The Temptations of St. Frank (5 page)

“So is it her?” Molloy said. “Am I right?”

“I gotta get to class.”

Three sophomores banged through the door, dropped their books on the tile floor, and ran to the urinals. Frank headed for the door.

“Hey, where ya going?” Molloy called after him.

“Later,” Frank said.

Or maybe never, he thought.

He opened the door, and a stampede of underclassmen rushed past him to get into the bathroom. He turned sideways to let the little shits pass. He felt cranky and mean because his dick still ached, and he knew it was gonna ache all day. But no matter what fucking Molloy thought, he did not have a thing for nerd girls. He headed for the staircase, his desert boots squeaking.

“Boys,” he said, “I am disappointed.” He spoke with a Midwestern twang that to Frank's ear indicated no place in particular other than not here. He was the only non-Catholic teacher at St. A's, though Frank had no idea what religion he was or if he practiced any religion at all. Frank assumed he was some kind of Protestant, but that was pretty murky territory for Frank. He knew there were a lot of Protestant religions, but he wasn't sure what the differences were, and in all his years of Catholic education from kindergarten through high school, it wasn't something that was ever taught except in World History, and they only touched on Martin Luther and his 99 Theses nailed to the church doors, which Frank always thought of as the 99 Feces for some sick reason, probably because it was the first time he'd ever seen how the plural
thesis
was spelled and it was close enough for a joke.

Before Mr. Dalton, Frank had never actually met a Protestant—at least he didn't think he had. In his world there were Catholics—Italian Catholics, Irish Catholics, and Polish Catholics. The Ukrainians were a little different because they were part of the Eastern rite and supposedly didn't believe in the Pope, but the Ukrainians from Newark and Jersey City had come to an accommodation with the Roman Catholic schools in the area. Frank suspected that the Ukrainians felt that putting up with the Pope was better than sending their kids to public school with the colored kids.

The only other religious group Frank had any contact with were Jewish people because most of his father's customers were Jews. Frank's father had a gardening business—a truck, a bunch of lawnmowers and tools and shit, and a Uruguayan guy who worked for him under the table. He took care of Jewish people's lawns, and he thought they were great because they had a lot of money. At least that's what he thought.

As for Mr. Dalton, Frank preferred to think that he had no religion. He was just too cool for that. He was a young guy just a couple of years out of the University of Chicago, and he was hip to things the other teachers didn't even know existed. He knew good music and saw all the latest movies, and the books he picked for class weren't the usual boring crap that the other teachers assigned. His classes read stuff like
The Martian Chronicles
and
Soul on Ice
instead of
Silas Marner
and
Tess of the
fucking
D'Urbervilles.

Mr. Dalton opened his attaché case and pulled out a sheaf of papers. Muffled groans started at the back of the class and traveled forward to the front of the room, like a wimpy little wave. This was the writing assignment they'd turned in last Friday.

Dalton looked out at the class and sneered, one side of his sandy moustache lifting his cheek. “You know what's coming, don't you?” There was a tinge of sadistic glee in his tone, but he was just being ironic, which Frank appreciated. Most of the other teachers at St. A's considered irony a sin and something to be avoided—even though several of them doled out sarcasm as if it were a blessing, and the crueler the better.

“O'Keefe,” Mr. Dalton called out. He peeled the top paper off his pile, walked down the aisle, and handed it to O'Keefe who made a sour-lemon face as soon as he saw his grade.

“Dougherty.”

Long, tall Dougherty took his paper, saw the grade, and slumped into his seat like a banana peel who'd just lost his banana. As soon as Mr. Dalton's back was turned, Dougherty gave him the finger.

“Bronski.”

Bronski pushed up his horn-rimmed glasses, looked at his grade, and winced. Fuck, he mouthed silently.

“Boys, this was not a taxing assignment. Just write a short story. Two- page minimum. Make sure it has a beginning, middle, and end. I wasn't asking you to muck out the Augean Stables.”

A collective “huh?” rose over the room like a group fart. Frank smirked, pleased that he had gotten the reference to the labors of Hercules and they hadn't.

“I just don't get it, boys. This was supposed to be a fun assignment, an opportunity to express yourselves. Is it that you didn't
get
the assignment, or you just didn't give a shit?”

