Page 2 - Labelle Gramercy, Detective

Field Trip

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I suppose every high school counselor has a few stories to tell, and
I am no exception. The strangest incident in all my years at West
Valley High occurred back in 1975, toward the end of the spring
semester. As usual, my services were most in demand by the seniors,
for many of whom graduation would begin a difficult transition into
the adult world. Pressured by parents, peers and mass media, these
ill-prepared adolescents found themselves suddenly and inexorably at
a jumping-off point. Despite the cockiness and sophistication they
displayed to each other and to younger students, doubt and
indecision raged inside them. Having suffered a painful youth myself,
I sympathized with them; a few, at least, sensed this and sought my
guidance.
Thus I already had some acquaintance with the members of Ross
Ewidge’s life science class before that terrible day in May. It was late
in the morning, as I recall, when I received an urgent summons from
the principal’s office. I laid aside whatever paperwork had been
occupying my attention, put on my jacket, adjusted my bow tie and
hastened to the main administration offices. Foster Kerr was a bit of
a martinet, and he expected everyone under him to be well-scrubbed,
well-dressed and well-behaved. He had a military background, and
chafed at any board of education restriction on his running West
Valley High like an army base. This was the 1970s, however, and
students were already on that downhill slide which was to become a
national disgrace by the end of the decade. Kerr’s frustration with the
student body was frequently taken out on the faculty, a much less-
protected target.
I still remember the look on his face when I entered his office: a
compound of fear and triumph. “Sit down, Holloman.” he barked.
“We’ve got a real situation on our hands, but I’ve got it under
control.”
“Yes, sir.” I replied, already dreading whatever news was about to
shatter the day’s normal routine.

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