By midterm Jamie was in trouble with Ferraro. The little man gave no quizzes, asked for no papers. He simply expected his students to watch his desktop performances with rapt attention. And then applaud. When Jamie asked why Othello-supposedly an intelligent leader of men-could fall so completely for the transparent schemes of Iago, Ferraro glared and told him to read the play until he understood it. When Jamie, genuinely puzzled, asked if Rosencrantz and Guildenstern were supposed to be homosexuals, Ferraro replied coldly: “I will not allow my class to be turned into a circus.”
Of course Jamie spent most of his time on his other subjects: geology, chemistry, advanced calculus, history. But he felt he was as well prepared for the Shakespeare midterm exam as anyone else in the class. He had read the plays and watched the videotapes. He had looked up the critical analyses listed in Ferraro’s syllabus. It was a jolt, then, when Ferraro read off the grades for the midterms and announced that James Waterman had received an F.
Shocked to the point where his insides were trembling, Jamie stayed after the class was finished to ask if he could retake the test. Ferraro refused flatly. Jamie saw the stack of blue books on the man’s desk, and asked if he could see his, go over it with the professor, find out where he had gone wrong.
“You may not see your blue book,” Ferraro said. Despite his thick-soled elevator shoes he had to crane his neck to look Jamie in the face now that he was standing on the classroom floor.
“But it’s my test,” Jamie said.
Ferraro placed a hand atop the pile of blue books. “These examination papers are the property of the university, not of the students. You may not take yours. I forbid it.”
Then he turned grandly and started toward the door. His interview with Jamie was concluded, as far as he was concerned.
Suddenly furious, Jamie riffled through the stack of blue books and found his own. He quickly flipped through the pages. Not a mark on them. Not a notation. Nothing at all except the big red F scrawled on the cover.
“What are you doing?” Ferraro screeched from the doorway. “Put that down!”
Clutching the test book in his hand Jamie strode toward the little man. “You didn’t even read my test! You just flunked me when you saw my name on the cover!”
“That test booklet is the property of this university!” Ferraro yelled, pointing a wavering finger at Jamie. “You can’t take it out of this classroom! That’s theft!”
Jamie brushed past the assistant professor, the test booklet tight in his fist, his teeth clenched in anger.
“I’ll take this to the student council,” he shouted back, over his shoulder. “I’ll take this to the dean!”
And he strode down the hall, oblivious to the startled glances of the students, while Ferraro bellowed, “Thief! Stop thief!”
No one tried to stop Jamie. He went to his motorbike and drove back to the room he rented in the Navaho shopkeeper’s home.
The state police officer arrived just as the family was sitting down to supper. The doorbell rang and one of the daughters went to answer it. She came back with drawn face and frightened eyes.
“It’s a state trooper. He wants you, Jamie.”
Wondering if he had committed a traffic violation of some sort with his bike, Jamie went to the front door. The state policeman looked about eleven feet tall in his uniform and mirrored sunglasses and broad-brimmed hat. The pistol in its holster at his hip seemed huge.
“James Waterman?” he asked in the voice of a robot.
Jamie nodded, his mind racing.
“We received a complaint that you have stolen state property.”
“What?” Jamie’s knees sagged.
The shopkeeper came up behind Jamie and laid a protective hand on his shoulder.
“Seems that you’re accused of stealing some papers from the university,” the trooper said. “You’re on the edge of a deep hole, young fella.”
“It’s my test paper,” Jamie mumbled. “My professor wouldn’t give me back my own test paper.”
The trooper slowly peeled off his sunglasses. His face instantly became human. “Is that what this is all about?”