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Yolanda, Tina, and Annette. Which one? His mind had been made up yesterday. Annette was the one. But now he was having second thoughts. He didn’t really like her that much. He wanted to ask Yolanda, but there was the mourning problem. If he asked her now, she’d think he was an insensitive jerk. Tina kept looking better and better. He liked her. Not the way he liked Yolanda, but she was fun and easy to talk to. If he asked Tina to the prom, at least they’d have a good time. Probably.
Frank heard the scrape of feet coming up the staircase. He hauled himself out of his seat and climbed over the desk to get to the door. Standing on a chair, he peeked through the dirty glass of the transom. It was Tina and two other nerd girls from Mother of Peace. He looked for Yolanda, but she wasn’t there.
Frank got down off the chair and opened the door a few inches. “Pssst!”
One of the nerd girls, the one with the long kinky seaweed hair, heard him.
Frank pointed at Tina.
Seaweed Hair tapped Tina on the shoulder. “Somebody wants you,” she said and pointed at Frank.
Tina turned around. “Oh, hi,” she said. She flashed her little cat grin. “Looking to get in trouble again.”
Frank crooked his finger. “I wanna talk to you,” he whispered.
Tina leaned over the staircase railing and looked down. “What about Whalley?” she said.
“I just wanna talk to you. For a minute. In here.”
“So you do want to get into trouble?” She walked toward the door, and Frank opened it enough for her to come in. “So what’s on your mind? Yolanda, I suppose?”
Frank’s face turned red. “No. I wasn’t thinking about her. I mean, she’s not what I wanna talk about.”
“No?”
He wished she’d stop grinning at him like that. “Well, I was wondering if…”
“If what? If she would go to the prom with you?”
“No!” His face got hotter. She wasn’t making this easy. “I… I was wondering if you wanted to go to the prom.” Frank couldn’t believe he’d just blurted it out. He felt as if he’d just pulled the pin on a grenade without figuring out in advance where to throw it.
The sly cat grin faded. She looked down at the floor.
Frank panicked. Had he said something wrong?
“I’m seeing someone,” she said. Her voice was subdued.
Who? Some 4H geek? he thought. He’d been hoping that she had told Dom she was seeing someone just to get rid of him. “Someone from St. A’s?” Frank asked.
She shook her head. “Someplace else.”
“Oh… sorry.” Frank felt stupid.
“It’s okay,” she said. “But why are you asking me? Yolanda’s the one you’re always looking at.”
Frank shrugged. He was too embarrassed to talk about it.
“You could try asking her.” That “try” sounded very iffy, as if he didn’t stand much of a chance. “But not today.”
“Why not today?”
“Her grandfather. His funeral is today. That’s why she’s not in school.”
Frank nodded. “You think she—.” He didn’t finish his thought. It was stupid to ask.
“What?”
“You think—you know—she’s, like, too bummed out to even think about something like going to a prom?”
“Right now she is, yeah.”
“She’d probably think I was an asshole if I asked.”
“Yeah, probably.”
Frank nodded in silence. “How long do you think she’ll be, you know, in mourning?”
“How should I know? Forever probably. He was her grandfather for chrissake. She loved him.”
Frank nodded. He’d be pretty bummed if his grandfather died. His grandfather was a cool guy.
“Do you play pool?” Tina asked.
“What?”
“You want some advice?”
Frank shrugged. He did want advice, but he didn’t want her to think he needed it.
“Let me tell you something about girls. Most guys don’t get this, but I’m gonna tell you.”
“Okay. But what does this have to do with playing pool?”
“You know what a bank shot is, right?”
“Yeah. It’s when you bounce the cue ball off the bumper first to hit the ball you’re trying to sink.”
“Exactly. That’s how you should deal with girls. Direct shots are a turn-off to most girls. We like guys who can be subtle, not obvious.”
“I’m not sure I get you.”
Tina put on a gruff, dumb-guy voice. “’Hey, Yolanda, you wanna, you know, go to, ah, the prom?’” She went back to her normal voice. “That’s how we hear it. It’s about as subtle and sexy as breaking an egg with a hammer.”
“Okay, I see what you mean. I think.”
“No, you don’t. You’re a guy.”
“I resent that.”
“Of course you do. Because you’re a guy.”
“Come on.”
“I’m giving you pearls of wisdom here, but all you’re thinking right now is, ‘How’s this gonna get me Yolanda?’”
“That’s not what I’m thinking.” It was exactly what he was thinking.
She pressed her finger into his forehead. “What I’m trying to get through your thick skull is that you cannot act like a baby if you want a girl to like you?”
“What do you mean, a baby?”
“A baby sees something, he immediately wants it. Gimme, gimme, gimme!”
“So what’re you saying? If I want something, I should make like I don’t want it?”
“Yeah. Sort of.”
“So, for instance, if I want a certain girl to go to the prom with me, I should act like I don’t really care, like it’s no big deal.”
