School Years Grade 11 #1

                           The Big Test

 

     At the start of the school year comes a big test. We haven't even finished one month of schooling when the Brothers drop it on us. All schools will have to take it this test. Every school. Woonsocket High, Providence High, every school in the state of Rhode Island.

     It is told to us during one of Brother Philip's classes.

     "We're going to be matched up against girls schools too?" I ask.

     "All schools," the class is told.

     That meant Saint Clares, they will have to take the test too; and, the grades wouldn't be given out. Unlike other tests, no grades were to be posted, which brought up another question.

     "Why take the test if we won't get any grade for it?" I ask and pose an I-don't-care attitude. I had sensed Brother Philip's concern over the State of Rhode Island giving the test. So, if we're not going to be given a grade, why take it? Why try for a good score?

     "It goes into your school records," says Brother Philip, "There isn't a grade, passing or failing, but all students should try to do their best because it will remain in the school records. It will be there for other schools to see, and for future employers."

     "What's the test going to be on?" a student asks.

     "The test will cover all subjects," Brother Philip answers.

     "All subjects on one test!" groans a student and a rumble of speculation moves throughout the class. The test is going to be on everything we've covered. We haven't even gotten into the school year yet, and this test is going to be on all subjects. It's not fair.

     But the truth seemed to be that the good Brothers didn't know much about the test either. And that could have been one of the main reasons why they appeared to be so apprehensive. It wasn't their test. It came from the school district, wherever that was. Not the Catholic school district, but the school district for the whole state of Rhode Island.

     The class started to talk out of turn. It took Brother Philip a word here and there trying to ease the situation, trying to answer questions as best he could.

 

     Within the month the big day came, and with it, the big test. Class by class we filed into the study hall. I didn't even have the comfort of my own desk. It wasn't necessary, all that was needed was for a student to have a hard lead pencil and a place to sit.

     Two or three Brothers quickly appeared in the study, and in a business like manner, they handed out the test packages. Up and down the isles they quietly moved, placing a test package before each student.

     We had been instructed not to touch the test until told to do so. One of the Brothers--it was either Brother Walter or Brother Charles--came down my isle and with pompous contempt, tossed the test package upon the desk top where I sat. Like he was thinking: one wasted test. A test for the nigger, Mr. Faria, the dummy--here, take it. And he tossed the test package upon the desk with a wrist flicking motion of his hand and he continued on his way. Flop!

     There would be no favorites. There would be no questions answered. No talking. No cheating. No nothing. We were to do our test then hand it in; and, the test was to be timed.

     Looking at the test package on the desktop, I wanted to turn it over, to look at the face cover, but I turned my attention to the remaining students. A few more to go.

     The students served, the Brothers leave the study hall, all except for Brother Philip who sits at the overseer's desk. He looks over the study hall then questions, "Do all students have a test package?"

     He waits. No there is silence.

     "You do not have to answer all the questions on the test. If you don't answer a question, it will not be counted against you. You will be graded only on the questions you answer, but try and answer as many of the questions as you can. Turn the test over. On the upper right hand corner, print your name."

     He waits again.

     "Does everybody have their name written in the upper right hand corner?"

     Again there is quiet in the study hall.

     "Start the test, and good luck."

     This was a big time test. And it was totally official. Even the paper was expensive. It had multiple copies, and with the use of a hard lead pencil a student marking the top paper would also mark two copies. There could be no erasing. To make a change, we had to circle the mistake then mark another choice.

     It started out easy. Multiple choice. True or false. Yes or no. I zipped through the first page onto the next getting used to the material, easing into the test, forgetting the edge of tension about me, and within the room. As quickly as the test took away some of the tension, it progressed to more and more difficult questions. With each turn of the page, from subject to subject, something here, something there, the test was getting more and more involved. It was turning into a major challenge and at the same time, drew the participant into it. I had to pass over the algebra, geometry, the science questions. The classical questions. But, it still left me with a lot. Some French, a little Spanish which compared to the French, and English. Lots of English.

