“What h-happened last n-n-night in the Cave?” Connor asked, reaching his arm past my face for four slices of toast.
“None of your business.”
“What’s s-s-stuck up your b-butt, William?”
“Nothing. I already told you everything. The Calling, my behaviour, the usual.”
Connor slurped his three-sugared coffee and stuck a piece of toast into his mouth. “You seen the p-p-picture yet?”
“What picture?”
“Show him.”
Jon slid a Polaroid across the table facedown. Father Gregory glanced up from his mush and morning paper, and Connor subtly moved a napkin over the photo. When Father Gregory looked back down and ruffled his paper, I pulled out the photo and flipped it over. It looked like an out-of-focus finger sticking straight into the air. It was too close to the camera, and the flash had turned it yellow-white. What was in focus and recognizable was Father Gregory’s high-backed chair and desk. You could even make out some of the books. It was definitely the Cave—that much was certain. I looked at Connor. “What the hell’s this?”
“Tom is the K-King. If you can b-believe that’s his d-dink.”
The dare had stood unchallenged since last year. Some of the freshmen, now sophomores, had dreamed it up. It involved unauthorized entry into the chamber, an erection, and photographic evidence. I had heard of the dare but was unaware anyone would be stupid enough to attempt it. Studying the photo again, I could tell what it was now. Then I looked over at Tom Wolosovic. He was slouched in his chair, a big, dumb grin smeared across his face. The kid would do just about anything for attention.
“And now we have to call him King for the rest of the year?” I asked Connor.
“Yep. He also made thirty bucks in s-side bets.”
“I’m not calling anyone King,” Eric said. “Especially for something as disgusting as that.”
Jon took another look, then passed the photo to the next table. They passed it back to Tom. Connor eyeballed him and said, “The K-King.” Tom smiled big, as if this were the finest moment of his life.
“I don’t think I can eat anything now,” Eric said.
Father Gregory peered over his paper again and unleashed one of his all-purpose cease-and-desist frowns. We looked down at our plates.
“The food is worse than last year,” Jon said, chasing the mush around his bowl with the back of his spoon. “They didn’t seem to get the message. Maybe it’s time to reorganize SNAC.”
SNAC, the Student Nourishment Advocacy Coalition, consisted of eleven disgruntled seminarians: the four of us, three other juniors, a smattering of sophomores, and our newest member, Michael Ashbury. SNAC was concerned about “the quality and quantity of food available at this and similar institutions.” Father Gregory had dismissed our complaints, and our parents weren’t much more sympathetic. They wouldn’t sign the SNAC manifesto. “I couldn’t feed you for what they charge for room, board, and tuition,” my father had exclaimed. “Besides, you’re going for free. You’ll shut your trap and like it!”
SNAC mostly organized smuggling runs to town or the corner store for supplements: chocolate, potato chips, gum, candy. Recently, however, SNAC had become more political again. Eric had taken it upon himself to write a letter to the B.C. Ministry of Education. He was given a surprisingly polite “Thanks for your concern, but we know what we’re doing” reply.
“I’m thinking of sending samples,” Eric announced.
“Of what?” I asked.
“I thought you knew. We’re sending samples of food for nutritional analysis to the person in charge of school food programs. I’ve worked out the calories, you know.”
People started bringing their cups and plates back to the cart—new kids and keeners eager to be first sitting up straight in class. I got up and filled our empty pot of coffee, then noticed Todd Fowler setting a course for our table.
Todd’s uniform didn’t fit him properly. Although he had been tall for as long as I could remember, he hadn’t gotten around to letting out the hem of his pants or moving up a jacket size or two. It wasn’t that he was bulking up or growing a gut; it was only that his hands and legs poked down three or four inches more than normal. I always thought that made him look as if he had just landed after jumping feet first out of an airplane. He once told me that blazers with short arms were all the rage. He even pushed his sleeves a little farther up to exaggerate the effect. I actually saw this in a magazine and was momentarily impressed. It didn’t, however, explain Todd’s pants.
“This isn’t a coffee house,” Todd finally said, wiping his nose on the back of his wrist. “Pinch it off.”
I suppose in any other school, where there was at least the appearance of democratic institutions, a president was elected through a popularity contest. Not at Saint John the Divine. The upperclassman who had been at the school the longest, in this case Todd, was the Senior Senior. Todd had been doing time at Saint John’s since grade nine. So had three other members of the senior class. In a circumstance like that the line of succession became alphabetic. Todd Fowler preceded Tony Morino, Rob Parker, or Francis Tate. Therefore, Todd was Senior Senior. There were only nine seniors at Saint John’s that year and they mostly kept to themselves, with this one notable exception.
“W-w-what’s your p-problem, Todd?”
The fact that Connor was about half a foot shorter than Todd, and a year younger, didn’t matter much. Connor wasn’t afraid of anyone.
“Look, I’m just trying to do my job. Can’t you guys see you’re the last ones in here? These guys’ve got to clean this place up in the next five minutes.” Todd gestured toward Michael Ashbury and another cowering grade niner, one of those little anklebiters I saw nearly every day but whose name I never bothered to remember. You had to earn that. They were holding dishtowels and brooms at the ready. “You guys are holding them up.”
As Senior Senior, Todd operated as housemaster and ensured everything was cleaned on time and put in proper order before the first bell rang. Being Senior Senior was his lot in life. Granted, having to make sure washrooms, dorms, hallways, and classrooms were up to scratch wasn’t the most sought-after career. Because there was no cleaning staff at Saint John’s, we all had a part in the daily upkeep of the place.
Todd turned and stuck his finger in Michael Ashbury’s face. “Make sure these guys clean up after themselves, or I’m taking it out on you. Ass-berry.” He poked him hard in the chest.
Then the unthinkable occurred. Michael took a swing at Todd’s finger, but missed. Todd quickly retaliated with a sharp slap across the back of Michael’s head. We all jumped out of our chairs in unison, Jon’s tumbling backward and crashing on the floor. No one moved. There were no monks, no other witnesses The power structure had crumbled in less than a second.
“He’s with us,” Jon said. “Leave the kid alone.”
Todd glared back with an expression that was supposed to make us think he was barely in control of his superhuman rage. His reign had barely begun and already his bluff had been called. Michael’s breathing was fast and audible. I sat down and took a sip of my coffee to signal the end of the standoff. Todd shoved past Michael, then stomped down the hall to spread sunshine someplace else.
The first bell rang loud and long as I sauntered along the hall. Freshmen intensified their scurrying, grabbing forgotten books, checking and rechecking the numbers on classroom doors. I knew all too well where I was going. I also knew that after the first bell there would be five minutes until the second. I decided to spend them all on Mary.
The phone booth in the foyer provided the only