Venango Christian High School - Saga Yearbook (Oil City, PA)

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The lunch hours you spent or didn't spend... 2:05. The period when your eyes ached and your watch stopped and your head drooped in the heat and they said: Pay attention. Whatever that was. The locker lunge: Hey, hold the bus! Now what is that thing? Right 32, left 16, right 13. Left 32, right 16, left 13?.... The bus tokens. Bus tokens? Well, how about a bot- tle cap. A razor blade? All right then. A slightly used lunch ticket? 7

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ONCE UPON A SCHOOL DAY By Stephen Szalewicz Life, even young life and new life, can become a rou- tine thing, a rhythmic thing whose beat is a steady ca- dence of similarities that focus and blur against a thou- sand pale dawns. But there is so much that should never be forgotten; so much that will pass too soon. You know: The big orange school bus with the dirty windows and the ‘‘Chris and Bill” signs on the Emergency door; the memorable occasions when we missed it and the equally unforgettable times we didn't... The noisy, crowded, coin-jangling cafeteria where we made dates and checked detention lists and dragged our aching heads through the homework we forgot the night before... The four foot lockers they gave you for seven feet of books... The classes. The work-work-work, listen-listen-work classes. About all you’ll ever forget about them was the stuff you were supposed to learn there... The library permits: Name, date, pupil, subject, room, signature, period, time. Rrrrrrrrring! 6

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By Ann Logue LITTLE BOY ALONE Pete Rollins stood alone on the sidewalk holding his violin case. He had to go take a lesson; the other guys were probably playing football. He swung his foot way back and, with everything he had, kicked a stone hard and straight and with satisfaction watched as it scraped the bark off a nearby tree. '•That's the Pete Rollins they don't know, he thought bitterly. That's the Pete Rollins who can do everything they can do if they wanted to notice. A memory came back and he closed his eyes to shut it out. They had no- ticed him plenty once. They had noticed him all 62 yards of the touchdown he had run tn the wrong direction. They had noticed and laughed the whole long walk back, not a warm That-guy-is-a-blast laugh that was friendly and in- clusive. No, it had been harsher than that. The way a guy laughs when he says What-a-fink or Throw him to the lions or something. It seemed that he'd been running in the wrong direction in front of them ever since. The noisy street- cars broke into his thoughts and he turned and walked toward town. Pete and his family had must moved to Mill City but Pete was pretty sure he didn’t like it here. It was so hard to make friends. He'd been a pretty big guy with the crowd back home. Everybody liked him; he could do anything. It had oc- curred to him recently that maybe he could do too much. He looked around him: the dirty old buildings, the littered streets, the crowded sidewalks. He hated the city! AS HE ROUNDED THE BUILDING opposite the Cozy Corner”, he heard loud voices and saw a crowd gathering. He recognized some of the fellows as he crossed the street and walked toward them. Joe Simpson, a red haired, pimply faced smart aleck, had grabbed a small boy by the arm and was picking the gro- ceries one by one from the bag the boy was holding and throwing them to the crowd. So they had another victim. Pete remembered the taste of the numb loneli- ness when it had been his turn. They’d been in Mill City for a week but no one had stopped at the house so, when his father mentioned seeing a group of teen- agers at a soda shop downtown, he decided to take a chance and make some new friends. When he walked into the shop, the place suddenly got very quiet. It was Joe Simpson who had come up to him too and asked him his name. Pete? Joe Simpson repeated and spat it out. Pete, Pete with the two flat feet. Pete had grinned timidly. Then, W hate ha' got there?” He pointed at Pete’s case. Ya play some kind of horn? I play the vio lin, Pete said eagerly. You play the violin? His tone was incredulous. Hey, guys, you hear that? He plays the violin. His movements grotesque and exaggerated, Joe danced around bowing an imaginary violin. The place exploded with laughter. Well, violin player, we got some rules for you, don’t we fellows? The group shifted and nodded ominously. Shall we tell Kreisler here the rules for violin players? The shifting started again. Simpson put his finger on Pete's chest. Listen, Petie boy, you gotta get asked even to walk by this place, understand? Asked. So out—until we ask ya to come back. The crowd lunged 8 forward and stomped their feet. Get out! Pete turned and ran. He could still hear them scream- ing behind him. Joe's loud, jeering voice brought him back to the present. How come your old lady doesn't do the shopping, sonny boy? Is she growin’ you up to be a girl?” The anger in Pete’s throat choked him. He pounded his case. Damn! When would they stop! I don't have a mother, the little kid said. She's dead.” Aw, ain't that sad, Simpson said and went on pulling the things out of the bag. Look, guys, good- ies. Anyone for hamburger, cris- py critters, weiners?” Hey, stop that!” the kid yelled. That's our supper. You gonna get tough about it, kid? One of the older boys hit the kid with his index finger so hard he had to grab the pole to keep his balance. He was bawling now. You don’t want to eat this do you, kid? Joe dropped a melon and smashed it into the ground with his foot. The small boy searched the crowd for a sympathetic face. His eyes found Pete's and pleaded. Pete stood transfixed for a moment and then turned abruptly. You dumb kid, he thought. This is your battle, not mine. I wanna go home, the boy cried and touched Pete's jacket. Did ya catch that—he wants Pete to take him home. Well, what's the matter, violin player ? Dintcha hear him? Pete could f eel the hot anger and embarrass- ment rise within him. The boy was still crying. God, Pete wished he'd quit. What’re you waiting for, Pete? Joe simpson's face was pushed menacingly in front of Pete’s own. The crowd had be- come quiet...waiting for someone to move. Pete braced himself and took a deep breath. He had spent a lot of days alone on the streets with his violin case. He reeled: Any kid who’s that much of a baby had his mother too long. Inside the store he couldn’t hear the kid crying anymore.