by Sean Desmond
“Holy shit.”
The White stands went loco. The Longhorn band played the Dr. Who theme—the horns super raw and brassy, the drums like a war taunt.
The rout was on. By halftime it was 35 to 7, and the Calvin show had put up two hundred yards rushing and two hundred yards passing. Dan was pretty sure that it wasn’t until a Longhorns option run in the second quarter that went for five yards that the Ranger defense had even touched Calvin Murray.
By the start of the third quarter, Rob was the last of the crew standing, out of some protective instinct, but it was time to go—time to head toward Sticky’s car, smoke a cigarette, and get the fuck out of Dodge. Dan, tipsy and tripping down the steps, took a passing glance at Cady Bloom. She had checked out of the game long ago and stood with her pom-poms on her hips, sharing sheepish sideways looks of embarrassment with Embry Martindale.
What little Dan could read into that gored him with jealousy. Christ, how do I get her to notice me without dorking out? Come on, just man up and talk to her. It’s easy. She knows you. No doubt she’ll say yes to a date. No way, ugh, no way . . .
Dan followed his crew out to Sticky’s car. The bleachers may have been segregated, but the parking lot was a gauntlet of kids from White talking shit.
“Good thing the Jebbies taught you guys how to take it up the ass.”
“Jesus Mary and Murray! We blew your fuckin’ doors off!”
Even Dan was not inebriated enough to think a rebuttal was a good idea. But Rob McGhee, however sober, was still chewing on the loss and went into what could only be called “Bad Rob mode.”
“Bunch of fuckin’ dipshits.”
That drew the attention of half of the White victory tailgate.
“You morons did an amazing job of sitting on your asses while a bunch of boys bussed in from South Dallas . . .”
Oh Christ. Now, Rob was the humble son of a minister, and Bad Rob was not evil, just sudden, and all that stuff that the good Lord had bottled up, well . . . it was now on tap. Dan watched Sticky and Rick take off through the parking lot—We are not owning this.
“. . . run around a field. Well, if that makes you think you’re better than us, congratulations, I’ll see you later when you’re delivering my goddamn pizza. You know what your average White player gets on the SAT? Fuckin’ drool.”
“You better fuckin’ watch it.”
Dan was waiting for a beer bottle or something to come flying at their heads, but strangely, Bad Rob was so blustery and ridiculous that his bullshit just drew laughter.
“Look at preppie boy all pissed off.”
Bigmouth Bad Rob was strangely psyched to be mistaken for an upper-class douchebag; he was wearing his blue Izod, his dock shorts with Sperry Top-Siders—all of this amounted to a vaguely cocky Risky Business look.
Some White meathead jumped down from a trailer bed, cutting Rob off from his escape route past a conversion van. Out of some hopeless fraternity—most likely to pick up punched-out teeth from the parking lot—Dan turned and tried to man up next to Rob.
“Jesuit snotheads.” Here came a good ole boy with a wad of smokeless, hair slicked back like Max Headroom, Billy Idol earring. Yup, this guy went to asshole training camp. “Look at the fuckin’ scoreboard.”
“Whoa, Cooter, take it easy. Is this your girlfriend here . . . ?”
There was a teased-up and denimed blonde snapping gum over his shoulder. Max Headroom popped Rob in the chest, but he was uncorked and couldn’t help himself.
“Or is that your sister and you left your girlfriend back in your barn?”
Before that could register, Dan yanked Rob by the arm and pulled him away from the scrum.
“Come here, dickhead . . .” Max swiped at Rob’s collar, trying to grab him.
Rob took off in a full sprint, and Dan didn’t need to be told to hustle—the two of them ducking through the crowd and across lines of cars until the White guys had lost interest in pursuit. They found Sticky’s car, and the crew reunited at the far end of the lot, hanging under a drooping, tangled bois d’arc.
Dan put a hand on Rob’s shoulder, catching his breath. “I have to give you credit—that was suicidal but impressive.”
“Fuckin’ public school Neanderthals.” Bad Rob was feeling it for sure.