     I looked up and took a quick breather. I noticed Mark Beaublien had stopped. He looked at me then looked away. Maybe he was taking a breather too. Other students in the study were into it. Some had bogged down. One student had approached Brother Philip at the overseer's desk, but there was no help to be given.

     I delved back in. The quick breather had refreshed me, and there was a good thing about the test: it was well written. It was challenging. About eleven o'clock time was called.

 

     Just as quick as the big test came, it was gone. A week went by, two weeks, three. From time to time some students questioned the Brothers as to how well we had done. Lo and behold the big test had a score to it after all. It had grades. We could have an estimate as to how we had done, and indirectly we were told. Each student in turn would ask Brother Philip, did they pass? They didn't fail, did they? How did they do?

     "How did I do?" I asked.

     And looking directly at me, not mentioning me by name, Brother Philip answers, "The student who got the second highest score is not a student who is exceptional in his studies. One would never guess he is no more than an average student."

     That's me, nigger Dave. I came in second highest on the test. Second. Two. Deuce. I'm the average student. To these Jesuits, I'm the nigger, the dummy. Now I'm the average student. That's what they want me to be: average. If I'm so average, how come I got the second highest score in the whole damn school, huh? But Brother Philip doesn't answer that. But I know. From past experience I know. The high test score? David did it. The genius did it. It all falls into place. I am the genius once again.

     But there's a discrepancy that has to be addressed. At Mount Saint Charles my records show me as an average student. No matter how hard I had worked or how much I sluffed off, my grades were given as average. I didn't kneel properly. I didn't receive the sacraments. I would avoid chapel. Thus: I was a poor student. Average at best.

     The state gives a test--no religion in it--and I'm a genius. There's the contradiction. I'm a dummy to Mount. I'm an intelligent student to the state of Rhode Island. The Brothers of Jesus, recognizing the contradiction, have to take another look at my record. Perhaps they have to reconcile the matter.

     What happened next was a series of events, one leading to the other.

     First, I would be questioned about this good catholic school.

     Then, I would be called into to the Prefect of Studies office and offered another course of study. I would make it known that I had one goal: to get out of Mount. Following that, I would be offered another school, another Jesuit school.

     So the big test had flushed me out and had shown my hand. I was waiting, staying out of trouble, biding my time. I had one goal. Get out of Mount. It would bode bad for my father.

     Pieces started to fit into place. I was being followed. Stalked. The mad priest and his bastards were disrupting my life. If they had previously thought that I was going to enter one of their seminaries, they had it wrong. If they had believed that I was going to enter the religious life and become a celibate, taking vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience; they had it wrong.

 

                      A Good Catholic School

 

     At the end of the month I took leave for the weekend. School lets out at eleven thirty to give us boarders a few extra hours to get on our way.

     It's Friday. I have the whole weekend. I don't have to be back at Mount till seven o'clock Sunday evening. The sun's shining. There's a light breeze. The earth has a fresh feel beneath my shoes. It's a beautiful day. I'll be home in a few hours. I'm in no rush. If I get a ride, I get a ride. If I don't, I'll walk to the highway. It'll take me about forty-five minutes to get to Providence, then forty-five minutes to get to Fall River. Perhaps I'll stop by the Drake and see if Dad's there, just to say hello. Then I'll head to Island Park.

     I'm a few steps off the premises of Mount, walking upon the foot path. The wall is to my right and below. I look at the school. It looks like a prison without guard towers. It reminds me, I have to be back by Sunday. I won't be free for long. I look ahead and continue walking.

     Behind me, I hear a car's engine. It's making the incline. Quickly I turn on my feet, as a dancer turns. This is serious, this business of hitch-hiking. I hold out my hand, low, fist curled, thumb pointing the way.

     The slow oncoming car is a black sedan. It stops a few feet past me and I think, what good luck! I run to the passenger door, open it, get in, and ask, "How far you going?"