“No, no, no. You’re taking this too literally. What you should do is treat her like a person—find out what she thinks, what she likes, what you have in common—instead of treating her like a piece of ass you’re desperate to bone.”
“Okay, I think I see what you mean.” Frank was fascinated. He’d never heard a girl so honest and open. She was incredible. She wasn’t the flake Frank thought she was. He was sorry she was dating someone. “So how do you know so much about this stuff?”
She shrugged and flashed her little cat grin. “I’m a genius.”
“Did your boyfriend have a good bank shot when he asked you out?”
She blushed and looked at the floor. “Yeah… I guess he did.”
Brrrrnnnnnggggg!!! The eight o’clock bell rang.
“Okay, listen to me,” she said, talking fast. “Yolanda is shy. If you come on strong, you’ll definitely scare her off. Be subtle.”
“Bank shots,” he said.
“Yes, bank shots.” She ran out the door and headed to the physics lab.
Bank shots, he thought. Subtle. Find out what she thinks. Find out what you have in common.
He picked up his book bag and took out his keys to lock the yearbook office door. As he headed down the staircase to French class, his brain was churning.
Frank stared at the small tin grave marker stuck in the ground, and even though he was alone in the cemetery, he felt conspicuous and inappropriate and totally stupid. He didn’t even know if this was the right grave. He just assumed it was because of the temporary marker instead of a gravestone and the multiple bouquets of flowers. The name embossed into the tin marker was ANDRZEJ MARUSKA. Frank subtracted the date of birth from the date of death and figured that the man was 71 when he died. Grandfather age. It definitely could be Yolanda’s grandfather’s grave. But maybe it wasn’t, he thought.
Frank didn’t even know why he’d come here. The landfill was right next
door to this cemetery, and the wind was blowing this way. He could smell the toxic smoke, taste it at the back of his throat. It was probably killing him the way it had killed old Andrzej here. If he really was Yolanda’s grandfather.
All day long he’d been thinking about what Tina had told him, working on his “bank shot,” wracking is brain for a way to get closer to Yolanda without being obvious about it. But it was a contradiction, a conundrum, a bigger mystery than he ever imagined. How do you get it across to a girl that you like her without making it obvious? Is it like mental telepathy? You beam your thoughts into the girl’s brain? Is that what Tina meant about being subtle? But if you’re too subtle, then you’re not doing anything. And if you’re not subtle enough, you’re guaranteed to blow it. Frank was totally flummoxed. Tina had said she was giving him pearls of wisdom, but he felt like he understood less now than he did before she’d given him the “secret” to success with girls.
He spit the acrid taste out of his mouth and felt like an idiot. He’d just spent an hour and a half riding three buses to get here, and what the hell did he think would happen? That he’d find Yolanda weeping at her grandfather’s grave, that he’d comfort her, that he’d show his concern and sympathy and she’d fall in love with him on the spot? What a fucking idiot! He had no idea in the world why he’d come here. It made no sense. He knew it as he was sitting on the first bus. And yet he still came. He just felt the need to make a connection, that his chances with Yolanda were tied to this fucking landfill and that if he was going to make anything happen, he had to be here, breathing this poison, risking his health the same way she and everyone else in her neighborhood was.
But this was totally stupid, he thought. Just go home and forget about it. Forget about her. Forget everything.
He started walking back toward the cemetery entrance, walking between the graves with his book bag in one hand, holding his blazer over his shoulder with the other, his collar unbuttoned, his tie loosened. It was after five. The sun was bright, and he was walking right toward it, squinting to see through the glare. He stepped between the gravestones, careful not to walk over the spaces where the dead people were lying. He came to a narrow cobblestone road and felt every stone he walked over through the rubber soles of his desert boots. He coughed into his fist. The smoke was thicker than the last time he’d been down here, and the corners of his eyes stung.
Maybe I should just keep walking, he thought. Walk to Canada. Go where it’s clean and the landfills aren’t toxic. Maybe I could get into a college in Canada. Work my way through school. Maybe find a Canadian girl someday. Canadian girls are probably more straight forward than American girls. You probably don’t need to perfect your “bank shot” with them. It’s a thought. Maybe he could—
“What’re you doing here?”
Frank looked up as soon as he heard the high-pitched voice, fumbling with his jacket to shade his eyes. Holy fuck! It was Yolanda.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded. She sounded mad. He was trespassing on her family burial ground.
“Well, I…”
I want to kiss you, he thought. I want to hold you.
Bank shots, he told himself.
“Well, what?” she said. She wore a black dress and shiny black pumps. Funeral clothes.
“I…” he started.
Bank shots! Bank shots!
“I heard about your grandfather. I’m sorry.”
“What’s it to you? You didn’t know my grandfather.”
“Well, I met him once. He told me about the landfill.” Frank nodded toward the source of the smoke on the other side of the fence.
She just glared at him. The glimmering eyes he thought about all the time were looking daggers at him.
“He told me a little bit about the landfill, how it was making people sick. I’m interested in that.”
“Why?”
“Because.”
