The Dangerous Lives of Altar Boys by Chris Fuhrman Page A

smiled a lot, but he was shy. I’d heard my mom whispering to Rusty’s mom on the telephone that he had a girlfriend in the parish and might leave the priesthood. I hoped not. He was the nicest of our priests. He would’ve already forgiven us for
Sodom
vs.
Gomorrah’ 74
.
    Donny fetched the ball and hurled it back. Way across, on the bleachers, a couple of girls had pulled yarn and needles out of shopping bags. Others were playing games in notebooks, Hangman probably. And there was Margie Flynn, sitting alone at the end, hands folded in her lap. I couldn’t see her eyes at that distance.
    Craig Dockery and the other black kids had boycotted soccer because of the purse-snatcher killing. I didn’t see the connection. They clumped around the drinking fountain, playing a game where you put your palms on the other guy’s palms and he tries to slap your hands before you can draw them away.
    Tim had his exhausted paperback of
Animal Farm
open to a page of underlined sentences. He held a pen to his mouth and nibbled the cap. “So you think you’re brave enough for the Wildcat Caper?” He didn’t look up.
    I said I reckoned I was stupid enough to do it.
    “Good. Then you won’t have any problem with this other rite of manhood I’ve arranged for you.”
    “Manhood?”
    His eyes flicked up at me, then back to the page. “I sent her a note.”
    My heart contracted. “What, who?”
    “A love note to Margie Flynn. I signed your name.”
    “Oh God! You’re kidding, right?” I felt myself going red. I didn’t dare look in her direction.
    “I’m serious. You’ve got the kind of opportunity I’d sacrifice a finger for, and I’ll be damned if I’ll sit around while you let it evaporate, man.” He took the pen from his mouth and underlined something. He looked at me.
    I flung my head down into my hands. “Goddamn it, Tim, whythe hell did you do this to me? I’m too mortified to ever face her now, you asshole.”
    “It doesn’t call for this much suffering, Francis. It was a few sentences designed to make her fall in love with you. I’m tired of seeing you mooning around and her looking like the end of the world. Besides, I bet Rusty five bucks you’d go steady.”
    Caustic ripples of shame rose up in me. I moaned. “What did it say?” I felt that all the girls were laughing at me across the park. I peeked through my fingers. They weren’t all laughing.
    “I told her—in your vocabulary—that you thought she was the most wonderful girl in the school but you didn’t know how to tell her. I worked in a couple lines from Robert Frost. She’s smart, she’ll get it. Trust me.” He was grinning like an imp, his long hair tucked behind his ears.
    “Do you realize how goofy you’ve made me sound? I ought to beat your ass,” I said.
    “You can’t. I’d kick you right in the hernia. Besides, it succeeded. Margie’s been staring at you for ten minutes.” He paused to let this work on me. “I told her how you really feel, didn’t I?”
    “Maybe so, but Jesus! I wanted to wait until I felt ready …”
    “Exactly, Francine, but you never feel ready for anything. You never think you’re good enough. So I did you a favor. I’m your good angel.” He cuffed my shoulder and I shrugged violently. “She’s sitting over there sighing, buddy. She’s probably written your name on her notebook about a hundred times, and I bet she thinks about you when Neil Diamond songs play on the radio.”
    “You’ve made it sickening. You’re like my mother.”
    “I’m realistic. She’s twelve years old, man. She’s not sophisticated enough to not like you. Sure she looks like she stepped out of a Frazetta painting, and she’s nice, intelligent, but she’s a kid. Even more than us. She’s probably flattered out of her mind. Don’t agonize, go take your damn bounty!”
    “I believe I’ll join the priesthood,” I said miserably.
    “Are you really mad at me?”
    “Why should I be mad?” I told him he was a