Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance
A Guilded Masquerade
6 reviewsFrank is sent to a Boarding school, in order to make friends and get away from his chilly, washed up New Jersey Town. Little did he know he would meet the person who would change his life forever....
2Ambiance
Hi, I’m not entirely sure where this is going, and it doesn’t even have a full plot, but I wrote this as a result of root bear, Alesana, and Edgar Allen Poe. This chapter is more so an introduction, it sets the scene and describes the setting. Thank you for reading and just a head’s up, it is a bit long. The title might change as well. Enjoy x
Chapter 1.
I am here to tell you a story.
A story that will torture your thoughts by day and poison your dreams by night. And though I
will do my best, there are no words that can be written nor brush strokes laid on canvas that
can describe the stark and utter horror of the night that my Annabel Lee died.
The emptiness will haunt you.
One hundred-twenty-eight days before
The sky was a shade of grey matching that of a gaunt, unwashed pearl, still blanketed by the lips of an oyster sunk at the bottom of the sea. Concord Street in Belleville seemed to sink as well, in the ocean of New Jersey filled with people, freedoms, and, of most importance to myself, music. The skyline was almost always grey and dreary, matching the chain link fences and litter cluttered on the land it sees. It was the result of constant air pollution and grime from the neighboring state, it’s less smelly twin. It was the end of winter; not close enough to the fresh spring breeze and chirping birds that spread a feeling of new life and love, but too close to the frigid cold air that sunk deep into bones and never seem to give any sign of warmth. The snow had since dispersed itself from the sky, leaving this part of Belleville with icy pellets of rain nightly and a mixture of slush and sleet. In the darkness, the earth would freeze over and act as if nothing existed, until the daytime rolled around and sub freezing temperatures melted away, turning the frost into deep mud puddles that first year school children would play in while waiting for the bus. But, there was still that non-living air that seeped into the seams of the town, folding over into the hills.
Belleville was, for the most part, a pretty dangerous place to live. Over the past few years, bodies have been found in the local river and under the shiny metal slides in playgrounds. Young children were almost never allowed to play outside, even in the daylight hours. And even the rare times they were allowed an older sibling or babysitter was metaphorically strapped to their side at all times, continuously checking to make sure that they were okay, or that everything stayed okay. Here, you had to look over your shoulder every time you walked somewhere, running past alleyways so you wouldn’t be spotted by the groups of alcoholics, drinking out of paper bags with wool caps on their heads. Even if it was just the friendly convenience store, you had to watch your back. Along with the bodies piling up in the river more than one clerk had been shot in the head while doing the graveyard shift. The place was robbed constantly too, but most of these were relatively harmless, since it was almost always teenagers doing the crime. The men in the area saved their time and energy for bigger and better criminal acts, like the mob and drug trafficking.
Despite all these incidents however, if you lived in this town you never really felt fear. Of course you’d get scared sometimes, like when you’d pass by a police car carrying a murderer in the back but you never thought you yourself were at danger; you were just aware that danger was around everywhere. And because of this, you knew what not to do, like cross Dunlap Bridge because you knew young girls went missing near the shadowed house behind it. You knew not to walk past an alley alone or without some sort of protection because of the mafias and violence that occur. You knew not to cross behind the movie theater because drug deals were happening. You just knew. And you learned to accept it. This was your home, after all, and aside from the sheer dangers happening everywhere, you and everyone else loved where you came from. You fill the shopping areas, markets, schools and even the chapels with smiles on your faces because this was your home. You had to make the best with what you have; after all, God gave you what you had for a reason.
