The Temptations of St. Frank (30 page)

“Never mind about finding your friend. He's been found.” A malicious grin fought to get onto the monsignor's face, contorting his studied sternness into a twisted abomination.

The bell rang, shattering the sky-blue tranquility of the quad.

The monsignor narrowed his eyes and stared down at Frank. “Three minutes, Mr. Grimaldi. My office.” He shook the yearbook. “There will be consequences for this.”

Frank didn't blink and didn't say a word. All he could hear was his own pounding heart, pumping pure hate through his veins.

“This is fucking bad.
Really
bad.” For the first time since Frank had known Molloy, he looked worried, and Frank was disappointed in him. Molloy was usually the man with a plan, Mr. Fearless. They were in the locker room, guys all around them scrambling to get stuff out of their lockers before the second bell rang. Frank and Molloy were due in the monsignor's office.

“What're we gonna tell Fitzgerald?” Molloy said. “You're the word guy. Think of something. Come on!
Say
something!”

But Frank wasn't talking. And he was done listening. A driving guitar riff had popped into his head from out of nowhere and it was getting louder, overwhelming his thoughts. The Kinks were in his head. “All Day and All of the Night.” Da-dum, da-dum, da-da-da-da-dum.

The beat was ramping up in his head. Seniors were all around him. Vitale, Gdowski, the Vaz, Wilenski, O'Keefe, Paldino, Fong, Ruselli, Collins. Frank's mental music grew louder and louder as it headed for Dave Davies's bitchin' guitar solo, the one he'd love to know how to play, the one he pantomimed when he was alone in his room at home.

The second bell rang, searing through Frank like the first notes of the solo. Bup-bup-bup-bup-bup-bup-bup… He was happy as hell and pissed as shit. He had to do something, anything. He had energy to burn.

“Grimaldi,” Molloy in his ear. “Let's go. They're waiting for us.”

But Frank wasn't listening. He was focused on the Vaz who had his back to him, bended over from the waist to get something out of his bookbag. Frank went toward him, not thinking, just following the rock'n'roll in his head. He grabbed the tails of Vaseline Boy's blazer and yanked, ripping the center seam, tearing it straight up the back from the single vent all the way to the collar. Vaseline Boy's white shirt was exposed. He popped up and looked over his shoulder, straining to see and moving in a circle like a dog chasing its tail.

“Don't worry,” Frank said. “We don't need those anymore. School's over in a week.”

The Vaz moved his mouth like a fish out of water, making “wah-wah-wah” sounds, trying to get the words out.

Vitale examined the damage, grinning dopey with pinwheels in his eyes. “That's right,” he said. “We don't need these fucking ugly things anymore.” He reached over to Gdowski who was standing next to him and dipped his hand into Gdowski's breast pocket where the school crest patch was sewn on, and yanked it right off like a general demoting a fuckup corporal.

Gdowski's beady eyes popped open, his mouth a shocked “O.” But the “O” instantly became as mean grin as he returned the favor and ripped off Vitale's pocket.

Vitale, drunk with glee, grabbed Gdowski's sleeve and struggled to tear it off but it wouldn't give.

Big Wilenski shoved him aside. “Look out, stupid.” He grabbled Gdowski's sleeve in both hands and yanked down, pulling Gdowski off his feet, dragging him around the locker room, yanking and yanking until the sleeve finally gave way. The big guy held it over his head like a fresh scalp and grinned.

Dennis Collins, King of the 2:45ers, got into the act, following Frank's lead and taking his buddy Ruselli from behind and tearing his blazer up the back.

“You fucker,” Ruselli yelled and laughed at the same time. He ripped off Collins's pocket.

Collins grabbed Ruselli's sleeve and found the seam at the cuff, yanking and tearing inch by inch until fabric just flapped around Ruselli's arm.

The few underclassmen left in the locker room, fled for their navy blue blazers as the brown-jacketed seniors went berserk, lunging and ripping, tearing each other to shreds and laughing their heads off. Even some of the 4H guys got into it, targeting the stuck-up nerds like Vaseline Boy. It was a feeding frenzy in the shark tank. Everyone was going nuts.

