School Years Grade 12 #1

On my return to school--it was my last year at Mount--I was a senior. This was the twelfth grade. I had come a long long way, and it was almost a foregone conclusion: I would graduate at the end of the school year.

Some privileges had been restored to me. I could enter the school  library. I could check out library books; and, if I had any free time after doing my homework, I would read a library book. The prerequisite was: I had to have my homework done.

There was a cheat group in the study hall. Previous years, I had not taken much notice of them. I didn't care what they did, but this year would be different. The group was semi-organized. It worked this way . . . when one of the Brothers would leave the study hall for a minute or so, there would be a quick exchange of papers, sometimes accompanied by whispered words; "Have you finished your English?" "Yeah." "Can I see it?" "okay. Have you done your French?"

On and on it would go, working up and down some isles in some areas. Certain days were more busier than others. It depended on the work load, what the Brothers gave out at the end of each class during the course of the school day.

But I didn't trust anyone else's homework. In years gone by I would hear feedback from some of the Brothers. On Brother might pose the question to the whole class, " How could so many students have the exact same answers?" and it would be said with some sarcasm. Mostly the criticisms were directed at daystudents; because, how could anything like that happen in the study hall? It wouldn't be permitted. Not under the watchful eyes of the supervising Brothers Elexsis and Michael.

One time, way back in the seventh grade or so, one of the Brothers also made mention that some students might be using calculators in doing their math. Armed with a calculator, the time factor in doing homework could be greatly reduced. On top of that, exercise after exercise of addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division, not one error would be made.

The Brothers were right, and I agreed with them on this issue. Look. If one error came up, all cheaters would have the same error. The Brothers would have some understanding of who was cheating.

"Oh no!" some of the cheaters would say, "You put errors in every now and then, just to make it look different." Well, it you did that you would be downgrading your work, and then you world have to pass downgraded work. You would be associated with poor work. Cheat work at that. It wasn't worth it.

Anyway, we had to sit in study hall regardless. It was three and a half hours of study hall every day. Double that on weekends. And, if I pushed--disregarding my so called good penmanship--I could do my homework assignments in about two and a half hours. That left me with about forty-five minutes of free time for reading library books, and I would take the book with me up to ;the dormitory for a few more minutes of reading before lights out.

I had irritated Brother Michael, gotten on his bad side. In return, he would be on my case immediately any time I would appear to be out of line. It was a known fact that I would read material other that school text books in the study hall, and that was a no-no for me at Mount. I was the nigger. I shouldn't be reading anything or doing anything other that my school work. Brother Michael enjoyed the little irritations he could inflict on students. He was one sick person.

To stymie him, I tried to adjust my schedule. I tried to juggle study time, homework, and free reading time, but I would run into difficulties. It was almost a repeat of my seventh grade. That was when I had been handing in partially completed homework, sometimes no homework at all.

One evening, a library book just pulled me in. It absorbed me. Study hall time was getting short and a couple of my homework assignments weren't done. I could get one done in the morning, but not the other. I had about fifteen minutes of study hall time left before dormitory. Fifteen minutes. It would take me twenty, possibly thirty minutes to do my assignments, more, if I ran into diffriculties. Quickly I canned my homework assignment to get an overview. It was a tough assignment containing some page turning and research. It'll take me thirty-five minutes, at least. With fifteen minutes to go, I couldn't do it. But, there was a way out. Not a nice one but it would cover me for the day.

I turned to Jeffery "Moose" Larsen, and asked him, "Did you do your French?"

It was almost as if he was delighted.

"Yeah," he says enthusiastically.

"Can I have it?"

"Sure. Did you do your English?"

"Yeah."

"Gimme your English."

"Okay."

And it was as easy as that. Now I was in on the homework scam. I was a bona fide member of the cheat group, not a good feeling at all. Late in the study period I scribbled away, thinking, this is just a one shot thing. I got into a little time trouble reading. It won't happen again.

The next day  we handed in our assignments and I sweated it out. I was new at this game and I watched carefully for anything out of the ordinary.

Nothing was mentioned about my French assignment. Good! I had written Moose's work almost to word for word, knowing there could be mistakes and all. Moose isn't an honor roll student.

Then came a chiller that worried me. It was during English Literature class. Brother Stanislaus praises Moose up and down in front of the whole class.

"This is more like it! Now you're catching on! Now you got it!" Brother says to Moose.

And Moose is sitting there suppressing a smile, taking it all in. He's happy as the cat who ate the bird. Me? I'm squirming in my seat. Plus I'm a little pissed. First off: That's my homework he's talking about! and Moose is taking it in like he's the whiz. No! I'm the genius. So, it's two emotions: pride and guilt.

