"No!" There was a sharp bang as Mr. Ross struck his desktop with a ruler. "Now do it again correctly."

Laurie sat down, a confused look on her face. What had she done wrong? David leaned over and whispered in her ear. Oh, right. She stood up again. "Mr. Ross, the National Socialist German Workers' Party."

"Correct," Mr. Ross replied.

Mr. Ross kept asking questions, and around the room students jumped to attention, eager to show that they knew both the answer and the correct form with which to give it. It was a far cry from the normally casual atmosphere of the cla.s.sroom, but neither Ben nor his students reflected on that fact. They were too caught up in this new game. The speed and precision of each question and answer were exhilarating. Soon Ben was perspiring as he shouted each question out and another student rose sharply beside his or her desk to shout back a terse reply.

"Peter, who proposed the Lend-Lease Act?"

"Mr. Ross, Roosevelt."

"Right. Eric, who died in the death camps?"

"Mr. Ross, the Jews."

"Anyone else, Brad?"

"Mr. Ross, gypsies, h.o.m.os.e.xuals, and the feeble-minded."

"Good. Amy, why were they murdered?"

"Mr. Ross, because they weren't part of the superior race."

"Correct. David, who ran the death camps?"

"Mr. Ross, the S.S."

"Excellent!"

Out in the hall, the bells were ringing, but no one in the cla.s.sroom moved from their seat. Still carried by the momentum of the cla.s.s's progress that period, Ben stood at the front of the room and issued the final order of the day. "Tonight, finish reading chapter seven and read the first half of chapter eight. That's all, cla.s.s dismissed." Before him the cla.s.s rose in what seemed like a single movement and rushed out into the hall.

"Wow, that was weird, man, it was like a rush," Brian gasped in uncharacteristic enthusiasm. He and some of the students from Mr. Ross's cla.s.s were standing in a tight pack in the corridor, still riding on the energy they'd felt in the cla.s.sroom.

"I've never felt anything like that before," said Eric beside him.

"Well, it sure beats taking notes," Amy cracked.

"Yeah," Brian said. He and a couple of other students laughed.

"Hey, but don't knock it," David said. "That was really different. It was like, when we all acted together, we were more than just a cla.s.s. We were a unit. Remember what Mr. Ross said about power? I think he was right. Didn't you feel it?"

"Aw, you're taking it too seriously," said Brad behind him.

"Yeah?" David said. "Well then, how do you explain it?"

Brad shrugged. "What's to explain? Ross asked questions, we answered them. It was like any other cla.s.s except we had to sit up straight and stand next to our desks. I think you're making a big deal out of nothing."

"I don't know, Brad," David said as he turned and left the pack of students.

"Where're you going?" Brian asked.

"The John," David answered. "Catch up to you in the cafeteria."

"Okay," Brian said.

"Hey, remember to sit up straight," Brad said, and the others laughed.

David pushed through the door to the men's room. He really wasn't sure if Brad was right or not. Maybe he was making a big deal out of nothing, but on the other hand, there had been that feeling, that group unity. Maybe it didn't make that much difference in the cla.s.sroom. After all, you were just answering questions. But suppose you took that group feeling, that high energy feeling, and got the football team into it. There were some good athletes on the team, it made David mad that they had such a bad record. They really weren't that bad-they were just undermotivated and disorganized. David knew that if he could ever get the team even half as charged up as Mr. Ross's history cla.s.s had been that day, they could tear apart most of the teams in their league.

Inside the john, David heard the second bell ring, warning students that the next period was about to begin. He stepped out of a stall and was heading to the sinks when he saw someone and stopped abruptly. The bathroom had emptied out and only one person was left, Robert. He was standing in front of a mirror, tucking in his shirt, unaware that he wasn't alone. As David watched, the cla.s.s loser straightened some of the hair on his head and stared at his reflection. Then he snapped to attention and his lips moved silently, as if he was still in Mr. Ross's cla.s.s answering questions.

David stood motionless as Robert practiced the move again. And again.

Late that night in their bedroom, Christy Ross sat on the side of the bed in her red nightgown and brushed her long auburn hair. Near her Ben was pulling his pajamas out of a drawer. "You know," he said, "I would have thought they'd all hate it, being ordered around and forced to sit straight and recite answers. Instead they took to it like they'd been waiting for something like this their whole lives. It was weird."

"Don't you think they were just playing it like a game?" Christy asked. "Simply competing with each other to see who could be the fastest and straightest?"