Molloy had forgotten about their summons to the monsignor's office and went to work on Frank's sleeve. Frank was barely aware of what Molloy was doing. He stood in the middle of it all, mesmerized by the chaos he had initiated, like a pyromaniac staring at a burning building.

Vitale pointed through the doorway into the hallway. “Over there!” he shouted. A pack of stragglers from 4C were taking their time getting to gym class. “Get ‘em!” Vitale charged through the doorway, Gdowski, O'Keefe, and Ruselli right behind him. They ambushed the 4Cers, attacking their blazers mercilessly. Frank could hear Vitale repeating over and over again, “We don't need these fucking things anymore.”

Frank wandered out into the hallway, amazed and delighted. Blazer fever was burning everywhere. It was on the staircase, guys attacking, guys fleeing, attackers becoming fleers and fleers becoming attackers. Guys ran upstairs to the main hallway, right outside Whalley's office. Frank ran to the staircase to see what would happen. He figured it would peter out as soon as it hit Whalley's territory, but it didn't. It spread and grew. Guys who had been in class, came out into the hallway to join the riot. They were slap-happy in their frenzy, dozens of seniors running and ripping, making a ruckus, tearing fabric and laughing their heads off.

A new song popped into Frank's head. Clapton's wah-wah solo on “White Room.” The greatest fucking guitar solo ever! It couldn't get any better, he thought. The lid had finally blown off this fucking insane asylum. They were burning it down, tearing it apart!

Whalley raced out of his office and nearly slipped and fell as he crossed the threshold. “Stop it!” he yelled. “Stop it immediately! Cease and desist!”

Frank laughed out loud. Cease and desist my ass, he thought.

Whalley leaned over the stair railing and looked down into the basement hallway. It was engulfed with mad rippers.

“Stop this right now! You will all have jug. Extra jug for those who do not stop immediately.”

No one was listening. No one cared. They were having too much fun.

Whalley's face was crimson, but his powerlessness was in his expression, like a stuffed shirt who'd just gotten a cream pie in the face.

Frank looked up. Seniors from the upstairs classes ran down to join the madness. Frank loved it.

Monsignor Fitzgerald walked briskly down the hallway, heading for Whalley. He was pissed, but he didn't run because vampires don't run. He took it all in and sucked in a breath, about to raise his voice, then suddenly stopped himself. Instead he leaned into Whalley's ear. They both retreated to Whalley's office.

The ripping sounds had subsided since there wasn't much left to rip, but the laughter continued until the intercom crackled and Whalley's voice boomed through the hallways at three times the normal volume.

“ALL SENIORS WILL ASSEMBLE IN THE GYM IMMEDIATELY FOR AN EMERGENCY ASSEMBLY! ALL SENIORS GO TO THE GYM NOW! NO ONE IS EXCUSED. TEACHERS, ACCOMPANY YOUR CLASSES.”

The rippers quieted down, but they stood their ground like pirates on deck after a clash of warships—sabers drawn, all rags and blood and sweat. A grumbling undercurrent greeted the echoing aftermath of Whalley's announcement.

Molloy came up behind Frank. “What the fuck are they gonna do?” he said with a smirk. “Give us jug for life.” The riot had resuscitated him and brought him back to his old defiant form.

“Who knows?” Frank grinned and shrugged. Clapton was still wailing in his head.

Grim-faced teachers—the asshole teachers—blocked the exits. Mr. Pomeroy stood by the front doors, grinning around his pipe as if he already knew what was in store for the miscreants. The gym teachers lined up in front of the bleachers, glaring up at the students like chain-gang guards. Mr. Musso's eyes were wide and crazy, his hair spiking out from his head like a medieval mace itching to smash something.

The school mascot, the Fighting Owl, was painted on the wall across from the bleachers. It was bigger than an elephant with rampant wings, lethal talons, and fierce eyes, swooping down to snatch its prey.

Molloy whispered to Frank. “Is this the part when they turn on the showers with the poison gas?”

Frank turned around and looked up to the top of the bleachers, expecting machine-gun placements at the corners, but there were no teachers up there, just the heavenly glare of sunlight beaming in through the tall windows onto varnished wood.