“Hey, Danny Malone!”
Dan turned to find Emma Wesselman wandering over. He wasn’t much of a fan of the burnt-orange Longhorn colors, but Emma looked cute in a polo shirt for Longhorns girls basketball. She had grown out the curls in her brown hair and still had freckles from her summer tan.
“What’s up, buttercup?” Dan immediately blenched at the nickname and felt the scrutiny of his Jesuit crew. Play it cool.
“Nothing, I was just hanging out watching your buddy there talk his way into an ass kicking. Then I saw you.”
Emma and Dan had gone to grade school at St. Rita’s together. They lived two blocks away from each other and for years had hung out, off and on. Emma wasn’t a tomboy, but she was better than half the boys, including Dan, at basketball, soccer, you name it. Junior high brought different camps and cliques, and Dan and Emma drew apart to avoid teasing and ostracism. But they liked each other enough, and Emma had asked Dan to Sadie Hawkins freshman year. That night, he almost went in for the kiss, but Dan felt pressured and backed off. And then he didn’t call. And Emma didn’t know what to do and kind of gave up on him. He had known her like a sister for a long time, and it seemed weird to fool around or to even think about going together. But he was also used to making excuses, because the truth was: he’d blown it.
“Yeah, that could have gone wrong so many ways.”
“How are things? I never see you now.”
Emma said it very matter-of-factly, like the girl jock that she was. Not inappropriate, but Dan grimaced at the material she was inadvertently giving his crew to clown him with.
“Yeah, sorry about that. I guess I’m just going to school. Selling drugs to children. Normal stuff.”
“Have you been drinking? You’re all flushed.”
Oh boy, now she sounded like his mother. And no matter how much Emma cared or was allowed to be personal with him, Dan was getting embarrassed.
“Well I was drinking. But can you blame me? Your Horns are killing us in there.”
Everything was coming out wrong. Or just off and nervous. Across the parking lot, a car stereo was blaring “Boys Don’t Cry,” and the music jangled along as Dan’s awkwardness grew and grew.
“How’s school?”
“Sucks moderately.”
Sensing things had stalled, Rick called over to Dan, “Dude, I think we’re heading out.”
Dan felt bad. Emma was a good girl. Not quite looking her in the eye, he started in: “So listen . . .” He had things to say. Say you’ll call her. She wants you to call her. But he chickened out again. “I gotta go.”
“All right, Danny. I’ll see you around.” Emma didn’t waste any more time on him and was practically shaking her head as she turned back to a couple of her girlfriends from the basketball team. Game over.
Dan’s shoulders brunted down as he watched her walk away. Real smooth, Joe Camel. Buzzed or sober, you sure have a way with the ladies. Emma looked good coming and going.
Rick smirked. “I think she wanted you to ask her out.”
“I know.”
But it was too late. He had already picked his tribe. And so Dan and his crew piled into Sticky’s car and drove off into the Dallas night.
[ OCTOBER 15 ]
Room 120, Canisius Hallway, in media res.
Oglesby’s class had turned to the unknown arts of Joyce’s Portrait. Grimacing, the English teacher tapped the glands of his neck, contemplating whether to stick with his lesson plan of epiphanies, stream of consciousness, and free indirect speech. He gazed across the dark, fierce faces of the
sophomores and decided that wouldn’t reach them today. What idea or ambition would draw them out? he asked himself. He turned toward the window and the gray curtain of the morning. He bounced the white wood of Ashplant against the tight pile of the blue carpet. In this way, he summoned his lecture.
“Gentlemen, who do we have to thank for this book?”
They gazed at him blankly as Oglesby coiled around some deeper circle of thought. Rob McGhee raised his hand.
“Well, there’s Joyce. But are you looking for some larger answer? Like the Jesuits . . .”
Chin sunk in his fist on top of Ashplant, Oglesby didn’t acknowledge the response. “Did you know that Joyce tried to destroy this book? Here’s another portrait of the artist: He was struggling. And he received a letter from a publisher saying that they couldn’t print Dubliners because it was considered libelous. That means damaging and false to a person’s reputation. In this case, the British king, and Ireland was still part of his kingdom. So Joyce’s confidence was shot. He was living in a self-imposed exile, slightly depressed, slightly paranoid, always broke, and fighting with his wife, Nora, who told him to quit writing.”