"I'm sure that was part of it," Ben told his wife. "But even a game is something you either choose to play or not to play. They didn't have to play that game, but they wanted to. The strangest thing was, once we started I could feel them wanting more. They wanted to be disciplined. And each time they mastered one discipline, they wanted another. When the bell rang at the end of the period and they were still in their seats, I knew it meant more to them than just a game."

Christy stopped brushing her hair. "You mean they stayed after the bell?" she asked.

Ben nodded. "That's what I mean."

His wife looked at him skeptically but then grinned. "Ben, I think you've created a monster."

"Hardly," Ben replied, chuckling.

Christy put down her brush and rubbed some cream into her face. On his side of the bed, Ben was pulling on his pajama top. Christy was waiting for her husband to lean over for their customary goodnight kiss. But tonight it was not forthcoming. He was still lost in thought.

"Ben?" Christy said.

"Yeah?"

"Do you think you'll go on with it tomorrow?"

"I don't think so," her husband replied. "We've got to get on to the j.a.panese campaign."

Christy closed the jar of cream and settled comfortably into the bed. But on his side Ben still had not moved. He had told his wife how surprisingly enthusiastic his students had been that afternoon, but he had not told her that he too had gotten caught up in it. It would almost be embarra.s.sing to admit that he could get swept up in such a simple game. But yet on reflection he knew that he had. The fierce exchange of questions and answers, the quest for perfect discipline-it had been infectious and, in a way, mesmerizing. He had enjoyed his students' accomplishment. Interesting, he thought as he got into bed.

CHAPTER 6.

For Ben, what happened the next day was extremely unusual. Instead of his students straggling into cla.s.s after the bell had rung, it was he who was late. He'd accidentally left his lecture notes and book on j.a.pan in his car that morning and had to run out to the parking lot before cla.s.s to get them. As he rushed into the cla.s.sroom he expected to find a madhouse, but he was in for a surprise.

In his room were five neat rows of desks, seven desks to a row. At each desk a student sat stiffly in the posture Ben had taught them the previous day. The room was silent, and Ross surveyed his cla.s.s uneasily. Was it a joke? Here and there he saw a face on the verge of smiling, but those were clearly outnumbered by faces at stiff attention, staring straight ahead, concentrating. A few students glanced at him uncertainly-waiting to see if he'd carry it further. Should he? It was such an experience and so different from the norm that it tantalized him. What could they learn from this? What could he learn? Tempted by the unknown, Ben decided it was worth finding out.

"Well, okay" he said, putting away his notes. "What's going on here?"

The students looked at him uncertainly.

Ben looked toward the far side of the room. "Robert?"

Robert Billings quickly rose beside his desk. His shirt was tucked in and his hair was combed. "Mr. Ross, discipline."

"Yes, discipline," Mr. Ross agreed. "But that's just part of it. There's something more." Then he turned to the blackboard, and underneath the large "STRENGTH THROUGH DISCIPLINE" from the day before, he added, "COMMUNITY."

He turned back to the cla.s.s. "Community is the bond between people who work and struggle together for a common goal. It's like building a barn with your neighbors."

A few students in the room chuckled. But David knew what Mr. Ross was saying. It was what he'd thought about yesterday after cla.s.s. It was the kind of team spirit the football team needed.

"It's the feeling that you're part of something that's more important than yourself," Mr. Ross was telling them. "You're a movement, a team, a cause. You're committed to something-"

"I think we ought to be committed all right," someone mumbled, but the nearby students hushed him.

"Like discipline," Mr. Ross continued, "to understand community fully you have to experience it and partic.i.p.ate in it. From now on, our two mottos will be, 'Strength Through Discipline' and 'Strength Through Community.' Everyone, repeat our mottos."

Around the room, students rose beside their desks and recited the slogans: "Strength Through Discipline, Strength Through Community."

A few students, including Laurie and Brad, did not join them, but sat uncomfortably in their chairs as Mr. Ross had the cla.s.s repeat the mottos again. Finally Laurie rose, and then Brad. Now the entire cla.s.s stood beside their desks.

"What we need now is a symbol for our new community," Mr. Ross told them. He turned back to the board and, after a moment's thought, drew a circle with the outline of a wave inside it. "This will be our symbol. A wave is a pattern of change. It has movement, direction, and impact. From now on, our community, our movement will be known as The Wave." He paused and looked at the cla.s.s standing at stiff attention, accepting everything he told them. "And this will be our salute," he said, cupping his right hand in the shape of a wave, then tapping it against his left shoulder and holding it upright. "Cla.s.s, give the salute," he ordered.

The cla.s.s gave the salute. Some hit their right shoulders instead of their left. Others forgot to hit their shoulders entirely. "Again," Ross ordered, making the salute himself. He repeated the exercise until everyone had it right.