And to have Brother Stanislaus praise Moose on a routine English assignment that is my work. He's the same damn Brother that gave me so much shit in the eighth grade. He wanted to make me look like and idiot back then. I was made out to be such an idiot that the science course would be closed to me. I would be labeled a dolt. And throughout the years at Mount, not one mention was made of me being a good student or that my homework was of a good caliber. In fact, Brother Philip makes mention that I am nothing but an average student after I ace the test with no score--the statewide aptitude test.

So, in one lousy day, I give Moose my homework and he's praised up and down! He's the genius. That's my homework Brother is talking about, but I can't say a thing. I hunker down in my seat. So, overnight Moose has become a wizard. A literary poet. Added to that is the pervading thought of possible trouble to come: and it could be big trouble.

Nothing passed from the eyes of Brother Michael or Brother Elexsis during study hall. Time after time I had been caught reading library books, and I had been questioned. How could they miss a homework passing operation? This homework scam? It was as if they would look the other way. They would take a break. A piss break for five or ten minutes. It would be as if to let some of the slower students catch up, Pass the homework! You have five, ten minutes, no more.

Now I was in on the scam, and not being their favorite, they could be on to me. I was worried about the ramifications. The Brothers had expelled some students last year for some kind of a protest. Seniors had been walking in the yard. Just walking back and forth. Whispers had it that there was a protest taking place. Within a few days the walks suddenly stopped and no more protest. Some students were expelled, even senior students. And that was the end of that. I couldn't even find out who got expelled and what the protest was about.

So this cheat group is serious business. It could warrant expulsion; and, if you're expelled from Mount, a good school  may not accept you. Perhaps the cheaters would have to beg for mercy. The Brot6hers seem to like that. Get on your knees and beg. Cry. Plead. Please Brother! No! No! Don't expel me! Pleeeease! I have only six months to go before graduation. Please! I'll pray. I'll pray to Jesus every day. I'll do a novena in honor of the Blessed Virgin. I'll do anything you say. Whip me as I pray. Beat me as you had done when I was starting the eighth grade. My father is a no good. Please, please don't expel me. I've had six years here. I'll be a good boy. I promise. But I had enough of that in the eight grade when I was whipped while kneeling before Bastard Brother Claver the Director of Mount. I didn't plead then. Once a person starts pleading to these bastards there could be no end to the bending, bowing and prayers. There could be no end till the day you are allowed to walk from this miserable place. And my walk is to take place on that drive, on the road behind and above the playing field. It is to take place soon.

So I was rightly worried. I have only seven months to go. Seven months and my goal will be reached. Ahead of me is winter, ice skating, spring, the start of summer and that's it. I will graduate. I have come this far. There is no need to take any more chances. Let the others continue cheating.

The next day; study hall. Moose wants more. He wants another trade. He wants my English Literature. He wants more of it. More and more. He wants the words and praise from Brother Stanislaus. Those sweet words are probably still ringing in his ears; "That's more like it Jeffery! Now you're catching on!"--while I'm just about shitting in my pants sitting there thinking, Six years down the drain.

Jeffery can't see it. He lives dangerously and takes chances--It's bullshiht Moose. Can't you see what they're trying to do. They're trying to draw you into a pattern. You'll be caught, and me along with you. Sorry Moose. No. And I shake my head to the negative.

Moose is pissed. He tells me he'll make it look like it was his work. He'll put errors in it. "Come on," he pleads, whispering across the isle, all this amongst students diligently doing their homework.

I won't budge, and others in the group notice me opting out. I'm counting my time. Graduation day will be here within seven months, and I will have things to do. The wall is waiting for me. The wall, the road, the perimeter, and my walk to freedom. It will be my last walk out of here. I will not jepordize my most cherished goal. It will be the sweetest walk I will ever have upon this earth. Of all of the days I have lived, it will be the sweetest. Slowest. Most glorious walk of freedom that any one person could ever wish for--from the bastard school of Mount Saint Charles Academy, to the back road and into the residential area of Woonsocket Rhode Island. A turn left at one of the main roads that leads out to the highway going to Providence. I won't care if I get a ride or not. I won't care if nobody stops. I'll walk all the way to providence if need be. Yes, the day will be so sweet; and with a little less than a year to go, I'll not be caught up in any homework scam. That's stupid. These guys are nuts. You have to sweat both assignments, the one you copy and the one you give in trade. They don't see it.

