The Temptations of St. Frank (3 page)

Frank's French book was open on the graffiti-carved desktop, but he was in no mood for fucking French. Yolanda was upstairs in her physics class, convinced that he'd ravished Tina in the yearbook office, and now he had fucking walking jug for something he hadn't even done. Something he'd only thought about doing. And he mostly thought about doing it with Yolanda, not Tina… though the thought had crossed his mind a few times. It wasn't fair. Shit, it was only first period, and he was already fed up with everything.

“Watch the door.” Larry Vitale, the weasely little wiseass, pointed to dumbo Gdowski, his “tell-me-about-the-rabbits-George” sidekick. Gdowski jumped out of his seat, opened the classroom door a crack, and peeked out into the hallway.

The eight other guys who took French III this period watched Vitale with shit-eating grins on their faces. Vitale was a real joker, and Mr. Kinney, their French teacher, was so out of it he was a perennial easy target.

Now what? Frank thought. He wasn't in the mood for Vitale's antics.

Vitale tiptoed to the front of the classroom like a mime imitating a cat burglar and pulled something out of his blazer pocket. He held up a little red transistor radio for everyone to see. He did a Bugs Bunny he-he-he, bouncing his shoulders as he dragged the teacher's chair over to the intercom speaker hanging on the wall over the blackboard, an old varnished wooden box with stained brown fabric covering the speaker inside. Frank guessed it had been there since the building had been built. Students in the 1940s had probably heard about Pearl Harbor through that thing.

Vitale stepped up on the chair and turned on the transistor radio loud enough for everyone to hear. Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs doing “Little Red Riding Hood.” The radio had good reception, and Frank guessed it was tuned to 77-WABC-AM. Frank always listened to that station in the car, but at home he only listened to FM. Those were the only stations that played Hendrix, Cream, Canned Heat, Big Brother and the Holding Company, Jefferson Airplane, Quicksilver Messenger Service, the good hippie groups. Vitale lifted the intercom box away from the wall and slipped the radio inside so that it sounded like Sam the Sham was coming from the intercom, which was actually pretty funny. Intercom announcements came from a microphone that sat on Mr. Whalley's desk in the front office. Whalley listening to WABC? Very unlikely. Souza marches, that's what the Walrus King would listen to.

“Here he comes,” Gdowski stage-whispered and ran back to his seat.

Vitale jumped off the chair, dragged it back to the desk, and rushed back to his seat.

Mr. Kinney poked his head through the door and peered in. He did this every day. It was as if he didn't want to disturb anyone. He flashed a quick apologetic smile and stepped inside. He looked normal—for a teacher—average in everyway except for the trim little Inspector Clouseau moustache he wore. He referred to it as his “cookie duster,” always with a discreet little chortle into his fist—one of his lame attempts at humor.

He went over to his desk and set down the three books he carried, arranging them so that they sat evenly one on top of the other. The bell rang for the start of first period, and the moment it stopped, Whalley's obnoxious, marbles-in-his-mouth voice came over the intercom.

“Good morning, gentlemen. Today there will be a freshman assembly with Monsignor Fitzgerald in the theater during fourth period. All freshmen are to go directly to the theater at the end of third period. Those gentlemen who are late or absent will automatically receive jug…”

Fuck you, Frank thought and stopped paying attention.

But Mr. Kinney, who was loading a fresh stick of chalk into his chalk holder, perked up, and even though Whalley wasn't saying anything different from any other day, Mr. Kinney furrowed his brow and tilted his head like Nipper, the RCA dog sitting in front the old-fashioned record player. Mr. Kinney was hearing Vitale's transistor radio playing inside the intercom. The sound was faint compared to Whalley's booming voice, but it was unmistakably there. “Little Red Riding Hood” had ended, and Harry Harrison, WABC's morning deejay, was talking a mile a minute, giving the sports scores.

Larry Vitale turned around in his seat and mugged to the class, cuing them that this was the funny stuff in case they didn't catch it. Mr. Kinney started walking around the room, circling back toward the intercom, frowning at it. Frank had to admit, this was pretty funny, and he had to bite the insides of his cheeks to keep from smiling. Mr. Kinney wrinkled his nose the way he always did when he didn't understand something, making his glasses rise. Frank imagined him getting down on all fours and sniffing around for clues.

