The Temptations of St. Frank by Anthony Bruno

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.
    â€œO’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.
    â€œDougherty.”
    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.
    â€œBronski.”
    Bronski pushed up his horn-rimmed glasses, looked at his grade, and winced. Fuck, he mouthed silently.
    â€œBoys, 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.
    â€œI 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