Author's Note: I'm operating under the assumption that Hawkeye was in his late twenties and early thirties during the series (which historically takes place in 1950-53) even though Alan Alda was, in fact, thirty-six when the series began and well into his forties by the time it ended (anyone else notice how he goes gray?). Consequentially, Hawkeye in his senior year of high school would be seventeen-turning-eighteen, and the year would be 1938.
I'll try to keep that in mind as far as historical content. Not that much of that will be making an appearance in this fic, but it's always nice to have a little bit of background to work off of.
So, for the convenience of my reader and the author, myself, the time period falls near the end of the Great Depression, and a year before Germany invades Poland and sets off WWII.
Which I think is interesting as Hawkeye would have been prime drafting age and I'm surprised he never was (because Korea appears to be his first war). I can only assume he was exempt from the draft because of his studies and practice of being a doctor, perhaps in accordance of class 2-A: Registrant deferred because of civilian occupation. But I honestly have no idea if that would make sense and I'm probably reading way too much into it. If anyone else has any thoughts about it, feel free to leave them in a review.
Sorry, back to the story now.
October:
"Mr. Pierce!" Johnson took hold of the paper airplane that had just landed on his desk and immediately found Benjamin Pierce with his eyes. The boy was sitting in the front row and apparently otherwise engaged in pop quiz Johnson had sprung at the beginning of the class.
Pierce looked up, "Yes, sir?"
"Did you throw this, Mr. Pierce?"
"What makes you say that, sir?"
"Answer the question, Mr. Pierce."
"Maybe no one threw it, sir. Perhaps it simple spontaneously appeared –"
"Mr. Pierce, to you want me to bring this to the principal?"
Pierce shook his head, "No, sir, I'm sure the principal has plenty of paper airplanes of his own."
Laughter rang through the classroom but was hurriedly stifled.
"That will be enough, Mr. Pierce, Do not let me catch you throwing paper airplanes in my class again," Johnson waved impatiently for the class to proceed with their tests.
He bowed his head to finish grading the lab sheets.
Another paper airplane landed on his desk.
"Mr. Pierce!"
"Yes, sir?"
"What did I just tell you?"
"To not let you catch me throwing paper airplanes again, sir?"
"Yes, and what did you just do?"
"I let you catch me, sir?"
Johnson stifled a sigh. It was getting more and more difficult to keep a cool head. Unconsciously the paper airplane was crumpled into a ball in Johnson's fist. Pierce's blue eyes sparkled innocently.
"You are being disruptive and disrespectful, Mr. Pierce –"
Pierce muttered something to his neighbor.
"What did you say, Mr. Pierce?"
Pierce shrugged, "Nothing important, sir."
"I demand you tell me what you just said!" Johnson was unaware that he had gotten to his feet.
"Dave and I have been keeping score, sir. That's the sixteenth time you've said 'disrespectful'."
For a moment Johnson didn't know what to say, nor could form coherent words in which to say it. He sputtered, "You – you – disrespectful – I am sorry, Mr. Pierce –"
"Don't be, sir, I'm winning."
"Enough! Mr. Pierce!" Pierce snapped to attention, lip quirking at the corner. The rest of the class had completely forgotten their quiz. Johnson was painfully conscious of how much of a spectacle this was creating. "If you cannot control yourself, then I suggest you leave, Mr. Pierce. You are a distraction toward the rest of the class."
"I don't know," Pierce stood and addressed the class. "I don't think I'm a distraction. Do you think I'm a distraction? Don't raise your heads, please, that means I'm a distraction."
"Out! Mr. Pierce!" Johnson had not meant to shout, nor had he meant for his finger to tremble so much while he was pointing towards the door.
"Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, you've been a great audience," said Pierce, and scurried from the room when he caught sight of Johnson's face.
Johnson had always considered himself a patient, lenient man. He tried to make allowances. He tried to be understanding. But some people simply had a way of pushing him beyond limitations, of reaching the boundary, skipping over, and then playing jump rope with the line. Benjamin Pierce was one of those people.
"Any questions, class?" Johnson shut his eyes, he half-hoped when he opened them again the hand Pierce had raised into the air might be again safely at his side. "Yes, Mr. Pierce?"