Couldn't it be that Brother Stanislaus is setting up? Using praise for us to continue, to draw us into the open so he can gather information. Firm up who is cheating and who isn't. Then the trap will be sprung. We'll be called in one by one and questioned. Papers will be placed in front of us and the similarities will be pointed out, then more questions. And that could be the reason why Brother Michael seemed to take on a sudden blindness and indifference during study period. The very same Brother Michael who night after night, could see a fly on the wall, a flea upon a desk. The same Brother Michael who would wait and watch for hours upon end to notice the slightest movement of any desktop lid. The very same Brother Michael who could see any slip of the hand, and movement not aboveboard with pencil or pen. Any student's head not bent over in serious study. The very same Brother Michael who seemed to derive the most perverse pleasure in making a student jump in fear of being caught. Yes, that Brother Michael with his twisted smile upon his sick perverted face.

I want no more of it. I will trade no more. I have less than a year to go, Moose. Mere months. Seven months and I'll be here no more.

After Moose settled down in his displeasure I took a quiet look around. I looked at the students who I would no longer sit with, who I would no longer see; for I would graduate and leave the Godforsaken place. I looked at the big desk. How I despised that desk and the Brothers who sat there. I would no longer have to view them. I will be free! free! It felt strange just thinking it. And stranger still, because I have never been free. It was one of those reflective moments, when time seems not to matter, when the detail of surroundings come into precise focus. It was one of those sweet reflective moments when a long sought after goal seems to be all but received in hand.

After I opted out of the cheat group there seemed to be a time frame where the Brothers changed their tactics. Their movements in and out of the study hall, their walking quietly about; it was as if to give us more room. Like they wanted to give us more rope in which we could become entangled; but, after it became apparent that I was out of the cheat group, the grace period ended. Then the Brothers settled back down into their usual routine. After that, Brother Michael's efforts to harass me increased: I had better not get caught reading any book other than my school textbooks, or do anything other than school homework.

To offset the increased harassment, I would do my homework first. Later I would read. By that time Brother Michael would be overseeing the study, and the first moment I would touch a book other than a school textbook, he would be upon me.

His main tactic was sneaking about. Quietly he would arise from his chair and silently he would circle the study. He would sidestep all the hidden squeaks beneath the oak floor, and making his way to the back of the study, he'd then come down the isle of which I'd be sitting. He'd quietly come upon me from behind. It was similar to the routine that Brother Elexsis had used against me when I was in the seventh grade. Nothing much has changed. Here it is, my last year at Mount, I'm a senior, and still I'm being harassed during study hall.

The situation led me to try something different. Could I get Brother Michael so flustered he wouldn't want to come sneaking up on me from behind? Could I make it so unpalatable for him?

In the past years I had noticed his aversion to women. Wherever or whenever there was a woman around you would not see Brother Michael. He seemed to be totally afraid of women. Like it was total fear. Anything that made him think of a woman; even the Blessed Virgin--that piece of plaster and paint--he was afraid of even that. In chapel he would not take communion via the center isle. He always kept to the extreme right side of the congregational sector, the opposite side of the chapel where the statue of the Blessed Virgin is placed. And Sundays when there is the possibility of visitors, and the rare woman visitor--Brother Michael would disappear. He just wouldn't be around.

So, If that were the case, might he also be afraid of a portrait of a woman? There are no pictures of women anywhere on campus. Magazines and newspapers aren't allowed. Not a total outright ban, but you can't find a newspaper or magazine. It's almost like contraband, and magazines are routinely taken from students and never returned.

Thinking along those lines, I ransacked my school textbooks to find a picture of a woman. Book after book I paged through, at first with no luck. Nothing. Then . . . at last! In my commercial art textbook there was one picture. One solitary picture of a woman. She was sitting so prim and proper, her skirt almost draping over knee as she sat with on leg crossed over the other. One picture out of six school textbooks. Now, If questioned, I could say, Look! It's in a school textbook.

I had him. I had the bastard. Or so I thought. This picture would scare him away from my desk. He wouldn't want to sneak up on me from behind anymore. He wouldn't want to be peering over my shoulder for fear of seeing the image of a woman, a picture of a woman. I thought it was a good answer to the pressure that I had been getting from the sick bastard.

That evening in study hall I got set. I opened my commercial aart book to the page with the picture of the woman, and I placed another book on top of it, then I started to read.

That was all the bait needed to put Brother Michael in motion. Withing thirty minutes he ahd silently traversed the study hall and had come upon me from behind. He gave me his time honored question, "Is your homework done?"

I had heard it so many times before; but, this time, inside I smiled. Is my homework done? Now let me see. Momentarily put on a little show of flustered student caught. I pushed around a paper or two. I moved a book. And then, as preplanned, I lifted up one book. Beneath the book was the apened art text book and the picture of the woman! Woman! Woman! Woman! Look Brother Michael! It is a picture of a woman! and turning slightly in my seat and looking up at him, I said falsely polite, "Yes, Brother." My homework was done. And for him not to miss seeing the picture of the woman, I moved the book a little. Look! Woman!

