The papery smell of worn books, the smell of chalk dust and teachers’ perfumes and the oily sweeping compound Mr. Barton brushed over the wooden floors each night. The choking smell of too many sweaty jeans crowded together on these hot, spring days. This odor of learning flowed through the halls of Westwood High and pooled in the big auditorium wing that would soon be filling for the Friday Assembly. Mr. Barton was already opening the high windows against it. Jimmy put his head through the partly open doorway and watched the custodian’s angular form moving along the wall. Mr. Barton knew the scores of all the games Westwood had played since he came there in ’31. He punched the boys on the biceps, and roared loudly when he won over them in arguments as to who beat whom in which year. Except that he never punched Jimmy’s arm. He spoke softly and tousled Jimmy’s hair. Sometimes Jimmy thought Mr. Barton was the only friend he had—besides Brick Malloy, of course. He backed from the door and closed it quietly.
