The Temptations of St. Frank by Anthony Bruno Page B

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.
    â€œSt. 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