A Writer's Life by Gay Talese Page B

seeing, she glowed with the incandescence of a starlet in an MGM musical—and two boys seated on either side of me in the rear row began to whistle.
    She stiffened. Her smile disappeared. She quickly turned toward the back of the room, standing on her toes for a better look, and angrily asked, “Who whistled?”
    She seemed to be staring directly at me. I slid down in my seat, myhead bent as I examined my shoes, a pair of penny loafers that I had polished the night before. I suddenly saw myself as the prime suspect, and if I did not quickly clear myself, and if word of this indescretion got back to my parents, it would be very embarrassing to them, especially to my father, my Catholic Legion of Decency-devoted father, the only Italian in our town who wore a suit and tie and was looked up to even by the Protestants. And yet I knew that I could
not
squeal on the two friends I sat between. One was the starting quarterback on our football team. The other was his favorite receiver. I always sat among the varsity players in the back rows of classrooms, it being among my perks as their chronicler and occasional spinmeister.
    â€œWho
whistled?”
she repeated.
    I continued to look down and did not glance sideways, which might have implicated my friends. The rest of the class in front of us also remained silent. As the seconds passed, I could hear the teacher’s feet tapping impatiently, and a few flies buzzing overhead, and the floor-creaking sounds of a desk shifting under the weight of a fidgety student. But the two culprits next to me remained perfectly still and soundless, not a muscle moving, it seemed to me, nor could I even hear them breathing. I was surprised that they did not finally stand up, tell the truth, and accept the consequences. What could she have done to
them?
The coach would have protected them. The season was just beginning, and they were essential to the team’s aerial attack. But they just sat in the classroom like the rest of us, blending in with the crowd, apparently fainthearted in the presence of this thin-skinned female teacher. This did not augur well for our forthcoming football season.
    â€œAll right, let us proceed,” she then said with a sigh, although she seemed to continue to look at me. “It’s a sad but obvious fact that we have someone among us today who is unwilling to assume responsibility. But let this be a word of warning to all of you. If I
ever
catch anyone whistling, it will lead to your instant expulsion. Am I making myself clear?”
    There were nods and murmurings of agreement from myself and the rest of the students, including the football players.
    â€œThis is a
classroom
,” she continued, “and here we
will
maintain proper standards of behavior.…”
    After more nods from the students, she stepped toward the desk at the front of the room, introduced herself after she had taken her seat, and then proceeded to outline what subjects we would cover in this English composition class that in the ensuing months would bring me so little joy.

5
    T HROUGHOUT MY HIGH SCHOOL YEARS AND DURING MOST OF MY boyhood, my parents made our home in an apartment above their store. The conversations my mother and father had upstairs usually involved things going on downstairs, and the ringing of the telephone and the doorbell was simultaneously heard above and below. The extra mirrors from the store that my father installed in our living quarters multiplied everything we saw, deflecting rather than reflecting any sense of intimacy and domesticity.
    While the apartment did have an adequate kitchen and dining area, I do not recall ever sitting down and enjoying a relaxing and satisfying home-cooked meal. This was due not only to the interrupting phone calls from customers but to the fact that my preoccupied parents rarely made the effort to shop properly for food even when they had the time to do so on weekends. My mother was one of the few