Chapter 1
Elliot Vreeland felt uneasy the moment he entered his classroom. Everything seemed perfectly normal. Though in an old brownstone building, the classroom held several late-model teaching systems including a video wallscreen that was also used as an intercom; but it also contained a traditional chalkboard, teacher’s front desk, and a dozen tablet armchairs. All but one of Elliot’s seven classmates had attended Ansonia Preparatory with him since freshman year; by this February in his final semester their faces were loathsomely familiar. The exception was at the window, gazing out to Central Park West, New York.
The two did not look as if they should have had anything in common—at least by the standards of previous generations. Son of the Nobel-laureate economist, Elliot Vreeland was archetypically Aryan—tall, blond, and blue-eyed—though with the slightest facial softening that precluded stereotyped Aryan imperiousness. Phillip Gross, shorter than Elliot, wirier, with black hair and silent eyes, had emigrated to Israel from the United States as an infant, being shipped back to an uncle in New York when four years later his parents had been machinegunned by Palestinian guerrillas. The two boys had been close friends since Phillip had enrolled at Ansonia in their junior year.
Phillip spoke without turning as soon as Elliot drew near.
“You didn’t do it, did you, Ell?”
“I told you I wouldn’t.”
Phillip faced his friend. “Well, you just may get away with it.”
Before Elliot could inquire further, the assistant headmas-16
Alongside Night
ter entered the room.
Benjamin Harper dropped an attaché case onto the teacher’s desk, then began erasing the chalkboard while the students, for lack of any other ideas, took their seats. “Tobias is out sick?”
Elliot whispered to Phillip as they took seats in the back. Phillip smiled secretively but did not answer.
“I have several announcements to make,” said Harper, shelving the eraser. He was a thin-boned, impeccably attired black man in his late thirties, sporting mustache, short au naturel hair, and glasses. Waiting for the students to quiet, he continued: “First. Mrs. Tobias has left Ansonia permanently. Consequently, she will no longer be teaching Contemporary Civilization.”
Elliot glanced at Phillip sharply. “You saw her walking out?”
he whispered. Phillip shrugged noncommittally.
“Second,” the assistant head went on, “as it is too late in the term for Dr. Fischer and me to hire a replacement, I personally will be taking over this class.”
“I’ll bet Tobias was canned,” Elliot stage-whispered to Phillip. Several students giggled.
Mr. Harper eyed Elliot sharply. “‘Dismissed,’ ‘discharged,’
‘fired,’ ‘removed,’ ‘let go’—perhaps even ‘ousted.’ But not
‘canned,’ Mr. Vreeland. I dislike hearing the language maltreated.” Elliot flushed slightly. “Shall we continue?”
Mason Langley, the one-in-every-class teacher’s pet, raised his hand. Harper recognized him. “Mrs. Tobias assigned us a three-hundred-word essay last week,” he said in a nasal voice.
“It’s due today. Do you want it turned in?”
Several students groaned, looked disgusted, and blew raspberries at Langley, who seemed to gain great satisfaction from all this negative attention. Elliot glared at Langley and thought, I’ll kill him. Harper looked as if he shared the students’ opinions but seemed to control his feelings. “What was the assigned topic?” he asked.
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17
“The Self-Destruction of the Capitalist System,” said Langley. Harper unsuccessfully concealed his disgust at the propagandistic title. “Very well. Pass them forward.”
As each student—with the single exception of Elliot—passed forward a composition, it became evident to Harper why Elliot had looked more angrily at Langley than had all the others. After collecting seven essays, Harper said, “Your essay, Mr. Vreeland?”
Elliot answered resignedly, “I didn’t do one, Mr. Harper.”
“Surely you must have some feelings on the topic?”
Elliot nodded. “I disagree with the premise.”
“Did you express this disagreement to Mrs. Tobias when she assigned the topic?” Elliot nodded again. “What was her reply?”
“She said that I can start handing out the topics when I become a teacher.”
“I see,” Harper said slowly. “All right. You may present your rebuttal in a composition due the day after tomorrow—this Friday. Let’s make it a thousand words. Is that satisfactory?”