Monsignor Fitzgerald entered through one of the front doors. He walked across the court, his pace slow and deliberate, the sound of his footsteps filling the gym. His mouth was a flat line of disapproval, his eyes steely and accusing.

“How fucking dramatic,” Molloy whispered.

Frank stared laser beams at the monsignor. He was thinking of Tina and her tears. He was thinking righteous revenge. He was thinking grassy knoll.

The monsignor mounted the steps at the corner of the stage and went to the podium. He leaned into the microphone. “Close all the doors, please.”

Teachers pulled on the crash bars of the doors, closing them with a cluster of metallic
thunks
that echoed through the gym.

Molloy caught Frank's eye. “What'd I tell you? Zyklon B.”

Frank whispered back. “Mannlicher-Carcano.”

Molloy looked puzzled. “Oswald's gun?”

“Never mind.”

“Gentlemen,”—Fitzgerald's voice filled the gym like the voice of God—“and I use the term ‘gentlemen' guardedly. I look at you, and I am appalled. You are without question the sorriest senior class in the long history of St. Anselm's Preparatory School. I well understand the hormonal temptations of adolescent boys, but you, gentlemen, are the casualties of your extraordinarily depraved obsessions with FORNICATION AND MASTURBATION.”

A ripple went through the assembly.

What the fuck? Frank thought.

“Yes, that's right,” Fitzgerald continued. “FORNICATION and MASTURBATION. Right now at this very moment many of you—no,
most
of you—are only thinking about getting home so that you can lock yourselves in your rooms and abuse yourselves.”

Frank's gut was a clenched fist. What about you fornicating with Tina? he thought. He looked around him. Everyone was looking straight ahead as if they were afraid to make eye contact with anyone else. Three rows down, the Vaz was shaking like a leaf, the loose pieces of his tattered jacket broadcasting his nervous condition.

Fitzgerald continued: “People in their right minds do not tear their own clothing asunder. And yet you did. You desecrated your blazers, a school symbol, which says to me that you care nothing for this institution. Your generation, it seems, holds no institution sacred. Not the church, not the government, not your teachers or your parents. Your strongest allegiance is to events that involve filth, sex, and rock and roll.”

The gym teachers flexed their muscles and balled their fists. They seemed to enjoy being the goon squad. Frank could swear that crazy Musso the Moose was looking right at him, salivating to get a piece of him.

“You're thinking to yourselves, why do I have to listen to the headmaster anymore? I'll be out of here in a week and then off to college in September when I'll be free to partake in premarital FORNICATION, illegal DRUGS, violent DEMONSTRATIONS against the government and our war in Vietnam, and generally UNACCEPTABLE, DESTRUCTIVE, ANTISOCIAL BEHAVIOR. Like ripping your blazers apart. You think these are all good things, and that you are entitled to do whatever you want with out consequences. Well, I'm here to inform you that there ARE consequences. So first, I am canceling all graduation ceremonies.”

Hushed grumbling traveled through the crowd like agitated groundhogs burrowing underground.

Good, Frank thought. Who gives a shit about graduation?

The grumbling swelled.

“Shut up!” Musso shouted, sweeping the crowd with a threatening index finger. “No talking!”

The monsignor: “I considered holding graduation as usual but demanding that you wear your blazers in their current condition. No patch-up jobs from mommy. But you don't DESERVE a graduation like those who came before you. This class is not WORTHY of a graduation. And I will leave it to YOU to explain to your families why they will not be attending a graduation ceremony.”

He glared at the bleachers, his gaze roving like a prison searchlight.

“I am also going to have all copies of the yearbook DESTROYED. Your class will be the FIRST in the history of the school NOT to have a yearbook.”

A collective groan of outrage.

“Be quiet!” the Moose yelled.

“Perhaps the absence of a yearbook will serve as a lifelong reminder that the world does not revolve around YOU. I am saddened and disgusted that students at this school have allowed themselves to be seduced by false messengers. By hippies with LONG DIRTY HAIR. By so-called PHILOSOPHERS who have no room for Jesus Christ in their thinking. By stylish ICONOCLASTS who destroy simply for the sake of destruction. BY DEVIANT SEXUAL FANTASIES AND SEXUAL INDULGENCE IN ALL POSSIBLE PERVERTED FORMS.”