There was icy silence. He didn't like it.

"Is that your homework!" he flared at me angrily.

What? This commercial art? No. Not exactly. I don't have any homework in commercial art for this evening. The book could be on the desktop . . . because . . . maybe . . . I could be reviewing it. Yes, that's it. I could be studying it. Perhaps I will become an artist. And inwardly I laughed. I got the sick bastard. That's how to get to some of these sick perverted religious bastards: show them a picture of a woman.

Now I had better watch out. Even though I had got to him momentarily, this sick bastard Bother of Jesus could get back onto me big time. I have found out his sickness, and even laughed at it. In retaliation, he will be upon me almost every evening during study hall. Night after night he will come upon from behind me and harass me. That sick bastard will harass me while I am studying, while I am trying to learn. I will be forced to look over my shoulder to watch out for the sick vengeful pervert Brother Michael. Night after night he will be upon me until I will have no recourse. With a little less than a year to go I will stop reading. I stop doing anything. After I would finish my homework, I would sit with my arm propped on the desk, my head in the palm of my hand, and I will half close my eyes. There I will remain, in the study, doing nothing. Half awake half asleep. I would do nothing the final forty minutes of stud hall.

The bastard pervert had won. And he smiled at me, knowing that he had won. That dirty sick perverted bastard.

Goddamn and Curse the bloody bastard Roman Catholic Brothers of the Sacred Heart of Jesus.

Goddamn and Curse the bloody bastard Roman Catholic Society of Jesus.

Goddamn and Curse the bloody bastard Roman Catholic Church.

Yes, I curse the Goddamned bloody bastard Roman Catholic Church every day. Every day that I remember.

Yes, as he was sitting at his elevated desk in the front of the study hall, knowing he had won, the sick perverted bastard would smile at me. He in his religious frock, sporting the Crucifix of Jesus. It would be as if he was mocking me with his sick perverted smile, his grin. He had won. Jesus. Fucking. Christ. He had won.

So all I would do in study hall after finishing my homework would be nothing. I would sit and do nothing, and that kept the bastard away from my desk.

It is most likely he is long dead and gone, and here I am old, alive and still cursing the Goddamned bloody bastard Roman Catholic Church.


BUS TO BOSTON

It was football season and sometimes there would be a visiting team to compete against some of our better intramural players. One autumn evening a team from Boson was scheduled. Talk had it that the opposing team was tough.

It was already dark when their chartered bus rolled in. The outside flood lights had been turned on, lighting up the yard that was comprised of mostly dirt, isolated clumps of grass and small gravel like stones. No matter. A few of our students approached the bus as it rolled to a stop. Its engine shut off and its chrome door popped open with a burst of compressed air. Out jumps five or six rambunctious good looking young girls. They're aged sixteen to nineteen or so. They run, yell and laugh, and they have a football which they toss to one another. It's fun time for them. They have been riding in a bus from Boston Massachusetts to Woonsocket Rhode Island, and on the long ride, all they had were their inner city white boys,  some whiskey, and nothing to do but whatever young boys and girls do on a long bus ride where everybody knows everybody. So here at this la-te-da all boys catholic school they jump, shout and spring about just to get some of the road out of their system.

We good catholic boys, not having see the female form for the past twenty-one days, are momentarily taken aback. Not in the six years I had been at Mount had there been so many youthful, good looking and exuberant young girls in one place at one time on the grounds of Mount Saint Charles Academy.

The remainder of those on the bus exited. There were older boys and they looked tough all right, big city tough.

"They've got pool tables in here!" cried out one of the girls as she leaned from the portal leading to the recreation hall. Immediately the rest of the girls rushed inside the building.

We students were happily bemused: no running was allowed inside the building, but who was to tell our good looking guests?

Inside the recreation hall the girls called a few cheers and tossed that football of theirs. A girl caught a short pass, sort of hunched down, ran a few steps and all the time was holding that pigskin to her bosom. A bosom that softly gave as the ball was pressed to it.

One girl called for another pass. A girl runs. The throw is high. The receiver jumps and misses. She looked so sweet stretching out revealing that curvaceous young body of hers. She was like a ballet dancer. The football bounces on one of the pool tables and scatters the game that is in progress.

Not one word of protest from our politely smiling young boys. Not one. Had it been a student of Mount causing a game to be scattered, then mean words a possibly a fight could have erupted. No, not this time. No siree. They who had been playing pool casually walk about the table repositioning the pool balls.

