The Temptations of St. Frank (22 page)

His father looked like he'd been slapped. Fury and hurt swirled through his face. “You wanna go away to college? Fine. But I hope you got a full scholarship, my friend, ‘cause I don't have a dime for that. And if I did, I wouldn't give it to you.” His voice cracked he was so upset. He snatched up two packages of men's underpants, threw a few dollars into the trunk, and stomped off toward the house, climbing the steps two at a time. The screen door slammed behind him.

Frank felt terrible. He'd wanted to finally have it out with his father, but he didn't think it would go down like this. Shit. He didn't want to go inside. He had no idea how to fix this. He wished he could take it back, but he didn't want to apologize because he still felt he was right. College was where he belonged.

Mr. Nunziato picked up the crumpled dollar bills and smoothed them out. “Frankie, can I tell you something?”

“What?”

“Promise you won't tell your father I told you?”

Frank shrugged. What did it matter? His father was pissed at him already. Maybe pissed for life.

“Your old man and me have been friends since we were little kids. Close friends. I remember back when he started playing violin. All the kids made fun of him, called him a sissy, called him this, called him that. He got into a lot of fights carrying that violin to his lessons. A lot of times I went with him and we both got into fights. He loved playing that violin.
Loved
it. And he was good. He was gonna go professional.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Yeah, but what you probably don't know is that you're father had a problem. Stage fright. Big time. He was okay playing at home, but whenever he had to play a concert, he was a friggin' mess. A bundle of nerves. Shaking, throwing up, everything. Doctors gave him pills and shit, but nothing really worked. He tried out for the big orchestra in New York, but they told him straight out. ‘You gotta get over this stage fright thing or we can't hire you. Nobody will hire you.' He tried, but…” Mr. Nunziato shrugged.

Frank was stunned. He had never heard anything about his father having stage fright. But he couldn't imagine his father getting nervous about anything. He was always loud and opinionated and never afraid to tell people to go to hell. Frank felt worse than ever. He must have really hit a nerve with that violin comment.

“Hey, don't get all bent out of shape,” Mr. Nunziato said. “It's not the end of the world. You're gonna go far, Frankie. I got a feeling. You got what it takes. But remember one thing. No matter what you do, you always gotta do the right thing. That's the hard part.”

“The right thing,” Frank repeated. He didn't exactly know what Mr. Nunziato meant by that. It seemed like odd advice coming from a guy selling stolen underwear from the trunk of his car.

“You're gonna be a big success, kid. Mark my word. Just do what you know is right, what you know in your gut and your heart and your head. “ He pointed at these areas of Frank's anatomy. “When all three things are in agreement, that's when you know you're doing the right thing.”

Frank just looked at him. He swore to God the man was high. Or more profound than Frank had ever expected.

“Here,” Mr. Nunziato said. “On me.” He handed Frank a two-pack of white guinea tees. Size L.

Frank and Molloy sat next to one another toward the back of the room. Molloy held up his notebook for Frank to see.
Estonia
was scrawled on an otherwise blank page.

Frank showed Molloy his notebook. Frank had written
Tasmania
in the top margin.

They had a running bet going. Twice a week Mr. Savitz started class by playing some foreign country's national anthem. He loved national anthems, collected them, and claimed that he had recordings of every national anthem in the world as well as many historical ones. His little eyes got misty and his moustache twitched with joy whenever he played one. Frank and Molloy had been betting each other two bucks a pop that they could guess what country the anthem came from before Savitz announced it. They'd been doing this since October, and no one had won yet. The kitty was up to $94. Frank kept a running tally at the back of his notebook. Enough to get him to Boston but not nearly enough for tuition. He'd been trying to figure out how he could get the money for college ever since he'd had it out with his father. His old man was sticking to his guns, and his mother hadn't intervened so far. It didn't look good.