Unlike the majority of East London’s population, my two friends Gerard and Ray and I excused ourselves while our parents stuffed themselves away in pews in a heaven focused hell. My parents weren’t bad people, in fact they fit the mold of a perfect parent, kind and gentle. They had given me the choice at thirteen to be saved or damned, as they, and almost everyone else in this town were religious people. But, my urge to sleep in on Sundays rather than get sent to whatever old bat Sunday school teacher that would lecture him about the Beatitudes or why Jesus’ return will save them for hours. Four years later, at seventeen, this urge had not washed away. I was still choosing my Sunday activities over being saved, even if these activities were Travis, Sam, and myself walking through the bad parts of town to go to the convenience store, holey gloves stuffed into our pockets stifling for warmth while everyone else was tucked away into their dream of a lifetime of puffy clouds and angels.
Now I was not a bad child, nor one to be ashamed of. I’m a teenager, much like you were, growing up in this wild, dangerous world I knew. It is my own personal hell, yet I somehow managed to turn that hell into my own heaven. I’m a good kid, always getting good marks in grade school. Nonetheless, I was a quiet kid, hardly causing problems. Growing up, however, these qualities destroyed me. When you live where I do, the only way to fit in is to do as everyone else did. Growing up, all you knew was what not to do. You lived around drugs, booze, and you dealt with seeing your parents argue over grey envelopes, money, where your dad’s been and how dangerous it is. You knew the Ten Commandments by heart, because ever since you were a child religion had been shoved into your face. And when you were as innocent as I was, you stuck out like a sore thumb. I was the “tattle tale” on the playground, the Wendy to Peter Pan. I was rough housed through secondary school, made fun of, and always seem to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. I hadn’t had a girlfriend since ninth grade, and as a result, I’m supposedly gay, which is, in my town, the ultimate sin, therefore making me the anti-christ. Hell, even my parents seem to question me.
I had known Gerard ever since kindergarten. I can still remember the day I met the child. He was sitting alone, inside, as he was, unsurprisingly, always blubbering and next ot our teacher. I was out with the other kids, sitting in the toy box, laughing away and subconsciously getting sand in my trousers, when I noticed him, staring, in the window. His constant pattern of looking out the window, scribbling, looking out the window, and scribbling, intrigued me, and it still does to this day. I ran over inside, asking for juice, and I remember tripping on the door stopper, turning my light up shoes into a Skrillex concert and causing a few kids to laugh.
“Hi,” Gerard had said, high pitched and squeaky. Though as a child he possessed this high voice, even after puberty he could still reach some startling octaves. However, when Gerard yelled or did any kind of vocal exercising, his voice dipped down low. Really low; we’re almost talking Morgan Freeman. Neither I, nor our neighborhood felt like his voice matched anything about him; his face, body and mind. But then again, nothing really fit right on Gerard. He was tall and quiet and crazy and had a weird nose. I think that’s why I loved that kid so much; he was a freak of nature and didn’t make me feel so strange in my own skin that was always pulled too tight.
Gerard, being the unsocial loser he is, ignored me, continuing to look out the window and scribble without missing a beat. He had a twelve pack of Crayola Crayons, including the Mac ‘n Cheese color I always begged my mother to buy, and glanced at me, grimacing almost and then returning to his shitty drawing. I proceeded to tap my small foot on the ground, four beats to a measure, and (well, attempt to) whistle, although at the time my bottom tooth was missing. Five minutes had passed and for me, a small child with ADD, that five minutes was a lifetime.
Hissing almost, I picked up the red crayon he was using, and proceeded to snap it into two.
“What was that for?” He shouted at me.
“For ignoring me!”
I, Frank Iero, did not enjoy being ignored.