Like priests fucking teenage girls? Frank's chest was heaving.

“Frankly I am OVERJOYED that your beloved musical combo, the Beatles, have ceased to be. They, more than any other evil influence, have shaped your distorted world view and convinced you, like Pied Pipers, to follow their grotesque notions of free love to the point where you have become OBSESSED with your LUST for MASTURBATION AND FORNICATION. Hopefully they will soon be FORGOTTEN so that future generations do not become the ABOMINATIONS that you have become.”

Frank's eyes were bulging, his hands trembling with contained fury. What the fuck was the fucking vampire talking about? The Beatles were the BEST thing that ever happened to the world. They made people feel good. What's so wrong with feeling good? They didn't preach one thing and do another behind closed doors. They didn't make Tina cry.

Fitzgerald stopped talking and stared hard at the boys. His meaningful silence technique, letting it all sink in. As if he were fucking God.

Frank was shaking with rage.

Molloy noticed. “What's wrong?” he whispered.

The Moose pointed at him. “Shut your trap, Molloy. I see you.”

“Fuck you!” Frank shouted back.

Musso's eyes rolled around his head like a lunatic Muppet. He pointed at Frank and opened his mouth to yell, but Frank pointed back and cut him off.

“FUCK YOU!” Frank stood up. “FUCK ALL OF YOU!”

The monsignor raised his voice through the microphone. “Sit DOWN, Mr. Grimaldi. You're situation is bad enough. Don't make it—”

“FUCK YOU MOST OF ALL!” Frank pointed at him, shaking with rage, drenched in sweat. He knew he was fucked, but he didn't care. That fucking hypocrite couldn't get away with this shit.

“SIT DOWN AND SHUT UP, MR. GRIM—”

“FOR A GUY WHO'S BEEN DOING IT WITH MOTHER OF PEACE GIRL, YOU'VE GOT A LOT OF FUCKING NERVE TELLING US ABOUT FORNICATION FANTASIES.”

Time stopped. Fitzgerald's face turned devil red. Then time started up again, and Frank heard voices and agitation all around him.

Musso charged up the bleachers, shoving students out of his way. “You are dead meat, Grimaldi!”

Terror zinged through Frank. Musso was crazy. And he was a sadist. He would hurt a kid. Frank had no doubt about that.

“Get over here, Grimaldi.” The Moose reached out with his big fat hands. He was Hulking out.

Frank froze, deer in the headlights, certain that he was going to be pulverized. The Moose was just four steps down.

But then Wilenski showed up, shoving his way in front of Musso and making himself a wall.

“Get out of my way, Wilenski. Move!”

But Wilenski didn't move. He was bigger than the Moose and looked down at him with half-closed eyes, daring him to try something.

Musso tried to get around him, but other guys in the bleachers closed ranks and wouldn't let him pass. Gdowski, O'Keefe, Ruselli, Long, and Vitale formed a tight semi-circle around Frank.

“Way to go, Frank,” Vitale said. “You are the man.”

The other gym teachers attempted to mount the bleachers, but more boys joined the blockade, and the teachers backed off.

Down on the floor, the Walrus King cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “SIT DOWN! BACK IN YOUR SEATS!”

Frank scanned the row of teachers by the front doors. Pomeroy looked demented, his head imploding, his world falling apart. Mr. Ianelli scowled and sputtered. But Mr. Dalton's expression was as neutral as a stone Buddha. He was looking right at Frank like all the others, but he was the only one not going nuts, and Frank took it as a sign of encouragement.

“And another thing,” Frank shouted to his classmates. “There's a reason why he wants to pulp the yearbook. There's this landfill in—”

“PAY NO ATTENTION TO HIM,” Fitzgerald shouted at the top of his lungs into the mike, drowning Frank out.