Mr. Savitz positioned the record on his portable stereo. He picked up the arm and carefully lowered the needle onto the record. The sound of the needle dragging along the grooves filled the room. Suddenly the music started, horns blaring, drums pounding, piccolos fluttering like startled birds. A thundering intro led to a rousing melody. Frank imagined legions of soldiers marching to war. Thanks to Mr. Savitz, Frank had learned that in general the more bombastic the anthem, the smaller the country. This one was kind of medium-to-heavy bombastic. He glanced at Molloy who didn't look hopeful. The anthem wasn't ridiculous enough for Estonia. But Frank couldn't figure out if it was right for Tasmania. They probably didn't have much of a population, so they couldn't have legions of soldiers. If they had an army at all. The anthems of countries with small armies were usually very militaristic. Yeah, Tasmania could still be in the running, he thought.

Ninety-four bucks. He might need that money. If he couldn't go away to college, he might as well bypass Boston and go straight to Canada. He wouldn't have a student deferment if he didn't go to college.

As usual, Mr. Savitz let the anthem play all the way to the end. This one finished with a clamoring flourish. Then the sound of the needle scraping empty vinyl. Mr. Savitz lifted the arm and turned off the stereo.

“Well, what do you think?” A smile of deep satisfaction spread across his chubby face. He wanted his classes to love these anthems as much as he did.

Frank crossed his fingers, hoping for Tasmania even though he doubted that Molloy would really pay up if Frank won. Frank had no idea how he'd pay Molloy if he ever won.

“Anyone want to guess?”

“Macau,” Curtis called out.

“Romania,” Paldino said.

“Rhode Island,” Vitale said.

Savitz gave him a wry look but didn't reprimand him. “Panama,” he said.

Frank looked at Molloy. Oh, well. The pot just got bigger.

“Okay, boys,” Mr. Savitz said. “Today I want to talk about the Treaty of Versailles, the conditions in Germany after World War I, and the events that led to the rise of Adolph Hitler and the Nazi Party.” Mr. Savitz wrote “Treaty of Versailles” on the blackboard. “This treaty was designed to keep Germany from threatening the peace in Europe ever again. But its terms were so harsh and oppressive, it did just the opposite…”

Mr. Savitz kept talking, but Frank zoned out. Savitz was a pretty interesting teacher, and this rise of the Nazis stuff was pretty cool, but Frank had too much else on his mind. Going to BU. His father. Yolanda. Annette. The landfill. He knew these concerns were separate items, but in his mind they were all interconnected. He had a feeling—a hope—that if he could deal with one, the others would fall into place.

Maybe.

He caught Molloy's eye and scribbled in notebook, PROM WHO? He tipped the page so that Molloy could see.

Molloy shrugged, a puzzled look on his face. He didn't know what Frank was asking.

Frank wrote, YOLANDA? ANNETTE?

Molloy's expression showed that he understood now. He yanked the cap off his Bic with his teeth and scrawled in his notebook, then held it up so Frank could see. ANNETTE.

Frank made a face. He wrote HOW ABOUT TINA?

Molloy made a face. He circled ANNETTE and pointed with his pen.

WHY? Frank wrote.

PROOF, Molloy wrote.

Frank shrugged. He didn't understand.

Molloy wrote, EVIDENCE IN HOUSE.

Frank had already told him about what had happened at Annette's house and that she was bugging him to take her to the prom. Molloy wanted Frank to date her so that he could get back into the Trombettas' house and snoop for landfill evidence. He was really into this, devising
Mission: Impossible
schemes and finding spy tools in catalogues. He wanted to be Q to Frank's 007.

But maybe Molloy was right: Annette was the answer. Dating her for a while and taking her to the prom would get him back into her house and back into that office with the file cabinet. His mother would be overjoyed that he was going to the prom, proving that he wasn't queer. And his father might even soften up if he started dating the great John Trombetta's daughter because his father thought his rich customers were royalty. Yeah, Annette just might be the solution to everything.

Molloy stared at him, waiting for an answer.