Oglesby broke out of his pensive stance and went roving down the main aisle of the classroom.
“And so he was arguing with his wife about all of this and he just snapped and yelled: ‘All right, I’ll give up writing.’ And he stuck the manuscript for Portrait into the burning stove.”
Oglesby frowned as he considered the snoutish face of Jay Blaylock. He returned to the teacher’s desk to collect his thumb-blackened copy of Portrait, which he held up for emphasis.
“But fortunately his sister Eileen was there, and she snatched the pages out of the stove. She rescued this book. And later, when Joyce came to his senses, he realized what he had almost lost, and what he couldn’t have rewritten, and thanked his sister.
“The point, gentlemen, is that this is hard stuff. Truly great artists must suffer to create. The hardest, most honest writing is a product of fear, anxiety, and paranoia that, when it works, we call genius. And who knows what would have happened to Joyce if this book had burned? Does he give up? Does he go on to write anything else?
“So think about that as you try to understand a writer. Think about their fears and doubts. Realize Joyce, for all his staggering knowledge, didn’t know what to make of his own life half the time. Just because the type is fixed to the page doesn’t make the author superhuman. And consider the matter of seconds between a finished book and a pile of ashes. Now, let me collect your journals.”
Dan reached into his backpack and dug around. Shit. At his locker he had the journal in his hand. So stupid. A sudden woven anger overtook him, and he threw his bag to the ground.
“Mr. Malone, is there a problem?”
“I left my journal in my locker.”
“What’s rule number four, Mr. Malone?”
“‘Your journal is your life-force.’ I’m sorry, sir, I just—”
“Don’t apologize, Mr. Malone, just come prepared.”
“I did the assignment, can I go get it from my locker?”
Oglesby reached Dan’s desk and tugged at his tie menacingly. “Mr. Malone, why does your soul lust after its own destruction? Bring your journal to my office at the end of the day with a bonus entry.”
“Ha, hosed.” Cameron Coleman sniggered.
Dan shook his head, gravely accepting his fate. “What’s the topic?”
“Rule number two: organization is the key to high school.”
More mocking laughter from the rest of the class. As he let go of the noose of Dan’s tie, Oglesby changed his mind.
“Actually, life rafts.”
“Life rafts?”
The period bell tolled.
“One hundred words on life rafts. You’re floating along in here, Mr. Malone, doing enough to survive. It’s time for you to figure out what this class means and what your involvement in life is going to be. See you after ninth period.”
Dan pinballed out of the room and down the hallway to his next class. He had done the writing, and this unforced error aggravated him. He now had to carve out time for another journal entry—So long, lunch and free period. But that wasn’t half as painful as the realization: Maybe Oglesby’s right. I need to act smarter. Like a Norwegian rat.
* * *
Later that afternoon, Jimmy Whalen was missing from the assignment meeting for The Roundup. A chunky senior with a Bono mullet, Whalen thought being editor of the school paper was a career catapult toward 60 Minutes. He was as serious as the hole in the ozone, and when The Bear Facts, the Ursuline paper, had gotten the scoop on how their greenskeeper was burning leaves illegally, Whalen had stomped into The Roundup office and pinned the article to the whiteboard.
“This is the type of story we need to be going after!”
Okay, Ben Bradlee, got it.
But Whalen had not shown up that afternoon—in fact, the top two-thirds of the masthead, all the junior and senior editors, were missing. Instead, five minutes late, Father Walter Argerlich came waddling in with the layout boards of the latest issue of The Roundup. Father Argerlich was new to Jesuit Dallas, having come from Strake in Houston by way of German South Texas parishes. He had been appointed moderator of the paper because he was an amateur photographer and knew how to run the darkroom. Part irate Goldwater, part pudgy LBJ, he wore thick black horn-rimmed glasses, and his receding hairline was blotted with what looked like black shoe polish.