He placed his hands on his hips. “I was working on something and you destroyed it!” He stamped his feet into the ground. My mentality at this point was beyond pissed, and as a result I had threw the crayons across the room, and moments later, Gerard and I were down at the Principal’s office, claw and teeth makes staining our perfect porcelain skin. Both of us were never able to live down being sent to the principal’s office for a fist fight in kindergarten. We always needed a supervisor after that. But those cuts and teeth marks were good for us in one way, we were also never able to live down the friendship
When Gerard and I had been fifteen, we discovered pot, which led us to meet Ray. He was your average loner at the school. You know, the kid that always sits alone at lunchtime, their headphones in their ears and picking at a sandwich that their mommy had made for them. However, Ray stood out more than the fade into backdrop loner. He had this aura about him, not to mention his frizzy mushroom cloud of hair. His dark features stood out, like the chocolate brown eyes and his lips that made even Angelina Jolie jealous. Every day, he wore blue jeans that became high-waters once he sat, revealing long white socks and topped with a metal tee shirt, usually Iron Maiden or something of that nature. I also couldn’t help but become aware of the sweet pungent odor that tickled my nostrils anytime I got near our new friend. Even if Ray didn’t have any of the herb with him that day, or he didn’t even smoke it, the odor was still present. That’s just what Ray smelled like. It was his thing. Like Gerard’s thing was being an artistic fool; Ray always smelt like pot.
Ray got it from his older brother, who was away at university, growing it in his dorm room closet. It was pretty good stuff, but nothing too expensive. Of course, Ray got it for barely nothing because of the brotherly love the two siblings shared. For the longest time, I don’t really remember how long exactly, most days after school were spent in a haze of sweet smelling smoke. All three of us had found a new love, a new drug for which we were completely addicted to. We smoked every day and into the night. My fingers were raw and were scattered with small thin paper cuts, from constantly rolling joints. My lungs and nose felt just as raw as my fingers, but it was a good raw; like I was cleansing my body, instead of polluting it further. I loved the first breath of the drug and how the smoke was so thick it felt like liquid and I was drowning. I’d still breathe it in, because hell, it was worth dying for this. I never did die, I just got really, really hungry. I would stumble home at dinner time, wolf down anything I saw on the table in front of me (I may have eaten a salt shaker once) while itching my blood red eyes and then fall back out the door and run into Gerard and Ray again where we would go to McDonald’s for a second dinner and then fall back down into nothingness, either outside or in someone’s basement. It was awesome, but I knew that all good things had to end.
We were getting exceedingly dumb from our over-consumption. Ray had forgotten where he lived at one point and had to sleep in a park over night. He had gotten hypothermia; not hard with the little body fat he had on his weak bones, and spent the next week sick in bed. He had been back to normal then and I finally convinced them that we needed to take a break, for at least a little while.
And that leads me to where I am right now-walking home from Gerard’s basement. Another ritual had occurred and the three of us lied on his squeaky, box spring mattress, trying to blow perfect smoke rings. Ray continuously tried to "pop" every single one, as we were in our daze, only conscious of the bass emerging from his CD player. Some kids our age liked fucking on their couch or going to parties, but not us. While that was their thing, the three of us, fucked up most of the time, just being together was our thing. With my shitty home life, these two were the closest thing to family I had. These times were what for me, really made life worth living.
His brother, sweet but who’s presence always provided a tinge of annoyance, had offered to drive me, but I could have used the extra exercise.
The wind picked up, and being a guy my height, I don’t normally notice high winds. The grey sky was rolling back into itself, revolting the color wheel and turning shades of crimson, pink and resembling a flame. A shadow seemed to creep over Earth, chilling me to the bone as I dug myself deeper into my sweatshirt. I would be home soon, I reminded myself. Safely, however, was more so a hope.
**
I rounded the corner to my house just as soon as the first snowflakes began to fall. The oak wood door was illuminated by the porch lights and seemed to be taunting me. It was freezing, and thankfully, my mother left the light on and the door open. I trudged through the sparkling white snow and opened the door. Instantly, the smell of mothers hit me-warmth, fresh laundry, some type of candle and tomato sauce. As the door creaked open, my dog, SweetPea attacked me, licking the snow off of my black vans and wagging her tail.