Frank strained his voice to be heard. “There's this landfill in Jersey City! It's toxic! It's killing people! And guess who owns—”

“I HOPE YOU BOYS WILL SEARCH YOUR SOULS AND SEE IN MR. GRIMALDI AN EXTREME EXAMPLE OF WHAT YOU HAVE ALL BECOME! I EXPECT YOU ALL TO MAKE YOUR CONFESSIONS WITH GOD. REALIZE WHERE YOU HAVE STRAYED FROM THE PATH OF NORMALCY…” Fitzgerald ranted on and on, crazy as a Bible-Belt evangelist, saying anything to keep Frank from being heard.

Frank tried to override him, but without a mike it was useless. His throat was raw from shouting, and he couldn't even hear himself. Down on the floor Whalley motioned like a coach, instructing the gym teachers to make an end run around Frank's human shield. The younger teachers were in great shape and they ran up the bleachers to take Frank from the higher steps. These were the teachers Frank had hated and who hated him—Mr. Archer who had made him climb the rope freshman year, Mr. Naylor who made him do sit-ups until he was too sore to stand up, Mr. Gunwald who demanded at least ten chin-ups in a row and ridiculed him while he struggled, and Musso the maniac this year.

Frank looked around for an escape and spotted an open casement window at the top of the bleachers, but he'd have to get there before the gym teachers got to him. He turned and scrambled up the steps, Wilenski right behind him, covering his back.

When Frank got to the window, he shouted as loud as he could, pointing at Fitzgerald, “The church and the mob own a toxic landfill in Jersey City! And he's part of it!” He had no idea if anyone had heard him and doubted that they had because Fitzgerald was practically talking in tongues, screaming anything and everything to drown him out, but as Frank ducked through the open window, he was glad that he'd said it.

Frank felt instant relief when he breathed fresh air and felt the sunshine on his face. But then he looked down. He was two stories above the ground, staring down at a row of hedges. Shit!

He had one leg still inside the gym, and he could hear the Moose bellowing. He quickly pulled his leg out and stood on the ledge, grabbing a painted metal downspout to steady himself.

“Get back in here, Grimaldi!” Musso's big ugly head was in the window, a snarling grizzly bear. “Do not make me come out and get you!”

Frank looked down and remembered jumping off the roof at Annette's house. This was a farther drop, but he had the downspout, and fortunately he was wearing his rubber-soled desert boots. He could climb down, and if worst came to worst, the hedges would break his fall… he hoped.

“You are a dead man, Grimaldi!” Musso reached out with his body-builder arms and swiped the air, trying to grab a piece of Frank. He snagged Frank's ripped sleeve in his fist and pulled.

Frank pulled back as best he could while balanced on the cement ledge. He gripped the downspout with both hands and moved off the ledge, pressing his feet against the brick wall. He lowered himself down, learning how to do it as he went, carefully sliding his hands down the pipe and walking down the wall in baby steps. But the Moose wouldn't let go of his sleeve, and his yanking threatened to pull Frank off the pipe. But Frank kept going—he had no choice—scraping his knuckles on the rough bricks, the rusty backside of the pipe gritty in his fingers. He kept inching down, the Moose pulling on his sleeve with a steady, violent rhythm as he yelled, “GET… BACK… IN… HERE…GRIMAL… DI!”

Frank thought Musso was going to pull him off the pipe, but by the time he got to the last syllable of Frank's name, the sleeve finally gave way. It fluttered in the Moose's big paw. Frank picked up his pace and moved faster, ignoring the constant scrapes to his knuckles.

He looked up and saw his sleeve slurped out of view, like a strand of spaghetti sucked into a giant's mouth. Frank looked down. He was about halfway to the ground.

Musso stuck his head out the window. “GRIMALDI, I AM WARNING YOU! GET BACK IN HERE!”

“KISS MY ASS!” Frank shouted back.

When he didn't hear an angry response, he feared that the Moose was running down the bleachers and across the court, running for an exit so he could intercept Frank before he reached the ground.

Frank looked down again. His heart was pounding so hard his chest hurt. It wasn't that far, he told himself. He'd jumped this distance before. At Annette's house. He picked a spot where the hedges grew thickest and let go of the pipe, freefalling on his back. The branches broke his fall, but some of them were woody and thick, and they hurt. He felt a sharp poke in his side and a sting along his naked forearm where a deep five-inch scratch started to show blood.