     "To Providence," says the driver.

     As I get in the car something immediately strikes me. Something is not quite right. The driver, he is dressed in black like he's some religious cleric. Black shoes, black socks, black pants, black shirt. Black. Black. Black. But no Roman collar. Even the car he drives is black. A Chrysler product with no radio. It's your basic black sedan. The only thing that's missing is a little white plastic statuette of the Virgin Mary with a little rubber suction cup stuck atop the dash.

     "You go to that school?" the driver asks.

     "Yes."

     "It's a good school, isn't it?"

     He says it as if he already knows the answer and wants me to affirm what he already knows. Mount Saint Charles Academy is a good Catholic school. It's a good school. Isn't it? It's a good school. Of course it is. Tell me it's a good school, student. It's a good Catholic school. Isn't it a good Catholic school?

     Ten minutes ago when I was on campus my answer would've been; yes, whatever you say. You say Mount Saint Charles is a good school. I would nod politely, stone face. But this is my time. My precious little time from lock up to lock down. A tiny time frame of two days. My time, my precious freedom. What little there is permitted to me, and to have some black dressed Catholic cleric halfway posing as a civilian, coming upon me, picking me up as if is a random act and not a set up. As if he were laying in wait in the bushes, ready to pounce with tidings of great joy--Mount Saint Charles Academy is a school of good standing! A proper school. A school of great learning. A school of education. It is a good school, isn't it?

     "No it's not," I answer.

     The minute I had stepped off campus I am no longer under supervision of the good Brothers. And you mister cleric, all you're supposed to do, all that is implied here, is a ride. I hitch-hike. You have picked me up. You said you're going to Providence, then I assume you are to give me a ride all the way to Providence. There is nothing in our little pact that says I have to answer Amen, receive a little hand wave in the form of a blessing and onward we travel.

     He give me a hard look which leads me to question;

     "You are going to take me to Providence, aren't you?"

     "Yes," he says after a brief hesitation. Then he adds, "Why don't you like the school?"

     I let my guard down and vent some of my dislikes.

     "I can't go anywhere. We're not allowed to go downtown. The library is closed. There's nothing to read. There's nothing to do."     He glances at me then turns back to his driving.

     I have had month after month of being locked up on one acre of land; no girls, no social life, no going downtown, no nothing. It's just assholes, elbows and boys, boys, boys. Jesuits. Jesuits. Jesuits. Jesus Christ. I've had crap for months. Years. And now this black cloth wearing religious cleric know-it-all is going to tell me how wonderful my school is. How wonderful it all is. I can't tell this religious do gooder all the crap that I've been put through.

     We travel on in silence for a little while, then he makes a turn onto a road leading out of Woonsocket.

     I break the silence and say, "I've got two more years to go. After that, I'm done with school."

     I get a laugh out of what he says in return.

     "Look at me. I'm forty years old and I'm still going to school. Education doesn't stop after a person graduates."

     He said it with a fair amount of pride. Look at me! Look at what I've accomplished! But as I look at him all I see is a man dressed in black garb looking somewhere between a priest and a brother. The true meaning of his words are obscured, biased by my mistrust of his black religious half dress. The mistrust is from what I have learned at Mount. But my attitude is so what. You're forty years old and still going to school. Well, when I graduate I'm done with school. I'm done with all that shit. You're forty and still going to school! You're supposed to be educated when you're young so you can put it to good use, like getting a job and making some money. You're not supposed to go through half your life uneducated, then--Wait! I'm supposed to have an education! I want to go back to school. What about all those years when you were eighteen to forty? What about those years? You're not supposed to get an education when you're an old man and when your life's mostly over.

     Up ahead, on the sidewalk is a girl. As we pass her, I half way recognize her. She's the girl from Newport. But how could that be? And what is she doing here in Woonsocket?

     The driver looks at me and notices my interest. His demeanor changes. It is like he goes into alarm mode. He speeds up the vehicle and is now driving over the posted speed limit like he's in some God awful hurry. Suddenly he remembers.