“Strange,” I thought to myself. My mother would have welcomed me in by now. I walked through the main hallway, hanging up my jacket and throwing off my sneakers. I shook my head, being a dog, in effort to get the snow from my hair. I certainly did not need my sister to accuse me of having dandruff. I, Frank Iero, am a hooligan, not an unsanitary pig. I hated saying so, but I really did care a lot about how I looked. I didn’t follow trends or anything, but it bugged the hell out of me if I was wearing a jacket with a rip (that I didn’t put there on purpose) or had a shirt with a stain on it. I didn’t know who I was trying to impress, other than myself, but my appearance mattered.
I glanced up and down red painted hall, wondering where my family had gone. I could hear the high pitched yell of a teapot, but there was no Sunday Football game on or the aroma of nail polish remover coming from the pink painted room belonging to my sister. My family was never this quiet, hell, my family was never quiet at all. They were the family who always had to put their two cents in, who's door is forever bearing the knuckles of police officers questioning the noise. Then, suddenly, I heard a chair scrape the floor and the sound of worn out knees popping. "Frank?"
It was my mothers voice. There, at the kitchen table, she stood, poised, shadowed by my father and older sister. The yellow walls of the kitchen were water stained, looking almost mustard colored complimented by the yellowing cabinets and curtains. My sister and I's smiling faces were hung all around. My mother loved us dearly, and what I was about to hear questioned that.
"Yes?" I called over the shrieking coffee pot.
"Please, sit."
I obliged, sitting across from my mother. Then, I noticed she was holding a bulky, manilla envelope. Her fingers were gripping it tightly, as if she was holding onto it for dear life.
"Frank," my father sighed, "There's no easy way to say this. Lately, your behavior seems to have been short of perfection, as well as how you apply yourself."
I was confused.
"I know that Gerard and Ray are your two closest friends, but they seem to be bringing you down."
"Bullshit!"
"Watch your mouth."
"Dad," I responded. "They aren't bringing me down. In fact, things for me have gotten better since I started to get really close with them. Watching football brings you down, yet you do it anyways."
"That's beside the point."
"How so?"
"Franklin, for starters, all of the marijuana usage has to stop. I will not have my son be one of the drug addicts I pass by everyday once I leave for work. With all of these factors, we considered catholic school, but we sent an application and there is only one option."
I held my breath, sucking on the inside of my cheek and looking at him dead in the eye.
He sighed once more.
"Boarding School."
End of Chapter One.
Chapter 1.
I am here to tell you a story.
A story that will torture your thoughts by day and poison your dreams by night. And though I
will do my best, there are no words that can be written nor brush strokes laid on canvas that
can describe the stark and utter horror of the night that my Annabel Lee died.
The emptiness will haunt you.
One hundred-twenty-eight days before
The sky was a shade of grey matching that of a gaunt, unwashed pearl, still blanketed by the lips of an oyster sunk at the bottom of the sea. Concord Street in Belleville seemed to sink as well, in the ocean of New Jersey filled with people, freedoms, and, of most importance to myself, music. The skyline was almost always grey and dreary, matching the chain link fences and litter cluttered on the land it sees. It was the result of constant air pollution and grime from the neighboring state, it’s less smelly twin. It was the end of winter; not close enough to the fresh spring breeze and chirping birds that spread a feeling of new life and love, but too close to the frigid cold air that sunk deep into bones and never seem to give any sign of warmth. The snow had since dispersed itself from the sky, leaving this part of Belleville with icy pellets of rain nightly and a mixture of slush and sleet. In the darkness, the earth would freeze over and act as if nothing existed, until the daytime rolled around and sub freezing temperatures melted away, turning the frost into deep mud puddles that first year school children would play in while waiting for the bus. But, there was still that non-living air that seeped into the seams of the town, folding over into the hills.
