Fast Times at Ridgemont High Page #5

The knock continues.

MR. HAND (CONT'D)

Your grade is the average of all

your quizzes, plus the midterm and

final, which counts for one-third.

Got it?

The mystery knocker tries a lazy calypso beat on

the front door. No one in Mr. Hand's U.S. History

class dares mention it, much less answer it.

Stacy grips her desk with the tension of her first

day.

MR. HAND (CONT'D)

Also. There will be no eating in

this class. You get used to doing

your own business on your own time.

That's one demand I make. I don't

like staying after class with you

on detention. That's my time. I

don't like wasting it. Just like

you wouldn't want me to come to

your house some evening and discuss

U.S. History on your time. Pakalo?

Hand finally turns, as if he has just noticed the

sound at the door and opens the door an inch.

Jeffrey Spicoli stands in the doorway, red eyes

glistening. His long, blond hair is still wet and

streaming down the back of his white peasant shirt.

He grins, oblivious to such trivial matters as

attendance bells. A Student sitting near Stacy

turns to his friends.

STUDENT:

That guy has been stoned since the

third grade.

MR. HAND

Yes?

SPICOLI:

Yeah. I'm registered for this

class.

MR. HAND

What class?

SPICOLI:

This is U.S. History, right? I saw

the globe in the window.

MR. HAND

(appears enthralled)

Really?

Spicoli holds his red ad card up to the crack in

the door.

SPICOLI:

Can I come in?

MR. HAND

(swinging door open)

Oh, please. I get so lonely when

that third attendance bell rings

and I don't see all my kids here.

Spicoli laughs. He is the only one.

SPICOLI:

Sorry I'm late. This new schedule

is totally confusing.

Mr. Hand takes the red ad card and reads from it

with utter fascination.

MR. HAND

Mr. Spicoli?

SPICOLI:

That's the name they gave me.

Mr. Hand slowly tears the card into little pieces

and sprinkles the pieces over his wastebasket.

Spicoli watches in disbelief. His hands are frozen

in the process of removing his backpack.

SPICOLI (CONT'D)

You just ripped my card in two!

MR. HAND

Yes.

SPICOLI:

Hey, bud. What's your problem?

Mr. Hand moves to within inches of Spicoli's face.

MR. HAND

No problem at all. I think you know

where the front office is.

It takes a moment for the words to work their way

out of Jeff Spicoli's mouth.

SPICOLI:

You... dick.

In the tense moment that follows, no one in the

class is sure what might happen.

Mr. Hand simply turns away from Jeff Spicoli as if

he ceased to exist and coolly continues his

lecture.

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