The Temptations of St. Frank

by Anthony Bruno

  I go to a school run by fucking mental patients, Frank thought.

  But then the possibility that he might win clogged his gut like an anxiety cantaloupe. Annette wasn’t a dog, not by a long shot, but she, like every other girl here, looked different. The updos, the bizarre makeup, the Josephine Bonaparte dresses. Why did they do all that? This wasn’t the version of them that guys salivated over. It was their everyday look that got guys motors running. Not this Barbie dress-up crap.

  He walked to the ballroom and scanned the crowd for Annette. Blue and white streamers—the school colors—looped from wall to wall, and each round table had a centerpiece of roses and spider mums. The band, older guys in their twenties in candy-colored satin military jackets—a weak allusion to the famous close-up monochrome photographs of the individual Beatles, each one a different color—played an equally weak version of “Proud Mary.” Guitar, bass, sax, keyboards, and drums. The singer/guitar player had an okay voice and cool mutton-chop sideburns, but his bouncing Adam’s apple was too distracting. It looked like he had a gerbil caught in his throat.

  On the dance floor a few couples danced—or in the case of the St. A’s guys, tried to dance. The girls were much better. According to Annette, that was because girls watched “American Bandstand” and “Where the Action Is” on TV and imitated those dancers. Gdowski was particularly bad, throwing his arms out with spastic jabs and thrusts, hardly moving his feet except for an occasional heavy grape-stomping step that came without warning and had nothing to do with the rhythm of the music. He looked like an arthritic Neanderthal having a seizure. Frank was glad Annette had insisted that they practice before the prom. He didn’t want to be good enough to be noticed, but he didn’t want to look pathetic either.

  He spotted Annette standing by their table, talking to one of her girlfriends. She was wearing a mint green, empire-waist, floor-length gown that hid her legs and somehow reduced her normally ample bazooms to just ordinary ones. Her Nancy Sinatra flip was gone, too. Instead she had a mass of Medusa curls dangling over the back of her neck, the front lacquered across her forehead instead of falling in her eyes the sexy way it usually did. Her lips were a shimmery pale pink, and her eye shadow was aqua blue. If they turned off the lights, he was afraid her makeup would glow in the dark. He really wished she’d just left her hair loose.

  As soon as she spotted him coming toward her, she bounced on her toes and waved for him to come quick. “Come on. We’re all here,” she gushed. “We’re gonna take some pictures.”

  Frank sighed inside. The “we” she referred to were all her friends and their St. A’s dates, guys he didn’t know that well and/or didn’t particularly like. Dennis Collins, a.k.a, the Invisible Man, a.k.a., the King of the 2:45s, because his claim to fame was that in his four years at St. A’s he hadn’t participated in a single school activity, club, or team—unless you counted jug. Robbie Ruselli, eager as a cocker spaniel and dumb as a post, who laughed at anything anyone said whether they meant it to be funny or not. Gdowski, who was dating Annette’s best friend, Jennifer. And worst of all, class clown and chucklehead-in-chief, Larry Vitale, whose date was Marsha Cravens, generally considered the sluttiest girl at Mother of Peace who, according to Annette, was on the pill and bragged that she had gone all the way with three guys so far. Larry was hoping to be number four, no doubt.

  “Okay,” Annette said. “Everybody sit down and squeeze in tight.” She scurried around the table like a border collie rounding up sheep, but she shoo-ed people away from the center seats, saving them for herself and Frank.

  Annette took her seat, and Marsha poured herself into the one next to Frank’s. She wore a low-cut gown and unlike most the girls here, she had cleavage and didn’t mind showing it off. She also wore her hair down, which in her case, made her seem ready for action. The other girls were so done up they looked untouchable. Like the porcelain dolls on the shelf over Annette’s bed.

  As Frank was about to take his seat, Larry Vitale came up behind him and whispered in his ear. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I have rubbers. I bought the big box.”

  Frank just nodded, non-committal, but he was glad Vitale had thought ahead. Just in case he got lucky.

  Frank took his seat and Annette immediately grabbed his hand, lacing her fingers through his. Each place setting had a cut-glass cup of fruit cocktail. Frank hated fruit cocktail.

