The Temptations of St. Frank by Anthony Bruno

as hell. What should he say to her? How could he start a conversation without sounding like a lame-o? Cold sweat gathered in his armpits. His feet sprouted roots and held him to the ground. He couldn’t move, and he couldn’t take his eyes off her.
    Don’t be a dope, he told himself. She’s by herself. You might never get this chance again. Say something. Say hello. She knows who you are. She’s seen you in the yearbook office. Ask her how she likes taking physics at St. A’s. Ask her if she’s bummed out because the Beatles broke up. Ask her where Tina is. No, scratch that. Bad idea. Maybe ask her if she knows somebody at her school who he knows, but he was drawing a blank—he couldn’t think of anyone. Shit! Just fucking ask her what time it is, numbnuts. Ask her anything!
    And then as if she’d just heard him yelling in his head, she turned and looked right at him, her sapphire eyes intense in the slanting afternoon light. He managed a lame-ass smile and forced his legs to move, absolutely terrified that he was going to blow this, that she would think he was just another jerk and just walk away, that he would become non-existent in her mind and she would never acknowledge his presence. He’d be a screaming, howling ghost, condemned to walk the earth for all time, unable to be seen or heard by mortals, most importantly by her.
    But then she talked to him.
    â€œHi,” she said. And she smiled. At him. A bashful little smile, and she immediately looked down, her dark eyelashes on her cheeks like resting butterflies.
    Hi, he said. But it was in his head. He couldn’t get it out of his mouth.
    She didn’t look up. She was waiting for him to say something.
    He cleared his throat and tried it again, but the sound that came out was like a frog burping. It wasn’t even a word.
    She was still looking down but not smiling anymore. God, what a pathetic piece of shit he was! She had to be thinking he was an asshole, that he was snubbing her. Fuck!
    He tried again. “Hi,” he said. It sounded more like speech, but it also sounded like a talking frog. Shit!
    She looked up, and the little smile was back on her lips.
    Quick! he thought. Say something else, frog boy! Keep the conversation going!
    â€œThere’s this famous painting,” he said. “One of the Impressionists, I think. A bunch of people under a porch in the shade. Ladies in long dresses. This kind of reminds me of that.”
    â€œWhat reminds you of that?” She wrinkled her nose and looked so fucking cute his knees almost buckled.
    â€œUnder here,” he said, talking fast, “under the bleachers. The light, the people. You know what I mean?”
    She shook her head, and her hair swished over her shoulder. Oh, Jesus!
    â€œIt’s just like the painting,” he said. “It’s a famous painting. Really.”
    â€œWho painted it? Monet? Manet? Renoir? Degas? Cezanne?”
    He was impressed that she could rattle off so many impressionists off the top of her head but embarrassed that he didn’t know much about any of them. “I’m not that into art,” he said. “Well, not French art—you know what I mean? But that one painting I really like.”
    Hearing himself, he wanted to die. He was a blithering idiot. How could he criticize Larry Vitale for acting like a monkey when he was the fucking village idiot? At least Larry could talk to girls.
    The fans had quieted down, and he heard John Trombetta’s voice above his head. “Hey, I don’t give a shit if babies are spitting up blood. I’m not putting up a cent for this.”
    Frank rolled his eyes upward. Babies spitting up blood? What the hell were they talking about?
    â€œWell, the diocese certainly doesn’t share that sentiment,” Monsignor Fitzgerald said, “but the archbishop has informed me that there just aren’t any funds in the budget to undertake this project