     "Oh! I forgot something! I have to go back and get something done. I'll let you off on the highway."

     "I thought you were going to Providence?" I remind him.

     "I am. But not right now. Something came up."

     He quickly drives to the outskirts of Woonsocket, drops me off, makes a U-turn, then zooms back down the road we had just traversed.

     At the time I didn't know if it was something I had said; or, maybe it was the girl. It had to have been the girl. Most likely he went back to hassle the girl. That was how the religious clerics operated against me. It was one of their little methods used to cause me trouble, to disrupt my social life. It was how the seminarians and the novitiates; how they would screw up any relationship that I would have in the making. How they would queer a situation. And the clerics would use their influence within the community. They would talk to mothers and fathers. With their religious influence, they would cause me trouble. If a girl would not concur with them, she might as well be called a whore or some other such wording.

     But he who gave me the ride also had another agenda. He was trying to get information from me. That was the reason why he drove up so quickly. I had only been a few steps off school property when he quickly drove up and stopped to give me a ride. It was like he had been laying in wait. And it was also most likely he had come directly from the same property as I had: Mount Saint Charles Academy--a Catholic school of good standing. When I told him of my dislike of the school: that he would report back to Mount and I would be called into the Prefect of Studies office to be further questioned.

     But it was the girl that seemed to upset the cleric and made him act so determined. He insisted on driving me out to the highway, to the outskirts of town, a place where I couldn't easily double back and approach the girl.

     She was from Newport, Rhode Island and seemed to have had taken a liking to me. But no matter, whatever I attempted socially would be interrupted by the bastards of the priest. I was being stalked, and today, my stalker was driving the car that I had been riding in.

     Upon my return to school, I was called to the Prefect of Studies office.

 

                          Brother Oscar

                                

     "I'd like to talk to you," said Brother Oscar as I passed by him in the hallway. It was the first time he had spoken to me in over three years. Sometimes as I would pass him he would turn his back to me. I had been on the Jesuit shit list for the past three or four years, but things were changing fast.

     "Now?" I asked.

     "No, after class."

     I continued on to Brother Philip's class, who had been watching the encounter from the doorway of his classroom. He saw my concern and smiled at me reassuringly as I entered his room.

     There's no secrets in this little school. I'm to see Brother Oscar and Brother Philip gives me encouragement. Brother Oscar, who hasn't acknowledged my presence in years has actually spoken to me as if I were a student and not some leper, but I'm still cautious. Things like that don't change overnight. There has to be a reason.

     After class I went to the prefect of studies office. The door was partially opened and I peeked in; Brother Oscar was at his desk mulling over some papers. I knocked on the door.

     "Come in," he said. I entered and he added, "have a seat."

     I took a chair and said nothing.

     "How do you like your classes?" he asks me.

     "They're okay."

     "I have your grades here. Would you like to see them?"

     So it's my grades. He wants to show me my grades?

     "Yes, brother," I answer.

     He swivels in his chair--behind him is a file, and from atop it he grabs a folder, swivels back, opens it and places it before me.

     The folder has all my grades, starting from the seventh to the present, and it rankles me to see some of my scores. I remember how I had aced that final test in the seventh grade and had been give such a low score. I scanned the C's and B's, the high seventies and low eighties. What impressed me was that they actually kept a record with my name on it for all that time.

     "My grades are all passing," I told the prefect.

     "Yes they are," he agreed and I eased the folder back toward him.

     Brother Oscar took back the folder, and looking into it, he said, "It says you have a seventy‑eight in English. Do you like English?" he asked.

     "It's okay," I said noncommittally.

     Not satisfied, he looked at the folder again then said, "You scored eighty‑two in literature. Do you like literature?"