  A girl Frank didn’t know stood on the other side of the table, peering through an Instamatic camera. “Okay, I can’t see everybody. Squeeze together.” She flapped her hand sideways.

  Annette got half her butt onto Frank’s chair while Marsha, who he’d just met, threw her arm over his shoulder and pressed her tits into him. She smelled of tangerines. She tilted her head toward his, and he felt a strand of her hair on his cheek. Annette glared at her and moved closer to Frank, gripping his hand tighter. All of a sudden Frank had an incredible boner.

  “Okay, say cheese!” Instamatic Girl said.

  The girls said “Cheese!”

  The guys muttered, “Cheese.”

  Vitale said, “Fuckin’ cheese!”

  The camera flashed.

  Everybody laughed. Except Frank.

  What the fuck am I doing here? he thought.

  “One more,” Instamatic Girl said.

  “Cheese!” they all said.

  The camera flashed.

  The girls laughed, and Ruselli laughed harder.

  Frank saw neon floaters. And smelled Marsha’s tangerine perfume, his boner hard as wood.

  Why am I here? he thought. I don’t even like these people.

  “You okay?” Annette said.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I’m fine.” Did she know he had an incredible hard-on, and it wasn’t exactly for her?

  “You look mad.”

  “I’m not mad.”

  “Oh.” She pouted.

  “I’m not mad,” he insisted. “I just don’t… smile that much. I think it’s a medical condition.”

  “What?”

  “I’m just kidding.”

  “Why? We’re supposed to be having a good time.” Her brow was crinkled.

  “I am having a good time,” he said. It was a lie, but he wanted to keep her happy. He didn’t want her to turn moody on him. That rubber had to get used tonight. Graduation was two and a half weeks away. He had made a vow to himself. If he didn’t get laid before graduation, he would forever think of himself as a pussy.

  Vitale leaned across Marsha to talk to Frank and Annette. “Okay, so here’s the plan.”

  Gdowski and his date who were on the other side of Annette, leaned in for a huddle. Marsha’s tits where squished against Frank’s arm.

  “I got the keys to my uncle’s place in Belmar,” Vitale said. “He said it’s okay if we go there after the prom.”

  “Did you get any booze, Larry?” Marsha’s snotty attitude implying that she wasn’t going anywhere unless there was alcohol.

  “No sweat. My uncle’s practically an alcoholic. He’s always got plenty to drink at his place.”

  Annette looked worried. “But he’ll know if we drink all his stuff.”

  “No he won’t. He’s a drunk. He’ll think he drank it.” Vitale opened his mouth wide and let loose with his jackass laugh, and Ruselli immediately echoed him. As if having an uncle who was an alcoholic was funny.

  Marsha’s eyes were gleaming. So were Annette’s. What were they thinking? Frank wondered. An orgy? His dick was throbbing.

  Gdowski leaned in closer, pushing Annette into Frank’s chest. “And just to get things started,” Gdowski said with a snicker. “I have come prepared.” He opened his tux jacket halfway and revealed a bloated, brown leather wineskin strapped under his arm like a detective’s revolver. He’d managed to thread the strap around his shoulders and across his back so that it didn
’t show.

  “What’s in it?” Marsha asked.

  “Vodka,” Gdowski said. “And gin. And some crème de menthe.”

  “I love crème de menthe,” Annette said. Her mood quickly improved.

  “And…” Vitale said. He pointed down with his eyes to his open palm in Marsha’s lap. Two joints lay side by side like an equal sign. Frank was impressed. But what if he got high and cracked up his old man’s prized Caddy? He’d kill him. And he’d have a great excuse for not letting Frank go away to college.

  “Prom’s over at eleven,” Vitale said. “Synchronize your watches, gang. That’s when we leave.” He handed out slips of paper with the directions to his uncle’s house written down. “I thought of everything,” he said, clearly proud of himself.

  “You’re the man,” Dennis Collins said from the far side of the table, his mouth full of fruit cocktail. Frank was astounded at the Invisible Man’s enthusiasm. He’d never seen Collins excited about anything.

  The others started to eat their fruit cocktail. Frank pushed his away.

  “Let’s dance,” Annette said in his ear. “I just have to go to the bathroom.”

