Page 92 - What They Did to the Kid

80 Jack Fritscher

he had cooked up, not even a good idea. “You’re nothing but an ass-
kisser,” he said, “Gunn’s ass-kisser.”
“Kiss mine,” I said.
“Bare it.”
“So you could sign your name there too? Fool’s names, Hanko,
and fool’s faces are always found in toilet spaces.”
“Eat shit,” he said.
“Then what would I do with your clothes?” If there was one
thing a boy learned in the seminary, it was the snarling way to use
his mouth.
Far across the refectory, Gunn rang the bell signaling us to
stack the dishes at our tables’ ends. The clatter of two hundred of
us high-school boys passing china and silverware began. I touched
the underside of my fork handle to a blot of mustard and passed it
directly to Hank.
He winced like an old maid when the mustard soiled his fingers
that were more mechanic’s than priest’s. He cursed and tried to wipe
his hand on my black sweater. I pulled my chair away. He glared.
Daggers, crude like angry boys draw in notebook margins during
class, shot from his eyes.
The stacking noises died and we sat in silence, turned at various
angles to hear Gunn’s announcements, rising finally to stand for the
prayer, “Grace after Meals.”
“Grace after Meals. Grace before Meals. That’s how Prince
Rainier likes it.” The worst thing about Hank the Tank’s level of
humor was how funny he thought he was. “Monaco is a state of
Grace.”
“A pun is the lowest form of humor.”
In the cattle crush of boys funneling to the narrow refectory
exit, Mike Hager, seated at another table, had already heard about
the fight.
“What’s going on?” he whispered.
“Mutiny,” I said.
“Why didn’t you sign it, Ryan?”
“You’re kidding,” I said, not turning my head.
“You could have been one of the boys.”
Hank the Tank stepped hard on the heel of my shoe, pulling

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