     "Literature?" I questioned back playing dumb, "I don't know anything about literature." After a moment of his silence I backtracked, "Oh, . . . you mean English Literature. Yes, I like English." And I added, "I have two classes of English." I watched for his reaction, but he didn't let on; nevertheless, I had the feeling he knew what I was talking about. Two! Deuce. Deuce!! It was like an attachment to me, a moniker. It had been shouted at me, to me, contemptuously worded, sneered. It had come from priest Shaleau--yes, he knew what I was talking about. He took part in it; turning his back on me, not allowing me my choice of study, perhaps knowing I couldn't go into the library. It is from priest Shaleau, from one religious zealot to another. From the priest, to the Jesuits, a bad word attached to me, following me around as if some pinned on wording to my back side was flapping in the wind as I walked. And it has followed me right into this good Catholic school, all done very subtlety of course.

     I modify my tone and the meeting turns into a game of--how do you like this? And how do you like that? My answer? I like everything; and even if I didn't like everything, I would still say I liked it. Like a puppet, I would want to say, "Everything is great. I like everything. I even like Mount Saint Charles. I like Jesus. I like religion. Everything. I like everything."

     So everything is okay, and even if it wasn't, I would say it was. I had learned to agree with whatever they said. If I didn't, the first person to learn of my opposing view would be Dad. He would be pressed into service to put me in my place, he most likely wanting to knock my block off or give me a backhand when I wouldn't be looking. But that day as we progressed through my grades I loosened up and pointed to some of my higher scores.

     "You can do better," Brother Oscar said.

     I looked at him not believing what I had just heard. Is he kidding? Four years have passed since my seventh grade test. I had scored almost a hundred percent on my seventh grade final and I get a seventy‑six as a combined total final grade. In the eighth-grade I get a leather strap whipping from the director of the school and I'm placed on the shit list. From then on no Jesuit in their right mind would give me a good grade. I'm on the shit list for the rest of my years here at this school--and he's saying I can do better!? Sure, just like Darrel Luzier. Darrel got on the shit list and he was quickly flunked out. It wasn't his grades. Darrel knew the material. Darrel made the mistake of standing up against Brother Salvio.

     But whatever happened in the past was making no difference to what was happening now, and I didn't understand it.

     Brother Oscar continued, "Some students change their majors and sometimes their grades get better."

     He wants me to change my major! This very same person who barred me against doing so just two years ago! He wants me to change my major to the science course! Doesn't he remember. If he does, he's not letting on. I was sitting right here in front him just as I am now. I had asked for the science course and he turned me down flat. He did it with that same indifferent cold attitude he has shown me over the years within the corridors of this school--turning his back on me! I couldn't even get a book from the school library for three years. I couldn't get a science book from the library because it was said I wasn't a science student. Now he wants me to take the science course! It was two years ago. He assigned me the Commercial Course. "The classes are full," he said. "No, I want the science course," said I, "my name starts with an F, how could the classes be full?" Then he added, "If there are any changes I'll reconsider your request."

     Oh!!! That must be it. Perhaps he is reconsidering my request. How considerate of him. And he wants me to change my major.

     The anger and resentment of the past years had welled up within me, but caution quieted my feelings.

     Brother Oscar continued, "Some students realize they are better suited to some studies than others. Would you like to change any of your subjects?"

     "I'd like to take the science class."

     "Anything else?"

     "Mechanical drawing."

     He slowly nods his head and makes a notation in one of his ledgers. "If you take science, you will have to take some other subjects along with it."

     "What other subjects?" I question.

     "Algebra. Geometry. Trigonometry. They are not easy subjects."

     His wording alarms me. Those are the same words that were said to Darrel before he was flunked out of school. Darrel protested saying he knew the subjects, but it made no difference and he was flunked out.

     Considering that, I have to be cautious with this Jesuit and what he offers. I don't want to flunk out or else I'd have to redo subject after subject. I could be a resident at Mount Saint Charles for extra years, and that I wouldn't want. Why, they could keep me here for as long as they wanted. Wasn't it Brother Blaise who directing words to me, said, "Some students will always have a place here at Mount." I didn't like it. I could be here for extra years. No. I have two years to go. Two more years. I can't take any chances.