The girl who missed catching the football--a looker in tights black slacks and form fitting sweater--offers her help in resetting the table. Sure thing. Please do. And one of our ever-so-ready boys directs the sweet young thing, telling her to position this ball here and that ball there. These hep girls from Boston are easy to talk to and they're compliant. Our student points to a spot and the girl obediently places a pool ball where he indicates.

He thanks her and she smiles.

I thought it was going to be love at first sight.

The other pool player interrupts the moment. No, says he. The girl didn't place the pool ball in exactly the correct spot. and points to a different location on the table. "There." he says, "That's where it's supposed to go."

The girl stopped, momentarily taken aback, perhaps thinking, How could this other boy know exactly where the ball is to be placed? The whole game was scattered. It was she, out of the goodness of her heart, who volunteered to help place the pool balls on the table as best she could. Why does this new boy want her to do it over? She looks at the boy questioningly, almost challenging him; then, oh she understands. The boy is asking her to do it again, one more time please. Show us. Stretch that pretty young body over the pool table one more time please. A knowing smile comes upon the girl's face.

She complies and picks a pool ball from the table and stretches her youthful body once again to place the ball, a little more toward the center of the table, a little more to stretch. She does it ever so slowly, showing her well proportioned curves; with one foot on the floor, the other slightly lifted, and bending over the pool table, with one hand placing a pool ball and the other hand outstretched in mid air. Yes she looked good.

But not to all did she look good. Not to Brother Michael, woman hater, sick-o. And from the middle of the rec hall came the commend from a highly upset Brother Michael, "Outside with the football!" he yells.

Brother Michael is upset. He paces nervously about as the young girls leave the recreation hall. Even though it is our time, recreation time, he whistles for assembly. We line up and file out of the rec hall and up ito the study we go. There we sit for fifteen minutes. Football players are allowed to go downstairs to the locker room and get ready for the game.

It was a long fifteen minutes; girls were on campus. There was mystery in the air. An exhilarating lightness. It was something out of the ordinary.

Brother Michael gives a small talk, reminding us to support our players. Then we are released from the study.

It wasn't that any student had done anything wrong. It was Brother Michael; he didn't know how to handle the situation. He overreacted. He had a fear of women. Nay kind of a woman; young, old. Any woman. Brother Michael avoided them. Mount Saint Charles was a sanctuary, and this evening the sanctuary had been invaded. Young women. Young. Exuberant. Vibrant. Just the opposite of Brother Michael; old, sick, a woman hater. Some of the students were laughing a Brother Michael behind his back. "Brother Michael is having conniptions," said a student laughingly. I didn't think there was such a word. that it was just a made up word. Nevertheless, it seemed to fit the situation.

We students saw Brother Michael's nervousness and his unease. It was difficult to assess what he would do next, so it was a good time to stay away from him, hot to rouse his ire.

We went back downstairs to the recreation hall where a few stayed inside, but most students went out to where the view held more promise.

Word quickly got around: We were to remain on our side of the field. The opposing team would stay on the other side. They had the girls. It was nothing new; so close yet so out of reach. Even in the darkness of the evening with the flood lights turned on and the players scrambling for possession of the ball. The kicks, the punts, a touchdown here and there, it made little difference, the scrambling in the dirt--for secretly and to myself I knew I would be out of here soon. Then the nights would be mine. There would be no barrier put up by some phobic Jesuit of Christ Jesus, so I thought.

Our pick-up team of intramural "All Stars" totally crushed the bad boys from Boston; some who were too drunk to notice. One of our players would later relate how one member on the opposing team was so drunk that after a play, he didn't know which side to return to. And then there was mention of an opposing player vomiting on the field.

The game over, they were leaving. Into the darkness of the night they would go. One by one they stepped up and into the chrome diesel bus that brought them here. They would be going back to Boston. Going were the tough boys and their girls. Going with them would be the whiskey, the bus driver and their chrome diesel but in a cloud of black smoke through its high rev engine and piping.

Just before their big send off, I stepped inside the bus, just to get the feel of it. Forbidden it was, and I was offered a drink. Quickly I took a swallow from the pint bottle. Fortified, I took one more glance into the dark recesses of the bus to see if I could catch one more glimpse, one more outline of the pretty young hep girls from Boston. My throat warm from the whiskey, my head light and the thought came: I could go if I want to. Leave with them. Oh sure, and go where? To the streets of Boston? And throw away six years! Yet, I knew in the bus were dark and inviting eyes of those girls. Girls who would play games--no. I would be free soon. My day was coming. I turned and exited the bus.