Trouble in School: part 12

The spinster typing teacher, Miss Clickakee, seemed even older than anyone in the building – well perhaps she was. An adult acquaintance, the same age as my mother, had her as a teacher when he was in school, and he said she was old or seemed to be old back then.

We had to take at least one business class for graduation. One of the guys had a girlfriend in the typing class and signed up. I’d already taken Retail Selling as a vocational option, but I had an open spot, so signed up for the elective too.

Our typewriters didn’t have letters and symbols on the keyboard. We learned to locate our fingers with the little dot on the j and f key and tried to coordinate the location of other letters from the big chart on the wall.

I don’t remember any of the drills we had, but we started speed and accuracy tests using our propped-up lesson guide. Looking at the paper in the carriage or at the keyboard during typing was forbidden and it seemed that Miss Clickakee could see where everyone’s eyes were focused.

Then came the transcription speed tests from copy we’d not seen before. I wasn’t destined for typist of the week, but neither was I doomed to fail for being too slow or too inaccurate.

Sometime about mid quarter, we had the drill for grade. Text for transcribing was located face away on each propped-up lesson guide stand. At the signal from Miss Clickakee, we flipped the paper with something written in cursive and started. Most were finished before my transcribing was done. Big Guy behind me ended at the same time as I did. I admit being wrong in turning to ask him something totally unrelated to the class.

Whap!

I was spun around in my chair when Miss Clickakee slapped me on the head. I was far more surprised than hurt, and there were gasps from some in the room. Big Guy told me later he started to stand in my defense, but she pointed her finger in such a way as to say he was next, and he needed the credit.

I did the required leaving class procedure: center the typewriter carriage, close the study guide and square it on the desk, slide the chair under the desk, then walk out quietly. I felt her eye arrows penetrating my back. I’m sure, at least I was at the time, that the absence of murmuring in the room was because most of the students needed the credit.

Mr. H.S. Prin, was in the outer office when I walked in. With his curious look in my direction I blurted, “The old bag hit me.”

He asked, “Clickakee?”

Another student arrived as he took me into his inner office. He looked at the note the other student gave him and asked me, “How does one cheat on a typing test?”

I probably just gave a shoulder shrug.

Mr. H.S. Prin asked if I needed the credit after I explained what happened. “Cheating on a typing test eh, just go to study hall instead.” He chuckled and continued, “She hasn’t hit anyone else yet this year. I’ll talk to her.”

Learning to type didn’t improve my spelling skills, but we couldn’t type our homework assignments for English class anyway.