Belleville was, for the most part, a pretty dangerous place to live. Over the past few years, bodies have been found in the local river and under the shiny metal slides in playgrounds. Young children were almost never allowed to play outside, even in the daylight hours. And even the rare times they were allowed an older sibling or babysitter was metaphorically strapped to their side at all times, continuously checking to make sure that they were okay, or that everything stayed okay. Here, you had to look over your shoulder every time you walked somewhere, running past alleyways so you wouldn’t be spotted by the groups of alcoholics, drinking out of paper bags with wool caps on their heads. Even if it was just the friendly convenience store, you had to watch your back. Along with the bodies piling up in the river more than one clerk had been shot in the head while doing the graveyard shift. The place was robbed constantly too, but most of these were relatively harmless, since it was almost always teenagers doing the crime. The men in the area saved their time and energy for bigger and better criminal acts, like the mob and drug trafficking.
Despite all these incidents however, if you lived in this town you never really felt fear. Of course you’d get scared sometimes, like when you’d pass by a police car carrying a murderer in the back but you never thought you yourself were at danger; you were just aware that danger was around everywhere. And because of this, you knew what not to do, like cross Dunlap Bridge because you knew young girls went missing near the shadowed house behind it. You knew not to walk past an alley alone or without some sort of protection because of the mafias and violence that occur. You knew not to cross behind the movie theater because drug deals were happening. You just knew. And you learned to accept it. This was your home, after all, and aside from the sheer dangers happening everywhere, you and everyone else loved where you came from. You fill the shopping areas, markets, schools and even the chapels with smiles on your faces because this was your home. You had to make the best with what you have; after all, God gave you what you had for a reason.
Unlike the majority of East London’s population, my two friends Gerard and Ray and I excused ourselves while our parents stuffed themselves away in pews in a heaven focused hell. My parents weren’t bad people, in fact they fit the mold of a perfect parent, kind and gentle. They had given me the choice at thirteen to be saved or damned, as they, and almost everyone else in this town were religious people. But, my urge to sleep in on Sundays rather than get sent to whatever old bat Sunday school teacher that would lecture him about the Beatitudes or why Jesus’ return will save them for hours. Four years later, at seventeen, this urge had not washed away. I was still choosing my Sunday activities over being saved, even if these activities were Travis, Sam, and myself walking through the bad parts of town to go to the convenience store, holey gloves stuffed into our pockets stifling for warmth while everyone else was tucked away into their dream of a lifetime of puffy clouds and angels.
Now I was not a bad child, nor one to be ashamed of. I’m a teenager, much like you were, growing up in this wild, dangerous world I knew. It is my own personal hell, yet I somehow managed to turn that hell into my own heaven. I’m a good kid, always getting good marks in grade school. Nonetheless, I was a quiet kid, hardly causing problems. Growing up, however, these qualities destroyed me. When you live where I do, the only way to fit in is to do as everyone else did. Growing up, all you knew was what not to do. You lived around drugs, booze, and you dealt with seeing your parents argue over grey envelopes, money, where your dad’s been and how dangerous it is. You knew the Ten Commandments by heart, because ever since you were a child religion had been shoved into your face. And when you were as innocent as I was, you stuck out like a sore thumb. I was the “tattle tale” on the playground, the Wendy to Peter Pan. I was rough housed through secondary school, made fun of, and always seem to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. I hadn’t had a girlfriend since ninth grade, and as a result, I’m supposedly gay, which is, in my town, the ultimate sin, therefore making me the anti-christ. Hell, even my parents seem to question me.
I had known Gerard ever since kindergarten. I can still remember the day I met the child. He was sitting alone, inside, as he was, unsurprisingly, always blubbering and next ot our teacher. I was out with the other kids, sitting in the toy box, laughing away and subconsciously getting sand in my trousers, when I noticed him, staring, in the window. His constant pattern of looking out the window, scribbling, looking out the window, and scribbling, intrigued me, and it still does to this day. I ran over inside, asking for juice, and I remember tripping on the door stopper, turning my light up shoes into a Skrillex concert and causing a few kids to laugh.
