(3 of 4)
Detective Dreher is treated with respect, even affection; he's been known to drive kids home at night or spring for a cab when they're stranded, call them in the morning to be sure they're up, use the office slim-jim to help them break into their cars when they lock the keys inside, throw in a job reference for a dropout at his brother-in-law's restaurant. At 7:50 his walkie-talkie erupts with a call from principal Voss; custodian Schaffer has discovered obscene graffiti in the parking lot and on the grass. Dreher can see them from where he's standing. After finding Schaffer and having a quick conference with Voss by walkie-talkie, Dreher gets a digital camera to record the writing--so he can see if it matches the work of any known culprits--before the custodian sets to work with his cleansers.
Walking counselor Bob Walker, balancing two boxes of Krispy Kreme doughnuts he's brought in for the school's secretaries, is on the move. He's a big man, ex-Navy, with a voice higher than you'd expect and clothes a size too small. It's his job to catch the smokers, the illegal parkers, the kids without hall passes. "Ninety-eight percent of our students are really good kids," he says, "but I don't really know any of them. It's the other 2% that take all my time."
He's used to Monday morning as a rough passage, bursting out with a cheery "good morning" every time students pass by; they give him the look of death as they mutter their hellos. A few are carrying a bagged McDonald's breakfast with them as they exit the parking lot. By 7:10 a.m., the street behind the school is filled with cars. Seniors get first dibs on the few precious spaces in the lot as long as they're willing to pay $45 a year, so underclassmen with cars must search for any spaces around the school. Those who do use the lot seem to have silently reached an agreement as to who will get to park in a particular space. "Rule No. 1 of the parking lot," says Walker: "Do not run over the fat man with the walkie-talkie."
By now there are more than 40 members of the marching band scattered on the field across from the school entrance. Like a flock of birds forming a flying pattern, the musicians sort into 10 parallel lines grouped by instrument. The flutes--17 girls and one boy--are on the far left, and the lower brass--all but one of them boys--are on the far right. They serenade the parked buses, the kids draped on the front steps. "It's a poor substitute for coffee," says a spectator as the tempo picks up. "This Sunday I'm gonna discreetly plant land mines all over that field." He pauses. "Or maybe build a Burmese tiger trap."
After scales and On Wisconsin, Dane Williams, the band's faculty leader, calls the members into the center of the field for a pep talk cum encounter session. Over the past couple of weeks the drum majors have been fighting, accusing each other of being bossy, and band members are beginning to take sides. Mr. Williams, in blue jeans and an orange faded polo, tells the band that he knows what's going on and says, "I want you to think: Are you saying things to your peers that you might regret?"