     "Can't I take just the science class?"  I asked Brother Oscar.

     "No, you'll have to take algebra along with science."

     I balked.

     Brother Oscar explained, "There are some subjects that are elective and some that are required. Religion is required, so is english, history and some form of mathematics."

     I didn't trust the brothers. I had four years experience dealing with them. I'd be placed in some freshmen class, my major would be changed, and they could flunk me and flunk me as many times as they'd want. And after listening to Brother Oscars' words, "These are difficult subjects." It's another catch phrase, used to tell a student that he isn't doing well, or prior to flunking him out, or making him do over another year.

     Very slowly I shake my head no. Yes, I want the science course. No, I won't risk graduation by changing my major. I won't sit in freshmen classes playing catch up. Then comes to mind another catch phrase, this one spoken by Brother Claude, "Some students when they get behind, never seem to catch up." And he almost flunked me out of the seventh grade by having material on the final test that was not presented to me, and wouldn't have been had I not questioned him after school.

     So I'm caught in making a decision. I want the science course, but I don't trust the Brothers. My prevailing goal overrides all; I have two years to go. Two more years. It's late in the game for me to be offered the science course, and to be offered it by this cold indifferent Brother; the very same who denied it to me two years ago.

     I'm angered at the school, at every 'yes brother' I've ever said, of every step within their darkened corridors. The crucifixes upon the walls, the chapel, every black robe and crucifix I have ever seen. I'm resentful. And not being allowed in the library. Being whipped! Harassed in the study. I've been blocked at every turn. I've not been allowed into music classes. I have learned to sit and not talk directly to these brothers.

     "I don't want to change my major," I tell him.

     "Well, I have nothing more to talk about,"  he says.

      Our little tete-a-tete is over. I get up from the chair and turn and look at the door. It is with a dull feeling of frustration at the decision I have made. I believe it is a decision that in years to come, I will not like. For the second time I walk out of the prefect of studies office I am more frustrated than when I had entered. So what's new in a bastard school like this.

 

      At the time I was naive and uninformed. I didn't fully understand why these changes were being offered to me. Why would I, David the nigger, would be offered these choices, and more choices were to be offered.

     Dad was taking some heat. From what little information I could gather--for it was not told to me directly--Dad owed the school for past tuition. It seemed, if I was not going to enter the religious life and become a celibate, then there would be no more free ride. No more free tuition. No more free anything from these Catholic religious do-gooders. Besides that, Mount Saint Charles now wanted Dad to pay whatever back tuition there was. Dad said no. He called for the services of a lawyer. As it turned out, Dad didn't have to pay any back tuition; but, from then on it would be pay as you go. No more credit. No more priest Shaleau or the parish of Saint Joseph's helping or promising to pay tuition.

     Now it was time for Dad to become disillusioned with the Brothers of the Sacred Heart. After the initial legalities had been dealt with, difficulties and harassment would take place in Dad's places of business.  Deadbeats and troublemakers would drive regular customers away. Dad's barrooms would go from operating to empty. Money would become tight, very tight. So tight that Dad would try to get Gilbert and I out of Mount Saint Charles. He would try to get us to change schools.

 

                         Changing Schools

 

     Gilbert tells me Dad is coming to school to drive us home for the weekend.

     "Why is Dad coming here to pick us up?" I asked Gilbert.

     "He wants to talk to us."

     "What about?"

     "I think he wants to send us to another school."

     It didn't sound right. Why now after all these years at this school? But Gilbert was usually right. He had his ear to Dad. I didn't. It had always been that way; all the way back to New York City when Dad and Gilbert went one way, Mom and I went the other.

     At the end of the month, Dad drives to school to pick us up. As Gilbert and I get into the Olds--I clam up. The rule of silence is in effect. Pride will not allow me to speak. If I don't speak, no one is to speak. When Dad shouted at me, "You shut up!", that's when the rule of silence started and I'm not going to let him off the hook just to satisfy my curiosity. I'll wait till we get home to find out what this is all about.