The priest threw the boards onto the teacher’s desk, put his hands on his hips, and caught his breath. Dan and the other freshman and sophomore cub reporters took seats as the priest composed himself.
“Well, I just came from the principal’s office. And the bad news to report is that The Roundup will not be publishing an October issue. As a result Mr. Whalen and his editorial staff have decided to resign in protest.”
Argerlich held up the front folio and showed the large red X Father Dallanach had run through Whalen’s page one story. The headline: bad flow day.
At the last dance held at Jesuit CP, the girls’ toilets had clogged with sanitary napkins, which caused a backup in the entire plumbing system that Brother Finnegan had snaked and run the discharge into the creek behind the school. What set the front office off entirely was that this was the first they were hearing about it—and Whalen had interviewed some tool in the Dallas EPA office about raw sewage contaminants and E. coli levels. The story might result in a city investigation of the school and a fine. All this caused by menstruation at an all-boys Catholic high school.
Argerlich rocked on the balls of his feet, his hands folded across his beach-ball gut.
“Mr. Whalen made a critical error by not running this story past me, and now we are missing our out-to-printer date. The question before us today, gentlemen, is what are we going to do moving forward?”
Dan had no clue. He was a junior arts reporter, which meant that he had written two short pieces—one was a profile of Rob and Sticky’s band 23 Years, which broke up before press time, so the story was pulled, and the other was a “human interest” profile of the octogenarian Father Callery, who threw pots and Eucharistic chalices in the school’s art studio despite arthritic hands.
“For the time being Father Dallanach and I will be closely supervising the publishing of The Roundup.” Argerlich was normally clipped and humorless, but you could tell he had been read the Ignatian riot act. “First order of business, we need to elect a masthead for the next issue.”
Dan scanned the half-moon of sophomores and freshmen. George Tsimboukis (a Greek kid from East Dallas who liked to write about varsity wrestling) and Rick were there for the sports page, as was Sticky, who wrote funny slice-of-life for the campus page. Dan didn’t really know any of the freshman reporters, and the only true pantload in the group was Teddy Boudreaux, who shared all his sophomore hon
ors classes. Boudreaux was a smug and tubby know-it-all, a self-entitled band geek (he played the piccolo, for Christ’s sake) who was just crying out to be wedgied, swirlied, or wet-willied. Boudreaux, however, was nephew to Jim McKenna, an alum who ran the presses and was the biggest advertiser in The Roundup. Father Argerlich didn’t really know Dan Malone, but he knew who Jim McKenna was and the deal he gave on printing. He grinned at Teddy.
“Okay, nominations for editor in chief . . .”
And without hesitation, a freshman pigeon nominated Boudreaux. A smile grew from his potato-shaped head. Sticky let out a low whistle. The sophomores were all thinking the same—if Boudreaux runs the paper, it is gonna suck. Dan rolled his eyes at Rick, who then whispered to Tsimboukis. Stick tipped forward in his desk chair and joined their caucus. In a heartbeat, Stick raised his hand.
“I’d like to nominate Danny Malone.”
Dan flushed with confusion. The sophomores around him—Kevin Veedon and Memo da Silva—were nodding in agreement. He then looked up at Father Argerlich, who was trying to disguise his pissiness. After Jimmy Whalen had gone all gonzo, he wanted Boudreaux as his toady.
“Okay, I’m not sure we have a quorum to make this a vote.” He was trying to stall until Boudreaux could pack the photo desk with more of his band dweebs.
Rick stabbed at the air with the pencil he had been chewing on. “But you asked for nominees!”
“Fine. Mr. Malone, do you accept the nomination?”
Dan didn’t know what to do, but he thought of Oglesby’s rebuke. Step up and figure out your involvement. You want to work on your writing? Well, here you go.
“Yes, I accept.”
Stick stuck out his tongue at Teddy Boudreaux, who looked like someone farted in his face. Still, the vote would be close—Boudreaux had the freshmen, Malone the sophomores.
