a black track. After the Homecoming Game the band marched around this track practicing street marching for the Northwestern parade. Eventually this track will get a rubber coating so that sports activities could also be conducted on it. The landscape had changed. The football field had been torn up by spikes. Cross country runners and track men had worn down the grass. Time will mend this, however. New grass will grow to fill in where the cleats so viciously tore the other away. The cross-country span will have time to recuperate over the summer for a new season of torture. Unnoticed at the top of a flight of stairs is an unassailable door. Anyone who has ever tried that door would know that it is always locked. It might be the entrance to almost anything, but very few will ever know what. Stevenson has changed. Its halls have changed. The tile

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Athletics Page 50 K tli tor Walt Andrus Assistant kditor Honnie Isaacson

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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