“Hi,” Gerard had said, high pitched and squeaky. Though as a child he possessed this high voice, even after puberty he could still reach some startling octaves. However, when Gerard yelled or did any kind of vocal exercising, his voice dipped down low. Really low; we’re almost talking Morgan Freeman. Neither I, nor our neighborhood felt like his voice matched anything about him; his face, body and mind. But then again, nothing really fit right on Gerard. He was tall and quiet and crazy and had a weird nose. I think that’s why I loved that kid so much; he was a freak of nature and didn’t make me feel so strange in my own skin that was always pulled too tight.
Gerard, being the unsocial loser he is, ignored me, continuing to look out the window and scribble without missing a beat. He had a twelve pack of Crayola Crayons, including the Mac ‘n Cheese color I always begged my mother to buy, and glanced at me, grimacing almost and then returning to his shitty drawing. I proceeded to tap my small foot on the ground, four beats to a measure, and (well, attempt to) whistle, although at the time my bottom tooth was missing. Five minutes had passed and for me, a small child with ADD, that five minutes was a lifetime.
Hissing almost, I picked up the red crayon he was using, and proceeded to snap it into two.
“What was that for?” He shouted at me.
“For ignoring me!”
I, Frank Iero, did not enjoy being ignored.
He placed his hands on his hips. “I was working on something and you destroyed it!” He stamped his feet into the ground. My mentality at this point was beyond pissed, and as a result I had threw the crayons across the room, and moments later, Gerard and I were down at the Principal’s office, claw and teeth makes staining our perfect porcelain skin. Both of us were never able to live down being sent to the principal’s office for a fist fight in kindergarten. We always needed a supervisor after that. But those cuts and teeth marks were good for us in one way, we were also never able to live down the friendship
When Gerard and I had been fifteen, we discovered pot, which led us to meet Ray. He was your average loner at the school. You know, the kid that always sits alone at lunchtime, their headphones in their ears and picking at a sandwich that their mommy had made for them. However, Ray stood out more than the fade into backdrop loner. He had this aura about him, not to mention his frizzy mushroom cloud of hair. His dark features stood out, like the chocolate brown eyes and his lips that made even Angelina Jolie jealous. Every day, he wore blue jeans that became high-waters once he sat, revealing long white socks and topped with a metal tee shirt, usually Iron Maiden or something of that nature. I also couldn’t help but become aware of the sweet pungent odor that tickled my nostrils anytime I got near our new friend. Even if Ray didn’t have any of the herb with him that day, or he didn’t even smoke it, the odor was still present. That’s just what Ray smelled like. It was his thing. Like Gerard’s thing was being an artistic fool; Ray always smelt like pot.
Ray got it from his older brother, who was away at university, growing it in his dorm room closet. It was pretty good stuff, but nothing too expensive. Of course, Ray got it for barely nothing because of the brotherly love the two siblings shared. For the longest time, I don’t really remember how long exactly, most days after school were spent in a haze of sweet smelling smoke. All three of us had found a new love, a new drug for which we were completely addicted to. We smoked every day and into the night. My fingers were raw and were scattered with small thin paper cuts, from constantly rolling joints. My lungs and nose felt just as raw as my fingers, but it was a good raw; like I was cleansing my body, instead of polluting it further. I loved the first breath of the drug and how the smoke was so thick it felt like liquid and I was drowning. I’d still breathe it in, because hell, it was worth dying for this. I never did die, I just got really, really hungry. I would stumble home at dinner time, wolf down anything I saw on the table in front of me (I may have eaten a salt shaker once) while itching my blood red eyes and then fall back out the door and run into Gerard and Ray again where we would go to McDonald’s for a second dinner and then fall back down into nothingness, either outside or in someone’s basement. It was awesome, but I knew that all good things had to end.
We were getting exceedingly dumb from our over-consumption. Ray had forgotten where he lived at one point and had to sleep in a park over night. He had gotten hypothermia; not hard with the little body fat he had on his weak bones, and spent the next week sick in bed. He had been back to normal then and I finally convinced them that we needed to take a break, for at least a little while.
