The Temptations of St. Frank Read Online Free PDF

reception, and Frank guessed it was tuned to 77-WABC-AM. Frank always listened to that station in the car, but at home he only listened to FM. Those were the only stations that played Hendrix, Cream, Canned Heat, Big Brother and the Holding Company, Jefferson Airplane, Quicksilver Messenger Service, the good hippie groups. Vitale lifted the intercom box away from the wall and slipped the radio inside so that it sounded like Sam the Sham was coming from the intercom, which was actually pretty funny. Intercom announcements came from a microphone that sat on Mr. Whalley’s desk in the front office. Whalley listening to WABC? Very unlikely. Souza marches, that’s what the Walrus King would listen to.
    â€œHere he comes,” Gdowski stage-whispered and ran back to his seat.
    Vitale jumped off the chair, dragged it back to the desk, and rushed back to his seat.
    Mr. Kinney poked his head through the door and peered in. He did this every day. It was as if he didn’t want to disturb anyone. He flashed a quick apologetic smile and stepped inside. He looked normal—for a teacher—average in everyway except for the trim little Inspector Clouseau moustache he wore. He referred to it as his “cookie duster,” always with a discreet little chortle into his fist—one of his lame attempts at humor.
    He went over to his desk and set down the three books he carried, arranging them so that they sat evenly one on top of the other. The bell rang for the start of first period, and the moment it stopped, Whalley’s obnoxious, marbles-in-his-mouth voice came over the intercom.
    â€œGood morning, gentlemen. Today there will be a freshman assembly with Monsignor Fitzgerald in the theater during fourth period. All freshmen are to go directly to the theater at the end of third period. Those gentlemen who are late or absent will automatically receive jug…”
    Fuck you, Frank thought and stopped paying attention.
    But Mr. Kinney, who was loading a fresh stick of chalk into his chalk holder, perked up, and even though Whalley wasn’t saying anything different from any other day, Mr. Kinney furrowed his brow and tilted his head like Nipper, the RCA dog sitting in front the old-fashioned record player. Mr. Kinney was hearing Vitale’s transistor radio playing inside the intercom. The sound was faint compared to Whalley’s booming voice, but it was unmistakably there. “Little Red Riding Hood” had ended, and Harry Harrison, WABC’s morning deejay, was talking a mile a minute, giving the sports scores.
    Larry Vitale turned around in his seat and mugged to the class, cuing them that this was the funny stuff in case they didn’t catch it. Mr. Kinney started walking around the room, circling back toward the intercom, frowning at it. Frank had to admit, this was pretty funny, and he had to bite the insides of his cheeks to keep from smiling. Mr. Kinney wrinkled his nose the way he always did when he didn’t understand something, making his glasses rise. Frank imagined him getting down on all fours and sniffing around for clues.
    â€œâ€¦And finally, gentlemen,” Whalley said, “as always, walking jug will commence this afternoon at 2:55
sharp.
Those of you who have earned jug know who you are. Be there. No excuses.”
    Gdowski gave the intercom box the finger. He got jug so often he was practically a permanent member of the walking-jug precision team. At St. A’s
jug
was the word for detention. No one seemed to know where the term came from or how old it was, but it was a St. A’s tradition. Walking jug was for the repeat offenders—one hour of walking around the quadrangle behind Mulvaney Hall on hard asphalt, in rain, snow, blistering heat, hurricanes, cyclones, tornadoes, monsoons, it didn’t matter. And there was never a break. Another St. A’s tradition—probably from the Inquisition. Walking jug sessions were usually held twice a week,