“…And finally, gentlemen,” Whalley said, “as always, walking jug will commence this afternoon at 2:55
sharp.
Those of you who have earned jug know who you are. Be there. No excuses.”

Gdowski gave the intercom box the finger. He got jug so often he was practically a permanent member of the walking-jug precision team. At St. A's
jug
was the word for detention. No one seemed to know where the term came from or how old it was, but it was a St. A's tradition. Walking jug was for the repeat offenders—one hour of walking around the quadrangle behind Mulvaney Hall on hard asphalt, in rain, snow, blistering heat, hurricanes, cyclones, tornadoes, monsoons, it didn't matter. And there was never a break. Another St. A's tradition—probably from the Inquisition. Walking jug sessions were usually held twice a week, sometimes three when “business was brisk,” as Whalley liked to say with his evil little walrus laugh. With all the time Gdowski had spent walking around the quad, he should have been in good shape, but surprisingly he was still the pudgy butterball he'd been when he was a freshman.

“Have a blessed day, gentlemen, ” Whalley said, signing off, but the radio inside the intercom box kept playing just loud enough to be annoying. Mr. Kinney opened his copy of
Vol de Nuit
, turning to the page where they had left off translating yesterday, but it was obvious from the sour expression on his face that the radio was bugging him.

Vitale and Gdowski were on the verge of exploding, doing everything they could to keep from breaking up, and Frank couldn't understand why Mr. Kinney couldn't figure out that they were the culprits. It was obvious to everyone else in class. But Kinney was the kind of teacher who always tried to be a Mr. Nice Guy with the students and never called anybody on anything.

Richard Bauerman, the brownest of the brown-nosers at St. A's, was sweating bullets. He was obviously dying to tell Mr. Kinney about the radio prank, but Gdowski was giving him the evil eye, balling his fists so that Bauerman could see. Gdowski was Vitale's muscle, and he never needed a whole lot of provocation before he started swinging. That's why he got jug so much.

Bauerman looked like the skinny missionary heating up in the cannibals' cauldron. He desperately wanted to be the good boy and squeal to Mr. Kinney, but he knew his ass was grass if he did. He was the smartest kid in their section, 4A, but not the smartest kid in the senior class because 4A was the Avis rent-a-car class—number 2 but trying harder—the so-called “divinity class,” which was a joke because no one in 4A had the slightest intention of ever becoming a priest, not even Bauerman.

Once upon a time, back before World War II, St. A's actually did have a divinity class for guys who wanted to go on to the seminary and become priests and brothers and monks. But that was way back when. Still, St. A's kept the term—St. A's was
big
on tradition—and made 4A the dumping ground for boys who were kind of smart but not smart enough for 4H, the honors class. Frank had been in the A class all four years at St. A's—1A, 2A, 3A, and now 4A. Sort of smart but not the smartest. It pissed him off, even though the last thing he wanted was to be stuck all day with the geeks, nerds, and social rejects in 4H. Even though he did hang out with a few of them.

A new song came out of the intercom box. Roy Orbison's “Pretty Woman.” Larry turned around in his seat and lipsinked along with it. Stealthy snickers rose from the back of the room. Bauerman bit his bottom lip.

“Okay, settle down,” Mr. Kinney said. “Turn to page fourteen in your Saint-Exupery.”

Larry played an imaginary guitar along with the “Pretty Woman” riff—dah-dah-dah-dah-DUM. Frank knew how to play that riff. Unconsciously he played it on the inseam of his pants with an imaginary pick between his fingers.

Gdowski buried his face in his arms on top of his desk to muffle his belly laughs.

“All right,” Mr. Kinney said with a frown. He was mad—well, as mad as he ever got— but not at Vitale or Gdowski or the snickerers. His glare was aimed at the intercom box.

“O'Keefe,” he said, pointing to Brian O'Keefe, St. A's star long-distance runner. “Go down to Mr. Whalley's office and tell him he left the intercom on.”

O'Keefe, who was short and wiry, kept a poker face as he nodded and headed for the door.

“And come right back,” Mr. Kinney added before O'Keefe left.

Roy Orbison kept singing, and Frank strummed along with his phantom pick. It was a great song. Pretty woman… He thought of Yolanda as he stroked the chords on his gray wool slacks and started to get hard.