"If you crossed golgi bodies with a mattababy what would you get?"
"What is a mattababy, Mr. Pierce?" Johnson wondered that he been caught in this trap.
"I don't know, sir, what's the matta' with you?"
Several students stifled laughter.
Johnson wondered if that odd twitching he felt in his temple was going to become a problem.
"Any other questions?"
"Do the voices in your head always talk about Ms. Hawthorn, sir?"
"Thank you, Mr. Pierce. Class dismissed."
As the students swept by Johnson's desk and out the door he heard Pierce mutter to a friend, "It's not my fault I can hear them from all the way over there."
Johnson fought the urge to bury his head in his hands.
"I will begin class by passing out your tests taken last Friday. Please, refrain from making comment. You may talk to me after class if you have any concerns or questions about your grades."
Johnson swept passed Pierce's desk and left the packet of his completed test on the top. Out of the corner of his eye, Johnson saw as the boy hastily picked it up and flipped to the back page to find the mark.
When Johnson returned to the top of the class, he noted that Pierce's face was still blank with shocked disbelief. Johnson began to brace himself for the confrontation he knew he was coming, all the while as he discussed the definition of homeostasis.
When he dismissed the class, sure enough, there was Pierce.
"You gave me a C-plus?"
Johnson did not say anything. He waited, holding Pierce's eye. The boy met his gaze willingly, almost hostilely.
Pierce's cheeks turned an almost imperceptible flushed pink. "You gave me a C-plus, sir?"
Johnson wondered for how much the boy could make a simple word sound so much like an insult.
"If that is indeed what is written on your test," said Johnson, "then it appears as if I did just that, Mr. Pierce."
Johnson saw Pierce square his jaw. The test in his hand crinkled slightly as his grip tightened. "Why – sir? I didn't make any mistakes."
"And you know this how, Mr. Pierce?"
"Because I do," said Pierce. "I got one-hundred percent on this test, I know."
"Yes, of course, by osmosis."
"My dad's a doctor," said Pierce, voice muffled through gritted teeth. "I've known this stuff since I got my training wheels off."
"And your father confirmed your test answers, is that it?"
"No, but he could."
"By all means, Mr. Pierce, you may fight the matter of your grade. I do not fear scrutiny, nor answering for my methods."
"Then answer for them now – sir. You know I deserve a better grade. Why didn't you give it to me?"
"Why? Because, after being reprimanded time and time again, you refuse to treat me with the respect I deserve. You disrupt class. You are distracted during my lectures. You are late almost every day. You hold the rules of this school in disregard. And you refuse to show the proper respect to the subject I teach with your inattentiveness." And because it was about time Johnson started fighting back.
Pierce flushed now in full. "I know the subject, sir. I could darn well teach it better than you could –"
"The last time I checked, I was the teacher here, Mr. Pierce. And also the one with the answer sheet."
Pierce's gaze grew immediately stony. "I didn't cheat."
"I was not suggesting it, Mr. Pierce."
"I don't cheat."
"And I am certain you would say the same thing if, in fact, you did."
"You can give me all the C-plusses you want," Pierce spat. "Fail me if you want to. But I don't cheat. I'd be willing to swear to it in a court of law. In front of the principal with my hand on a Bible."
"Fight it, by all means. I've already told you, you may."
Pierce did not say anything. His face was turning white. For a moment Johnson worried that he had provoked the boy to rage. Pierce's lip curled, as though he was fighting back a curse word, or perhaps the impulse to spit in Johnson's face.
Johnson could almost see the cogs turning in the boy's mind behind his icy-blue eyes. He knew the boy was weighing his options, perhaps calculating how much trouble he would get into if he punched him.
Pierce's face cleared with a decision and his lips curved in a final, ugly snarl. His test crumpled fully in his fist. He turned on his heel and stalked out of the room, letting the door slam behind him, ultimately deciding – Johnson knew – not to take it to the principal.
No, Johnson had not thought he would. This was a private battle, and if there was anything in Pierce that Johnson could admire, it was the boy's pride, even if that pride forced him to fight fair.