Mr. Dalton's “shit” stopped time. He didn't curse as a habit, but when he did, it sent a message loud and clear that he was pissed. He let his disappointment hang in the air as he handed out the rest of the papers in silence. Only the rustle of the sub-par short stories could be heard, like dried-up leaves that deserved to be raked into a fire. Frank started to worry. English was his best subject, but maybe he had fucked up on this assignment like everyone else. Papers flew from Mr. Dalton's pile like gunfire, causing one wounded face after another. Frank's stomach clenched, expecting the worst, wondering where his paper was.

Mr. Dalton flipped his wrist over, glanced at his watch, and started passing out papers faster, and Frank's stapled pages fluttered onto his desktop in a scattered mess. He quickly rearranged them to get to the first page. His grade was written in red pen—an A inside a circle with the words “See me” scribbled next to it.

Yes! Frank thought, clenching his fist.

But his moment of triumph burst like a balloon when the bell rang for the end of last period, and he remembered that he had an appointment with Mr. Whalley in his office—thanks to good ole Tina and her non-existent cleavage. The thought of having to face the Walrus King in his lair stuck a pin in Frank's zeppelin of literary achievement.

Guys rumbled out of their seats, fleeing for the door, but Mr. Dalton yelled over them. “Boys! I want you to read the Hemingway story in your anthology.” He pointed to the blackboard where he'd already written down the assignment. “It's short. Read it tonight and we'll discuss it tomorrow.”

Richard “the Brown-Nosed Reindeer” Bauerman waved his hand like a drowning man. “Will there be a quiz on it, Mr. Dalton?”

Dalton gave him a withering look. “No, Bauerman. Just read it and
enjoy
it,
appreciate
it.
That's
the assignment.”

Frank hung back, waiting for the other guys to leave. Dalton noticed him as he tossed his class ledger into his attaché case and closed the lid.

“Nice story, Grimaldi.”

“Thanks.” Frank kept his voice down, not wanting any of the other guys to think he was trying to be a brown-noser. “You wrote on my paper that you wanted to see me?”

“Yeah, I wanted to talk about your writing. I think you've got some talent.”

Frank shrugged. He didn't know how to take a compliment. In his house compliments were always backhanded or came with qualifiers, like “nice story, but too bad you're not better at something that will make you some money some day, like math.”

“You ought to stretch yourself a little more,” Dalton said.

“What do you mean?” Frank automatically became the defensive, waiting for the compliment to turn into criticism.

“Well, I liked your story about the cider vendor. It showed a lot of imagination. But I'd like to see you write something from life, something you've experienced, something you know.”

“But this was supposed to be fiction.”

“A lot of times there's more truth in fiction than non-fiction. When you don't have to stick to the facts, you're free to write what you feel and get to the heart of the matter. You know what I'm saying?”

“Yeah… I think so.” Frank wasn't sure, but he wasn't going to say so. He didn't want Mr. Dalton to think less of him.

“You've turned in a couple of stories for
The Nest.
”
The Nest
was the school literary magazine, and Mr. Dalton was the faculty advisor. “I'm hoping you'll write more for us, but in your future stories try to incorporate pieces of your own life. Not the particulars, but the feelings, the emotions, your wants and needs.”

Great, Frank thought, a story about wanting to get laid before going to college? How about a story about wanting to start a band so that I can be cool enough to get a girl who will do it with me? Or a story about wanting to go away to college so I can escape my crazy family and live in a dorm where I can get laid? I don't think so, Frank thought.

“Give it some thought, Grimaldi. You can bounce your ideas off me anytime. I'm always available.”

No thanks, Frank thought. Dalton was a good guy, but he was still a teacher, and Frank's strategies for getting laid weren't something he was ready to share.

The second bell rang.

“Shit!” Frank muttered, looking toward the door. “I gotta go, Mr. Dalton. I have to see Mr. Whalley.”

Dalton looked surprised, and his expression wounded Frank. He didn't want Dalton to think of him as one of
those
kind of guys, guys who get into trouble all the time and have to do jug. Frank was no goody-goody; he was just good at not getting caught. He liked to think of himself as a behind-the-scenes kind of guy. A Cardinal Richelieu type.

“Well, you'd better get going, Grimaldi. We'll talk about this some more later.”

“Okay, Mr. Dalton. And thanks.” He held up his story.

“Don't thank me. You're the one who wrote it.”