And that leads me to where I am right now-walking home from Gerard’s basement. Another ritual had occurred and the three of us lied on his squeaky, box spring mattress, trying to blow perfect smoke rings. Ray continuously tried to "pop" every single one, as we were in our daze, only conscious of the bass emerging from his CD player. Some kids our age liked fucking on their couch or going to parties, but not us. While that was their thing, the three of us, fucked up most of the time, just being together was our thing. With my shitty home life, these two were the closest thing to family I had. These times were what for me, really made life worth living.
His brother, sweet but who’s presence always provided a tinge of annoyance, had offered to drive me, but I could have used the extra exercise.
The wind picked up, and being a guy my height, I don’t normally notice high winds. The grey sky was rolling back into itself, revolting the color wheel and turning shades of crimson, pink and resembling a flame. A shadow seemed to creep over Earth, chilling me to the bone as I dug myself deeper into my sweatshirt. I would be home soon, I reminded myself. Safely, however, was more so a hope.
**
I rounded the corner to my house just as soon as the first snowflakes began to fall. The oak wood door was illuminated by the porch lights and seemed to be taunting me. It was freezing, and thankfully, my mother left the light on and the door open. I trudged through the sparkling white snow and opened the door. Instantly, the smell of mothers hit me-warmth, fresh laundry, some type of candle and tomato sauce. As the door creaked open, my dog, SweetPea attacked me, licking the snow off of my black vans and wagging her tail.
“Strange,” I thought to myself. My mother would have welcomed me in by now. I walked through the main hallway, hanging up my jacket and throwing off my sneakers. I shook my head, being a dog, in effort to get the snow from my hair. I certainly did not need my sister to accuse me of having dandruff. I, Frank Iero, am a hooligan, not an unsanitary pig. I hated saying so, but I really did care a lot about how I looked. I didn’t follow trends or anything, but it bugged the hell out of me if I was wearing a jacket with a rip (that I didn’t put there on purpose) or had a shirt with a stain on it. I didn’t know who I was trying to impress, other than myself, but my appearance mattered.
I glanced up and down red painted hall, wondering where my family had gone. I could hear the high pitched yell of a teapot, but there was no Sunday Football game on or the aroma of nail polish remover coming from the pink painted room belonging to my sister. My family was never this quiet, hell, my family was never quiet at all. They were the family who always had to put their two cents in, who's door is forever bearing the knuckles of police officers questioning the noise. Then, suddenly, I heard a chair scrape the floor and the sound of worn out knees popping. "Frank?"
It was my mothers voice. There, at the kitchen table, she stood, poised, shadowed by my father and older sister. The yellow walls of the kitchen were water stained, looking almost mustard colored complimented by the yellowing cabinets and curtains. My sister and I's smiling faces were hung all around. My mother loved us dearly, and what I was about to hear questioned that.
"Yes?" I called over the shrieking coffee pot.
"Please, sit."
I obliged, sitting across from my mother. Then, I noticed she was holding a bulky, manilla envelope. Her fingers were gripping it tightly, as if she was holding onto it for dear life.
"Frank," my father sighed, "There's no easy way to say this. Lately, your behavior seems to have been short of perfection, as well as how you apply yourself."
I was confused.
"I know that Gerard and Ray are your two closest friends, but they seem to be bringing you down."
"Bullshit!"
"Watch your mouth."
"Dad," I responded. "They aren't bringing me down. In fact, things for me have gotten better since I started to get really close with them. Watching football brings you down, yet you do it anyways."
"That's beside the point."
"How so?"
"Franklin, for starters, all of the marijuana usage has to stop. I will not have my son be one of the drug addicts I pass by everyday once I leave for work. With all of these factors, we considered catholic school, but we sent an application and there is only one option."
I held my breath, sucking on the inside of my cheek and looking at him dead in the eye.
He sighed once more.
"Boarding School."
End of Chapter One.
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