     If we really are going to change schools--why now? Why? After all the prison years at Mount. All the time I've done. Has it been all for nothing?

     The Olds smoothly rolls along and I look out the window, watching the woods and the trees; the darkness of the silent inner recesses--I'll not break the silence.

     Finally, we ride into Island Park; we pass the ocean wall, the beach. We take a left turn, pass some summer houses, the road changes to gravel, another left turn. The cyclone fence comes into view, and the duplex where we live. Dad eases the Olds to a stop.

     Duke, our dalmatian, sees the car and comes running full blast. His paws kick up small puffs of dust on the hard pack. At the car he stops and goes into a hyper movement wiggling his body side to side. His hindquarter moves one way, this forequarter moves the other. He jumps part way up then down, lowers his head and recommences to wiggling his body from side to side.

     Gilbert and I call out, "Duke! Duke!" and he jumps up and down, then moves side to side all the time running around us in no set pattern. He muffles a bark or two, lowing his head near the ground, his black and white coat to his black whiskered muzzle. As he barks, his head near the ground, his forelegs splayed out in front of him, he takes in a whoosh of air and from deep down out comes a muffled bark, "Woof!"

     Inside the yard Dad stops.

     "How would you boys like to go to a school around here?" he asks.

     It's true! After all those years in that school! All those years. Four years! I whirl away showing my disgust. For nothing! All those years for nothing, locked up in that place. I want to scream, "I told you so! All those times I pleaded with you to send me to another school. I pleaded with Eliza and you wanted to hit me. 'Send me to any school but that one,' I said. On deaf ears my words fell. On deaf ears. Any public school I would have taken.

     Dad looks sheepish. Not often he looks sheepish. He talks to Gilbert. I cool down quickly and walk back to a few feet away from them to hear what is to be said. This is not time for theatrics. I believe I'm in the right; but, I'm still wondering, why the big change all of a sudden? Why now?

     Dad can't afford the tuition. The expense of renting the duplex and the tuition of the school will be prohibitive. We can have one, but not both. We will have to choose.

     Dad asks Gilbert first, "Would you like to go to a school near here, Gilbert?"

     "I'll go back to Mount Saint Charles," Gilbert answers.

     A school near here? Now wait a minute Gilbert, you didn't even ask what school near here. Durfee's not near here. Durfee's in Fall River. The only school that I know of that is near here is that new modern like structure in the woods. It's a public school. With girls and boys. It has the American flag flying out in front. There's not a crucifix in the whole school. And I believe it has a cafeteria too. It must have a cafeteria. It's a school, isn't it? And it's a split level, modern like, the walls are cream and light green or something like that. The sun shines in through it's windows. The desks aren't screwed to the floors. There's grass and trees outside. That's the only school I know of near here. But without any hesitation at all, Gilbert said he would go back to Mount Saint Charles.

     I'm still thinking, four years at Mount for nothing! For nothing! Wait a minute. Cool down. Don't jump up, yell and spoil your chance. This may be the best moment ever to get out of that school. Yes, it's four years late; but wait for what Dad has to say. If it's that school in the woods, I'll take it. I'll go to that school. I'll need thirty-five cents lunch money every day. I'm not going to starve while he eats in some greasy spoon in Fall River. Thirty-five cents and I'll go to that school. It will be free. Girls and boys. Girls I will be able to look at, talk to, walk with. I'll sit near them in class. I'll breath in their girlish flirts and smiles. All their girl talk and movement I'll nonchalantly inhale and smell, every syllable, every wile. . . . I'm pulled back to reality;

     "What about you Dave? . . . would you like to go to school around here? . . . you could be home in the afternoons and evenings . . . you could get a part time job around here for a little spending money," Dad says and he waits a moment watching how I take it. Then he adds the clincher, "There's a good Catholic school in Newport. LaSalle. It's run by Jesuits," he says.