But Mr. Savitz distracted Frank. He was marching in front of the blackboard, flailing his arms, doing what he did best, turning history into drama.

“The Treaty of Versailles devastated Germany. The treaty blamed them for World War I. It took lands from Germany. It wrecked their economy. It
humiliated
the German people.”

Molloy held up his notebook for Frank to see, pointing at the message to get Frank's attention. WHICH ONE?

But Savitz was on a roll. “And these, gentleman, were the conditions that led to the rise of the Nazi party and Adolf Hitler and ultimately World War II!”

Molloy was still waiting for an answer. Which one? he mouthed.

“Any questions?” Mr. Savitz said.

Frank picked up his pen and drew a swastika. Then encased it in a heart.

The next morning Frank sat behind the desk in the yearbook office, nestled into the “cockpit.” As usual it was before eight when he shouldn't be there, but he didn't care. He had bigger things on his mind than the stupid fucking school rules. The door was closed and locked, but he was keeping an ear out for anyone in the hallway. In his left hand he kneaded the purple rubber gorilla with a machine-like rhythm. He held a pen in his other hand, not writing, just looking at what he'd just written on the last page of his binder where he kept his wish lists camouflaged in elaborate doodles. He'd just added three teeny-tiny, almost imperceptible letters in a vertical list.

Y

T

A

Yolanda, Tina, and Annette. Which one? His mind had been made up yesterday. Annette was the one. But now he was having second thoughts. He didn't really like her that much. He wanted to ask Yolanda, but there was the mourning problem. If he asked her now, she'd think he was an insensitive jerk. Tina kept looking better and better. He liked her. Not the way he liked Yolanda, but she was fun and easy to talk to. If he asked Tina to the prom, at least they'd have a good time. Probably.

Frank heard the scrape of feet coming up the staircase. He hauled himself out of his seat and climbed over the desk to get to the door. Standing on a chair, he peeked through the dirty glass of the transom. It was Tina and two other nerd girls from Mother of Peace. He looked for Yolanda, but she wasn't there.

Frank got down off the chair and opened the door a few inches. “Pssst!”

One of the nerd girls, the one with the long kinky seaweed hair, heard him.

Frank pointed at Tina.

Seaweed Hair tapped Tina on the shoulder. “Somebody wants you,” she said and pointed at Frank.

Tina turned around. “Oh, hi,” she said. She flashed her little cat grin. “Looking to get in trouble again.”

Frank crooked his finger. “I wanna talk to you,” he whispered.

Tina leaned over the staircase railing and looked down. “What about Whalley?” she said.

“I just wanna talk to you. For a minute. In here.”

“So you do want to get into trouble?” She walked toward the door, and Frank opened it enough for her to come in. “So what's on your mind? Yolanda, I suppose?”

Frank's face turned red. “No. I wasn't thinking about her. I mean, she's not what I wanna talk about.”

“No?”

He wished she'd stop grinning at him like that. “Well, I was wondering if…”

“If what? If she would go to the prom with you?”

“No!” His face got hotter. She wasn't making this easy. “I… I was wondering if
you
wanted to go to the prom.” Frank couldn't believe he'd just blurted it out. He felt as if he'd just pulled the pin on a grenade without figuring out in advance where to throw it.

The sly cat grin faded. She looked down at the floor.

Frank panicked. Had he said something wrong?

“I'm seeing someone,” she said. Her voice was subdued.

Who? Some 4H geek? he thought. He'd been hoping that she had told Dom she was seeing someone just to get rid of him. “Someone from St. A's?” Frank asked.

She shook her head. “Someplace else.”

“Oh… sorry.” Frank felt stupid.

“It's okay,” she said. “But why are you asking me? Yolanda's the one you're always looking at.”

Frank shrugged. He was too embarrassed to talk about it.

“You could
try
asking her.” That “try” sounded very iffy, as if he didn't stand much of a chance. “But not today.”