"All right," their teacher said when they'd gotten it. Once again the cla.s.s could feel the resurgence of power and unity that had overwhelmed them the day before. "This is our salute and our salute only," he told them. "Whenever you see another Wave member, you will salute. Robert, salute and give our mottos."

Standing stiffly beside his seat, Robert performed the salute and replied, "Mr. Ross, Strength Through Discipline, Strength Through Community."

"Very good," Ben said. "Peter, Amy, and Eric, salute and recite our motto with Robert."

The four students obediently saluted and chanted, "Strength Through Discipline, Strength Through Community."

"Brian, Andrea, and Laurie," Mr. Ross commanded. "Join them and repeat."

Now seven students joined in the chant, then fourteen, then twenty, until the whole cla.s.s was saluting and chanting loudly in unison. "Strength Through Discipline, Strength Through Community." Like a regiment, Ben thought, just like a regiment.

In the gym after school, David and Eric sat on the floor in their football practice jerseys. They were a little early for practice and were having a heated debate.

"I think it's dumb," Eric said as he tied the laces on his cleats. "It's just a game in history cla.s.s, that's all."

"But that doesn't mean it couldn't work." David insisted. "What do you think we learned it for, anyway? To keep it a secret? I'm telling you, Eric, this is just what the team needs."

"Well, you're gonna have to convince Coach Schiller of that," Eric said. "And I'm not going to tell him."

"What are you scared of?" David asked. "You think Mr. Ross is gonna punish me because I tell a couple of people about The Wave?"

Eric shrugged. "No, man. I think they're gonna laugh."

Brian came out of the locker room and joined them on the floor.

"Hey," David said, "what do you think of us trying to get the rest of the team into The Wave?"

Brian tugged at his shoulder pads and thought about it. "You think The Wave could stop that two-hundred-and-twenty-pound linebacker from Clarkstown?" he asked. "I swear, that's all I think about. I keep picturing me calling for the snap and then this thing appears in front of me, this giant thing in a Clarkstown uniform. It steps on my center, it squashes my guards. It's so big I can't go left, I can't go right, I can't throw over it ..." Brian rolled on his back on the floor and pretended someone was bearing down on him. "It just keeps coming and coming. Ahhhhhhhhhh!"

Eric and David laughed, and Brian sat up. "I'll do anything," he told them. "Eat my Wheaties, join The Wave, do my homework. Anything to stop that guy."

More players had gathered around them, including a junior named Deutsch, who was the second-string quarterback behind Brian. Everyone on the team knew that Deutsch wanted nothing more in the world than to steal Brian's position from him. As a result, the two of them didn't get along.

"I hear you say you're afraid of the Clarkstown team?" Deutsch asked Brian. "I'll take your place, man, just say the word."

"They let you into the game and we'll have no chance at all," Brian told him.

Deutsch sneered. "The only reason you're first string is 'cause you're a senior," he said.

Still sitting on the gym floor, Brian gazed up at the junior. "Man, you are the most conceited bag of no talent I've ever seen," he said.

"Oh yeah, look who's talking," Deutsch snarled back.

The next thing David knew, Brian had jumped to his feet and had his fists up. David lunged between the two quarterbacks. "That's just what I was talking about!" he yelled as he pushed them apart. "We're supposed to be a team. We're supposed to support each other. The reason we've been so bad is because all we've been doing is fighting with each other."

More football players were in the gym now. "What's he talking about?" one of them asked.

David turned. "I'm talking about unity. I'm talking about discipline. We have to start acting like a team. Like we have a common goal. Your job on this team isn't to steal another guy's position. Your job is to help this team win."

"I could help this team win," Deutsch said. "All Coach Schiller's got to do is make me the first-string quarterback."

"No, man!" David yelled at him. "A bunch of self-serving individuals don't make a team. You know why we've done so bad this year? Because we're twenty-five one-man teams all wearing the same Gordon High uniforms. You want to be first-string quarterback on a team that doesn't win? Or do you want to be second-string on a team that does win?"

Deutsch shrugged.

"I'm tired of losing," said another player.

"Yeah," said someone else. "It's a drag. This school doesn't even take us seriously anymore."

"I'd give up my position and be a waterboy if it meant winning a game," said a third.

"Well, we could win," said David. "I'm not saying we'll be able to go out and destroy Clarkstown on Sat.u.r.day but if we start trying to be a team, I bet we could win a few games this year."

Most of the members of the football team were there by this time, and as David looked around at their faces he could see that they were interested.

"Okay," said one. "What do we do?"