“Okay, gentlemen. First paragraph on page fourteen. Who would like to translate?
Qui?
”

On the radio Harry Harrison announced the next song. “Make It With You” by Bread. It was one of those horny ballads, a slow-dance song, the kind of song girls like. Frank often thought about slow dancing with Yolanda. Not at a Mother of Peace school dance where the lights in the gym were so bright you could do surgery and the nuns patrolled the dance floor, measuring the distance between the couples with wooden rulers. No, he wanted to dance with her at a St. A's dance where— amazingly—the lights were low and the monitors weren't as strict.

The last line of the song's chorus seeped into Frank's head like tear gas. I want to make it with… Yolanda.

“Mr. Long,” Mr. Kinney called out, his voice uncharacteristically testy.

Tommy Long stood up next to his seat and flipped his long blond surfer bangs out of his eyes with a snap of his head. It was his signature move. Frank knew next to nothing about Long except that he lived in Short Hills, which meant his family had money, and he was a “2:45-er,” which was Mr. Whalley's sarcastic term for guys who went home right after the last-period bell rang at 2:45 P.M. and didn't play any sports or participate in any extracurricular activities.

Mr. Kinney gave Long the same assignment he'd given O'Keefe. “Go down to Mr. Whalley's office and tell him the intercom is on and his radio is disturbing us.”

Long nodded and snapped his head back to get his bangs out of his eyes.

“And if you see O'Keefe out there, tell him to get back here immediately.”

“Okay,” Long said. He needed one more head snap to take care of his bangs before he left the room.

Mr. Kinney tried to ignore the radio. “Okay, who wants to translate?
Qui–?”

Roaring hot-rod engines blasted out of the intercom. “Sunday! Sunday! Sunday!” the guy on the commercial shouted. “Sunday at Raceway Park! Englishtown, New Jersey!”

Guys cracked up all over the room. They just couldn't hold it in any more. Only Bauerman didn't laugh.

“All right, settle down,” Kinney said, raising his voice but just a little. He rarely raised his voice. “Mr. Vitale, start translating the first paragraph on page fourteen.”

The laughter spiked. Everybody knew that Vitale would make mincemeat out of it because his French sucked.

“Yes, Mr. Kinney,
oui,
” Vitale sounding like Eddie Haskell. “Page fourteen? Is that where we're starting?“

“Yes, that's what I said.”

But before Vitale could get started, the piano intro to “Let It Be” poured out of the intercom. The Beatles. Paul's voice. Paul, the one all the girls loved. When Frank was in eighth grade, he used to practice keeping his eyelids half-closed the way Paul's were naturally, hoping girls would like him. Now the Beatles didn't exist anymore. Frank still couldn't believe it. Everything he knew, he'd learned from the Beatles. Everything that really mattered. So what was he supposed to do now? Who was gonna teach him about love stuff? The Stones? He could barely make out their lyrics. The Temptations? The Four Tops? They were black guys, and they were older, and what they sang about seemed older, not applicable to a white Catholic-school kid. The Jackson 5? Christ, that kid Michael was five-years-old. What the hell did he know about anything? Why the fuck did the Beatles have to break up just when he really needed them? He imagined Mulvaney Hall the way it would look if it were in the
Yellow Submarine
cartoon and the roof magically peeled off and Yolanda floated out of the physics lab up into the sky like a helium balloon, floating higher and higher, waving goodbye as she eventually became a tiny dot and then disappeared into the clouds. Forever.

“Mr. Grimaldi! Are you with us, Mr. Grimaldi?”

“Huh?”

Mr. Kinney was frowning at him. “Please pay attention, Mr. Grimaldi.”

“Sorry.”

Mr. Kinney's face was red, his mouth turned down like a pissed-off fish. “I want you to go to Mr. Whalley's office and tell him about the intercom. And tell O'Keefe and Long to get back here on the double. Now go. Hurry up.”

“Mr. Whalley's office?” Frank was still coming out of his candy-colored daydream.

“Yes. And hurry up. This is getting ridiculous.” Mr. Kinney scowled at the intercom box. The song had ended and the news had just come on, the announcer saying something about Henry Kissinger negotiating something about Vietnam.

“
Allez-y, allez-y, Monsieur Grimaldi!”
Mr. Kinney fluttered his hand in a very French way as if he were trying to sweep Frank out of the room.