  “Okay. I’ll meet you out there.” Frank nodded toward the dance floor.

  She and her friend Jennifer got up and minced toward the hallway. They weren’t used to walking in long dresses.

  Frank got up and wandered toward the bandstand, focusing on the guitar player’s hands on his sunburst Stratocaster as he played a pretty decent solo on Paul Revere and the Raiders’ “Hungry.”

  “I’m disappointed in you, Grimaldi.”

  Frank looked to his side. Molloy was standing next to him in a royal blue tux that was too small for him. A camera was hanging around his neck, and as usual he reeked of cigarettes. “What’re you doing sitting with the dickheads?”

  Frank shrugged. “Annette’s friends.”

  “Got you by the balls already, I see.”

  Frank gave him a look. “What’re you doing here? I thought you weren’t coming.”

  Molloy lifted his Nikon. “Duty calls.”

  Frank looked around. “Who’s your date?”

  “Don’t have one. Don’t need one. ” He wiggled the camera and grinned. “Prom shots for next week’s Owl.”

  Frank was distracted by the guitar player’s extended solo. The guy was really good, and that made Frank envious. He wished he could play like that. If he could, he’d be up there with a band of his own, and not down here, sitting with the “dickheads.”

  “Hey, look,” Molloy said. “There’s your friend.”

  Frank followed his gaze to the dance floor and immediately spotted Yolanda dancing with the Vaz. He felt a pang in his heart like a nail piercing a tire and starting to lose air. She looked wonderful. Sapphire blue gown that showed her cleavage, but not in a slutty way like Marsha. A nice way because she was wearing a short macramé sweater over the dress. He noticed that she was wearing a little more makeup than usual but not that glow-in-the-dark stuff Annette had. It was just enough. And her hair was down. Usually it was straight, but she’d put a curl in it so that it curved over her shoulders and flipped up at the ends. She really looked nice.

  The Vaz looked like he’d gone to the Guido Shoppe for his clothes. His tuxedo was tan with brown velvet piping around the lapels and down the side of his pants. His bow tie was also brown velvet, and his shirt was a faggy mass of ruffles. It even had ruffles on the cuffs. But Frank was most surprised by his dancing. For a guy who looked like Humpty Dumpty, he really knew how to move. Like, real dance steps, not making it up as he went along the way Frank did. It would be just like him to have taken lessons just for the prom. Yolanda’s dancing style was conservative with minimal movement, but she had a little smile on her face, which Frank took as a comment on Vaseline Boy’s dancing. Frank was jealous. And sad. Seeing her dancing with the Vaz and enjoying it made him want to cry. Or break something. He thought about just taking off and driving into the night.

  This is all fucked up, he thought. He was supposed to get into Mr. Trombetta’s office to get the goods on the landfill to save Yolanda’s neighborhood so that she would like him as much as he liked her. But he hadn’t done that. He never got another chance to get into Trombetta’s file cabinet at the house. There were always people around. And now here he was at the prom with Annette, and it looked like he wanted to be here with Annette. That was how Yolanda was gonna see it. It was all fucked up. Even the possibility that he just might score tonight with Annette didn’t cancel out the fact that he really wanted to be with Yolanda.

  “Guess what?” Molloy said out of the side of his mouth.

  “What?”

  “The Vaz is gonna win the Alpo Award.”

  Frank wanted to punch his head off. “There’s nothing wrong with Yolanda. She’s not a dog.”

  “Simmer down, cowboy. Pomeroy put the fix in. He’s had it in for the Vaz all year.”

  “Why?”

  “The Vaz corrects him in class. You know how he is. Little Mister Know-It-All. He’s always read some book or some article that basically proves that Pomeroy doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about.”

  Frank shrugged. “He does that with all the teachers. Always has.”

  “Well, it’s payback time, I guess.”

  “But why take it out on her?”

  “She’s a casualty of war,” Molloy said. “Pomeroy just wants to embarrass the shit out of Vaseline Boy.”

  “It’s not fair. This whole fuckin’ school isn’t fair. Is there any part of it that isn’t fucked up?”

  Molly looked him in the eye. “Are you serious? It wouldn’t be a school if it wasn’t fucked up. That’s the definition of school.”