     So that's the big deal. Who put him up to that, Priest Shaleau? The Jesuits! It's run by Jesuits. Dad doesn't know who the Jesuits are. The Brothers at Mount Saint Charles are Jesuits--he calls them Father. A school in Newport--LaSalle. Some choice. I'd have to learn the quirks of every new Jesuit I'd come in contact with, in every new class I'd be in. I'd be starting over. My major would be changed. The curriculum would be different. I'd be loaded down with make work. I could hear it now, 'Oh, we don't have those subjects here.' Or, 'All those classes are full, you'll have to take the science course. We'll start you with freshman science.' Jesuits? . . . Jesuit priests! They may be tougher than the Brothers. I'd be lucky if I'd get a glimpse of a girl from the window of a bus; but, there were some benefits that had to be weighed. I could be free evenings and weekends and I wouldn't be imprisoned on school grounds. . . . No. Not me alone. Maybe if Gilbert was with me to buffer some of the crap that would be sure to come our way. So that was my choice: one bastard school in exchange for another. Nope, I've got two more years to go at Mount Saint Charles.

     "I'll go back to school with Gilbert," I said.

     "We're going to have to move back to Fall River. I'm going to give notice," Dad said. He looked defeated.

 

                         Pleasant Street

 

     It was a month or so later, Dad drives Gilbert and me to our new residence. It was some property he had owned for years, a building on Pleasant street. It was old, run down and neglected; a five unit building consisting of old bowling alley, a neighborhood barroom, and three apartments. The bowling  alley hadn't been used in years and was now doing time as a makeshift pool hall. The bar paid for itself, I overheard Dad once say. Of the apartments, two were in the rear and one was over the bar. The units in the rear were unoccupied, and for good reason. Over the years, the foundation of the building had radically settled and the resulting damage to the back of the building showed by a downward slant of the floors. The run sloped down so radically that Uncle Armand, a general contractor, said the place needed more work than it was worth.

     It was to be our new home.

     Dad was half drunk when he took us there. It was some contrast, Dad, dressed in a dark blue business suit and his shiny black shoes, stopped at the door to the rear apartment. He pulls out some keys and fumbles with them, gives up and says, "We'll try the other entrance."

     Finding a key to unlock the far door we enter. The inside of the tenement is just as rundown as the outside, the only thing missing is a rat scurrying along the floor as Dad flicks on the inside lights. I'm surprised the electricity is on. I'm afraid the floor will cave in, but it holds solid. My first night sleeping there, I position my bed so I won't roll out, the tilt of the floor is that radical. Never would I want someone to visit. I'd be too ashamed.

     It seemed we had come full circle, and I believed we had been screwed out of our main residence on South Main Street because of the badgering by priest Shaleau: the Drake Hotel wasn't a good place to bring up young boys. At that time, perhaps Dad didn't want an all out fight with the bastard priest, so he acquiesced and we moved to Island Park. Island Park became too expensive and we are forced us to move to this dump.

     In looking back, a sequence of events had taken place: first, I had aced the big test; then, I was questioned as to what my goals were? It became apparent that I wanted out of Mount Saint Charles and wouldn't be taking a life of celibacy. It was then I was offered another Jesuit school; I wouldn't accept that either.

     Pressure was put on Dad. If I wasn't going to enter the religious life then Dad would have to pay back tuition. Instead, he got a lawyer and fought the bastards of the Society of Jesus. After that it was all downhill; trouble visited Dad and he wouldn't be able to conduct a profitable business. It would take less than two years and Dad would be selling used cars out of a small town in Rhode Island. Another two years and he would fall dead of a heart attack in the used car lot. He would not get the same services that Mom got. Not exactly.

     Priest Shaleau now knew I was going to leave Mount Saint Charles. His curse against me would be more difficult for him to apply. The result: I
would be more closely followed.

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.