When I was a junior in Akron North High we had a substitute English teacher for a while, and she was almost always late for our class, which met on the third floor. She usually arrived with her arms full of books and papers, out of breath, scolding us, good-naturedly for the most part, into silence. One awful day she was later than usual, and the class was noisier than usual. Erasers were flying, books were sailing. It probably doesn't do any good to tell you that, truthfully, I usually did not take part in the chaos, although I can't say I didn't enjoy it. 

Anyway, on this fateful day one boy Stanley produced a cherry bomb from his pocket. The room got very quiet. Stanley lit a match and we held our …