Mr. Dalton's encouraging smile stayed with Frank as he rushed out of the classroom, shoving his story into the pages of his world history textbook. But then he thought about Mr. Whalley and all the crap the Walrus King was gonna give him about being in the building before school started and ravishing Tina in the yearbook office, which he didn't even do. If he had gotten some action, the punishment would be worth it. But this wasn't fair. Nothing was fair at St. A's. It was all about keeping guys down, keeping the lid on, humiliating guys and making them feel small and worthless. He hated fucking Whalley.

Frank's anger built up steam with every step he took. He moved like a tight end through the crush of students in the hallway. As he rounded the staircase and rushed down the steps to the first floor, he could feel the heat rising in his face and the knot tightening in his stomach. Whalley was going to put him down. That's what he did. It was his job. He was going to make Frank feel like a nothing. And for what? Just to show that he was the big powerful asshole and Frank was just a kid? Well, fuck that! Whalley was a lard-ass bastard who could barely waddle out of his own way. By the time Frank reached the first floor, he was so worked up he had murder in his heart. He wanted to see the bastard dead. Kill the Walrus King. Stick a big fucking harpoon right through him. Right up his big fat ass and out his mouth. Then Frank would really have something to write about.

The crepe soles of his desert books squeaked with defiance as he speed-walked toward Whalley's office. He was chugging full steam ahead, carrying that big-ass harpoon in his head, ready to Ahab the motherfucker. But then he saw it, the Bench of Shame, and his righteous anger evaporated. The fire in him was gone and so was the harpoon. All that was left was a deep and terrible dread in the pit of his stomach, and he hated himself for letting Whalley already make him feel like a chicken shit. Lard-ass bastard.

Whalley's voice on the PA system thundered through the hallways just as Frank got to his doorway. “Gentlemen, let me remind you that the varsity baseball team will be playing St. Bernard's Academy this afternoon at three-thirty. Please make every effort to attend and show your support for the team.”

Frank crossed the threshold of doom and peered through the doorway into Whalley's inner office. The Walrus King was seated behind his desk, speaking into his microphone, like an evil deejay from the netherworld. He glared at Frank as he spoke and pointed with his pipe stem at the Bench of Shame.

“St. Bernard's is our traditional rival, and they have a strong team, gentlemen. But not as strong as our Fighting Owls! Gentlemen, I encourage you to cheer them on vociferously.” The announcement sounded more like a threat than an invitation, which was no surprise. Whalley could make “hi, how are you?” sound like “burn in hell, transgressor!”

Frank sat down on the bench as if it were a red-hot skillet, putting as little of his ass on it as possible. The finish on the seat had worn off from decades of miscreant butt parked there before sentencing.

Whalley pushed the desk microphone aside and picked up his telephone, staring at Frank as he put the receiver to his face. “Sit tight, Mr. Grimaldi,” he called out through the doorway.

As if I have a choice, Frank thought.

The doorway to the hallway was always left open, and anyone who passed could see him on the Bench of Shame. Frank leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and looked at the floor. He felt like a dead fish on ice in a glass case, everybody in the supermarket looking at him—underclassmen, other seniors, teachers, the janitors. Humiliation swelled inside of him like a big ball of yeasty dough rising in his chest. He could hear Whalley's grumbly mumble on the phone but couldn't make out the words. He imagined the Walrus King conferring with the Walrus Queen: “Bring home some raw fish, dear, and don't forget to torture a bunch of students before you leave for the day. Especially that Grimaldi kid. He's gotten away with too much for too long.”

Frank looked up when he heard someone coming into the office. Mr. Dalton nodded to him but didn't say a word. He waved an envelope at Whalley to get his attention and tossed it on the secretary's desk. Whalley nodded, still on the phone.

“See you tomorrow, Grimaldi,” Dalton said.

Frank wanted to melt down to a puddle and dribble out the door he was so embarrassed. Mr. Dalton had just given him an A and told him he was a good writer, told him he had talent. But now what did he think? That Grimaldi was just another loser on the Bench of Shame? Fuck!

“I'll be with you shortly, Grimaldi,” Whalley said, still holding the receiver to his face. He started dialing another number.

Yeah, fuck you too, Frank thought.

“Psst! Hey, Frank.”

Frank looked toward the hallway. Larry Vitale was standing there with his sidekick Gdowski. Vitale cupped his hands around his mouth and spoke in a stage whisper. “Whalley catch you jerking off again? Why don't you do that at home like a normal person?”