“Because why?”
“Because it’s not right. That underground fire should be put out, and the people who own it should go to jail.”
He couldn’t believe he was saying this. Hearing himself, he felt like an asshole. The only reason he cared about the landfill was because he cared about her. But this was a bank shot, right? Aim at the landfill when the shot he really wanted to sink was Yolanda. Still, he felt like a conniving shit.
“You’re right,” she said, but she still sounded mad, as if it were all his fault. “They should go to jail. All of them.”
“Yeah,” he said. He didn’t know what else to say.
“But they won’t go to jail. None of them. They’re all too powerful.”
“Who?” He knew who, but he wondered if she knew who. He worried that it would steal his thunder if she already knew that the church and the mob were behind this.
“Them!” She wailed like a wounded animal, pointing at the landfill. Fresh tears dribbled down her cheeks.
Frank felt so bad for her, but he didn’t know what to do. He wanted to hold her and comfort her, but he was afraid she’d take it the wrong way because they didn’t know each other that well. She pulled a wad of tissue paper out of her sleeve and blotted her tears. He wanted to do it for her. He wanted to do something.
Standing there right next to her, saying nothing, was excruciating. “I’ll bet your grandfather was a good man,” he finally said. “He seemed like a good man.”
She started sobbing and blubbering, her eyes pressed closed, sprouting tears that dribbled down the side of her nose.
Shit, he thought. He shouldn’t have said that. He shouldn’t have come here at all.
“Hey, I’m sorry,” he said and reached out to her, touching her shoulder without even thinking.
“No!” she said, recoiling from him. “Not now!” She swiped her face with the back of her hand and walked away, heading toward her grandfather’s grave.
He stared at the golden light in her departing hair. Not now, she’d said. What did she mean by that? Not now but yes later? Maybe later? Did it mean anything at all? But she’d said it. She meant something. No one says things they don’t mean even if they say they don’t mean them. It’s in their head when they say it. A Freudian slip.
Frank watched her walking away, walking fast. He waited for her to turn around and look at him, hoped that she would turn around and look at him. But she didn’t. But she did say, Not now. He’d heard her loud and clear. He wasn’t making it up. He felt bad for her, but he also felt hopeful. She’d said, Not now. She’d left the door open.
A wispy cloud of smoke washed over him and made his eyes tear. He had to do something, he thought. He was in her mind. He could feel it. He had to do something to reinforce that. But nothing blatant. A bank shot, Tina said. But still something. The right thing. That’s what he had to do. He had to do the right thing. That’s what Mr. Nunziato had told him.
But what was that?
He picked up his book bag, coughed, and walked slowly into the sun.
Chapter 20
Frank poked his head into his grandparents’ living room. Except for the console television set, it was straight out of the 19th century—the high-backed burgundy brocade sofa on carved legs, the matching armchair, the satin lampshades with dangling fringe trim, the family photographs in ornate oval frames. A wrestling match was on TV. Bruno Sammartino, the world champion, picked up his opponent and slammed him to the mat flat on his back. Ka-boom! The mat was like a giant drum, and it gave way like a trampoline. Frank recognized Sammartino’s opponent by his black beard with no moustache, Gorilla Monsoon, who bounced up, roared, and charged Sammartino, ready for more. Frank’s grandmother was on the sofa, her head tilted back, eyes closed, mouth open, snoring loudly. She loved wrestling and refused to believe that it was all fake. Problem was, she didn’t see much of it because she always fell asleep in front of the TV, no matter wh
at the program was.
Sensing Frank’s presence in the room, she woke with snort and a start. “What’sa matter, Grandma?” she said in her Italian accent, staring at him in alarm. For some reason that Frank could never figure out, she called all her grandkids by her name, “Grandma.” “What’s wrong?”
Her brows furrowed, and she was ready to break some heads to defend her home and family. Though she wasn’t Sicilian—she had been born near Naples—she had a Sicilian’s cold-blooded notion of acceptable violence. When she was angry, she was a poet of violence, promising to do the incredible. Once when the fish man mistakenly overcharged her for two pounds of smelts, she threatened to stick her two fingers up his nose and drag him around the block “three time.” She was a huge woman, a female version of Haystack Calhoun, the man-mountain wrestler who wore hillbilly coveralls in the ring to cover his girth. She wasn’t fast, but Frank had no doubt that if she caught whoever crossed her, the poor bastard would suffer dearly.
“What’sa matter?” she said. “You hungry?”
Of all the crosses she had to bear, the heaviest was the fact that her daughter-in-law, Frank’s mother, was an atrocious cook. His Grandma was convinced that her terrible cooking was killing Frank’s family, and that it was her duty to feed Frank, his sister, and his father every chance she got.
“You want some macaronis?” she said. “I heat it up for you.” She started to haul herself off the sofa.
“No, it’s okay, Grandma.” Frank motioned for her to stay put. “I was just wondering if I could use your phone. My mother’s using ours.”
The Temptations of St. Frank Page 23