  Frank frowned at him. He was in no mood for Molloy’s smarmy glibness. This was serious. Why should Yolanda be humiliated because Pomeroy has a bug up his ass about the Vaz? He was gonna go find Pomeroy and tell him this was fucked up and if he gave the Alpo Award to Vaseline Boy, he’d fucking kill him. Kill him and the Vaz.

  Then he’d rescue Yolanda and run away with her into the night.

  He heaved a sorry sigh, knowing that would never happen. But he knew what he could do. He could just go get the Alpo Award itself and get rid of it. He knew where Pomeroy had it stashed. He’d just go snatch it and—

  “Hey there.” Annette came up from behind him and put her hand under his jacket, rubbing his back. She grabbed his ass and pulled him into her. “Ready to dance?”

  In a flash he was hard all over again, and the Alpo Award was a melting ice cube in the hot soup of mingled thoughts and concerns burbling in his brain.

  “Yeah, let’s dance,” he said.

  She took his hand and led him out onto the dance floor which was crowded with kids dancing to “96 Tears,” the ? and the Mysterians hit. Up on the bandstand Mutton Chops sang bitterly about a girl who hurt him, the gerbil sliding up and down in his throat. Annette picked a spot in the middle of the floor and started dancing like a she-fiend, flailing her arms and shaking her hips, oblivious to everyone around her. She danced so wild, other couples backed away to give her room, and Frank was embarrassed, not knowing how to keep up with her. She hadn’t danced like this when they’d practiced in her room.

  He did his best not to look a lame-o, but he knew people were watching them—or at least watching her. He tried to look cool, keeping his own movements rhythmic but modest, but it didn’t work. Annette was a wildcat, and people were staring. She started circling, and Frank had to adjust to stay in front of her, and that’s when he realized that Yolanda and the Vaz were dancing right next to them. He caught Yolanda’s eye, and she looked right at him. He couldn’t tell from her expression what she thought, but then she looked away, paying attention to her own dancing. But as they all danced, Frank sensed that she was just as aware of h
im as he was of her. He wanted to know what she was thinking, what she thought of him. That he was a real dickhead? With a dickhead girlfriend?

  Frank wanted Scottie to beam him the hell out of there. How the fuck could he ever explain to Yolanda that he was here dancing with Annette only because he wanted her.

  The band finished “96 Tears” and went right into “Black is Black,” the Los Bravos song, Mutton Chops wailing about wanting his baby back. So did Frank. Except Yolanda never actually was his baby.

  Annette went into overdrive, dancing even wilder and crazier, putting the Hullabaloo go-go girls to shame. Suddenly she threw out her arms and hugged him around the neck, pressing her body right up against his. His dick went boing! and so did his head. He didn’t dare look at Yolanda with a world-class boner like this.

  “You having fun?” Annette breathed into his face. Her breath smelled of booze.

  She kissed him, deep, her tongue going first. She kissed and danced at the same time. She tasted like crème de menthe.

  She pressed her forehead into his. “You having fun now?” she said.

  He was dizzy and horny and mad and confused. “Yeah,” he said.

  “It’s about time.” She kissed him again.

  Tonight, he thought. Tonight.

  Chapter 25

  It was almost one o’clock by the time he and Annette finally found Vitale’s uncle’s house, a small two-bedroom ranch nowhere near the ocean. Annette was already half in the bag thanks to Gdowski’s wine-skin concoction. Nobody liked it very much, except for Annette. “I love crème de menthe,” she said every time Gdowski poured her a fresh drink inside his jacket. Frank couldn’t believe none of the chaperones at the prom had spotted him.

  When they got inside the house, Gdowski was still playing bartender, mixing screwdrivers in Welch’s grape jelly glasses. The house had a combination kitchenette/living room. All of the glasses on the counter were either promotional give-aways from fast-food places or Welch’s jelly jars. Frank guessed from the lack of décor, the lingering stench of cigarette smoke, and the fact that the second bedroom was a workshop for fishing-reel repair and fly construction that Vitale’s uncle had been a bachelor for a very long time. Gdowski’s screwdriver recipe was half a glass of orange juice and half a glass of vodka.