The Wave

Someone else might have been offended by his apparent rudeness, but Christy wasn't. She knew Ben was the kind of person who got involved with things. Not just involved, but utterly absorbed in them to the point where he tended to forget that the rest of the world existed. She'd never forget the time in graduate school when he got interested American Indians. For months he was so wrapped up in Indians that he forgot about the rest of his life. On weekends he'd visit Indian reservations or spend hours looking for old books in dusty libraries. He even started bringing Indians home for dinner! And wearing deerskin moccasins! Christy used to get up some mornings wondering if he was going to put on war paint.

But that was the way Ben was. One summer she'd taught him to play bridge, and within a month not only was he a better bridge player than she, but he was driving her crazy, insisting that they play bridge every minute of the day. He only calmed down after he won a local bridge tournament and ran out of worthy competitors. It was almost frightening, the way he lost himself in each new adventure.

Christy looked at the books scattered about the kitchen table and sighed. "What is it this time?" she asked. "The Indians again? Astronomy? The behavioural characteristics of killer whales?"

When her husband didn't answer, she picked up some of the books. "The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich? Hitler's Youth?" She frowned. "What are you doing, cramming for a degree in dictatorship?"

"Not funny," Ben muttered without looking up.

"You're right," Christy admitted.

Ben Ross sat back and looked at his wife. "One of my students asked me a question today that I couldn't answer."

"So what else is new?" Christy asked.

"But I don't think I ever saw the answer written anywhere," Ben told her. "It just may be an answer they have to learn for themselves."

Christy Ross nodded. "Well, I can see what kind of night this is going to be," she said. "Just remember, tomorrow you have to be awake enough to teach an entire day of classes."

Her husband nodded. "I know, I know."

Christy Ross bent down and kissed him on his forehead. "Try not to wake me. If you come to sleep tonight."

5

The next day the students drifted in slowly as usual. Some took their seats, others stood around talking. Robert Billings was by the windows, tying knots in the blind cords. While he was doing that, Brad, his incessant tormentor, walked past and patted him on the back, sticking a small sign that said "kick me' to his shirt.

It looked like just another typical day in history class until the kids noticed that their teacher had written in large letters across the blackboard: STRENGTH THROUGH DISCIPLINE.

"What's that supposed to mean?" someone asked.

"I'll tell you just as soon as you're all seated," Ben Ross answered. When the kids were all in their places, he began to lecture. "Today I am going to talk to you about discipline."

A collective groan went up from the seated students. There were some teachers whose classes you knew would be a drag, but most of the students expected Ross's history class to be pretty good — which meant no dumb lectures on stuff like discipline.

"Hold it," Ben told them. "Before you make a judge­ment, give this a chance. It could be exciting."

"Oh sure," someone said.

"Oh sure is right," Ben told his students. "Now when I talk about discipline, I'm talking about power," he said, making a fist to accentuate the point. "And I'm talking about success. Success through discipline. Is there anyone here who isn't interested in power and success?"

"Probably Robert," Brad said. A bunch of kids snickered.

"Now wait," Ben told them. "David, Brian, Eric, you play football. You already know it takes discipline to win."

"That must be why we haven't won a game in two years," Eric said, and the class laughed.

It took their teacher a few moments to calm them down again. "Listen," he said, gesturing towards a pretty, red-haired student who appeared to be sitting taller in her chair than those around her. "Andrea, you're a ballet dancer. Doesn't it take ballet dancers long, hard hours of work to develop their skills?"

She nodded, and Ross turned to the rest of the class. "It's the same with every art. Painting, writing, music — all of them take years of hard work, discipline, and control."

"So what?" said a student who was slouching down in his chair.

"So what?" Ben asked. "I'll show you. Suppose I could prove to you that you can create power through discipline. Suppose we could do it right here in this classroom. What would you say to that?"

Ross had expected another wisecrack, and he was surprised when it didn't come. Instead the students were becoming interested and curious. Ben went behind his desk and pulled his wooden chair in front of the room so that all the students could see it.

"All right," he said. "Discipline begins with posture. Amy, come up here for a minute."