“Why not today?”

“Her grandfather. His funeral is today. That's why she's not in school.”

Frank nodded. “You think she—.” He didn't finish his thought. It was stupid to ask.

“What?”

“You think—you know—she's, like, too bummed out to even think about something like going to a prom?”

“Right now she is, yeah.”

“She'd probably think I was an asshole if I asked.”

“Yeah, probably.”

Frank nodded in silence. “How long do you think she'll be, you know, in mourning?”

“How should I know? Forever probably. He was her grandfather for chrissake. She loved him.”

Frank nodded. He'd be pretty bummed if his grandfather died. His grandfather was a cool guy.

“Do you play pool?” Tina asked.

“What?”

“You want some advice?”

Frank shrugged. He did want advice, but he didn't want her to think he needed it.

“Let me tell you something about girls. Most guys don't get this, but I'm gonna tell you.”

“Okay. But what does this have to do with playing pool?”

“You know what a bank shot is, right?”

“Yeah. It's when you bounce the cue ball off the bumper first to hit the ball you're trying to sink.”

“Exactly. That's how you should deal with girls. Direct shots are a turn-off to most girls. We like guys who can be subtle, not obvious.”

“I'm not sure I get you.”

Tina put on a gruff, dumb-guy voice. “'Hey, Yolanda, you wanna, you know, go to, ah, the prom?'” She went back to her normal voice. “That's how we hear it. It's about as subtle and sexy as breaking an egg with a hammer.”

“Okay, I see what you mean. I think.”

“No, you don't. You're a guy.”

“I resent that.”

“Of course you do. Because you're a guy.”

“Come on.”

“I'm giving you pearls of wisdom here, but all you're thinking right now is, ‘How's this gonna get me Yolanda?'”

“That's not what I'm thinking.” It was exactly what he was thinking.

She pressed her finger into his forehead. “What I'm trying to get through your thick skull is that you cannot act like a baby if you want a girl to like you?”

“What do you mean, a baby?”

“A baby sees something, he immediately wants it. Gimme, gimme, gimme!”

“So what're you saying? If I want something, I should make like I don't want it?”

“Yeah. Sort of.”

“So, for instance, if I want a certain girl to go to the prom with me, I should act like I don't really care, like it's no big deal.”

“No, no, no. You're taking this too literally. What you should do is treat her like a person—find out what she thinks, what she likes, what you have in common—instead of treating her like a piece of ass you're desperate to bone.”

“Okay, I think I see what you mean.” Frank was fascinated. He'd never heard a girl so honest and open. She was incredible. She wasn't the flake Frank thought she was. He was sorry she was dating someone. “So how do you know so much about this stuff?”

She shrugged and flashed her little cat grin. “I'm a genius.”

“Did your boyfriend have a good bank shot when he asked you out?”

She blushed and looked at the floor. “Yeah… I guess he did.”

Brrrrnnnnnggggg!!!
The eight o'clock bell rang.

“Okay, listen to me,” she said, talking fast. “Yolanda is shy. If you come on strong, you'll definitely scare her off. Be subtle.”

“Bank shots,” he said.

“Yes, bank shots.” She ran out the door and headed to the physics lab.

Bank shots, he thought. Subtle. Find out what she thinks. Find out what you have in common.

He picked up his book bag and took out his keys to lock the yearbook office door. As he headed down the staircase to French class, his brain was churning.

Frank stared at the small tin grave marker stuck in the ground, and even though he was alone in the cemetery, he felt conspicuous and inappropriate and totally stupid. He didn't even know if this was the right grave. He just assumed it was because of the temporary marker instead of a gravestone and the multiple bouquets of flowers. The name embossed into the tin marker was ANDRZEJ MARUSKA. Frank subtracted the date of birth from the date of death and figured that the man was 71 when he died. Grandfather age. It definitely could be Yolanda's grandfather's grave. But maybe it wasn't, he thought.