The Hayloft. A 1950s Mystery

keep my composure. It was not a feature of life at Atherton High.
    “Oh, once a while.”
    “Do you know who that was?”
    “It’s probably better that you don’t know. But that outfit, although a little sparse, is a lot more attractive than the bloomers we girls have to wear in gym class.”
    “Yeah.” I certainly agreed, although I hadn’t discussed gym uniforms with a girl before.
    “Mark my words, Gary, a revolution is coming.”
    “It is?”
    “Yes, and it’s going to start with women’s fashions.”
    It couldn’t come soon enough for me.

    CHAPTER 3
    Lunch at Carter High was in three shifts. Three short shifts. It was eat and run. I found this information out from Miss Thoman, the guidance counselor, as she and I put together a schedule for me. Not an easy schedule either: Advanced Algebra, Chemistry, World History, English, and Latin 4. And gym class, which I had every day. I was certain it would be my favorite period.
    I started going to class during third period, when I had Chemistry. I met several of my classmates and learned that I wasn’t out of sync as far as the subject matter. A little good news.
    By the time I arrived at the cafeteria for the last lunch, I was famished. Most of the seniors had the third lunch. Presumably we could go the longest without eating. Sylvia met me there, as she had promised she would. We pushed our trays through the line and got some of the slop they were serving. The state of New York had a program that allowed us to get a second carton of milk for two cents, so I did.
    My lunch cost twenty-seven cents. The cashier was a girl from our class. She was stacked and wearing her sweater tighter than most. As she gave me my change, my hand almost brushed against her sweater. With my recent luck, if it did, she would haul off and punch me in the nose.
    The cafeteria was on two levels. The lower level was for students. The tables and benches were attached to the walls, and I saw that they could be retracted into the walls for dances. Clever. A jukebox in the corner blasted out the Bill Haley and the Comets version of “Rock Around the Clock.” Rock and roll was still new, and some adults saw it as the latest form of teenage depravity. There had been a jukebox in the Atherton cafeteria that took nickels. Sylvia told me this one was free. Ralph had listened to this jukebox.
    At the far end of the room was the faculty eating area, one step above the rest of the room. Where the teachers could be separated from the rabble, but still watch us. Sylvia led the way in that direction. I figured she was headed to one of the empty tables just below the faculty area, which students seemed to be shying away from.
    However, she continued on up the step and set her tray on an empty table, facing the rest of the room, and motioned for me to sit beside her. Didn’t any of the rules apply to this girl?
    “We can see everybody from here,” Sylvia said. “And I can tell you who’s who. I’ve prepared a list of kids you need to get in good with.”
    She pulled a folded piece of paper out of her purse and handed it to me. I perused it quickly. There were about a dozen names on it, mostly girls. She began pointing out students to me, both on and off the list. I would never remember all their names.
    We could see everybody, but everybody could see us, too, as I was uncomfortably aware. This didn’t help my low profile. Sylvia didn’t seem to mind. I gathered she was used to being the center of attention.
    Several teachers stopped by our table and said hello to Sylvia. She introduced each one to me, and I struggled some more with names. After a few minutes, the teachers left to return to the gladiatorial arena of teaching. At about the same time, several boys came to the table right below us in the main dining area. They ignored us and started setting up empty milk cartons in some sort of a pattern.
    I looked a question at Sylvia. She spoke to me in a voice that they couldn’t hear over the general hubbub.
    “The leader of that group is Barney Weiss. He’s the one with the nice hair. He’s the school brain.”
    Barney wasn’t a bad looking boy, and his dark hair was perfectly combed. It wasn’t as long as that of the boys who wore DA’s, but longer than mine. I preferred crew cuts. I watched as he set up four rows, containing one, three, five, and seven cartons.
    The noise level at our end of the cafeteria became more subdued as this transpired and we could hear Barney when he