Read Online The Confession by James E. McGreevey - Free Book Online Page B

Ultimately, the whole episode only reinforced my belief that a spontaneous life was not possible for me—that from now on I would have to think through every single move I made, abbreviate myself one gesture at a time, measure every possible risk and consequence before acting.
    Â 
    ARMED WITH MY NEW LESSONS, I ENTERED NINTH GRADE AT ST. JOSEPH HIGH School in Metuchen—another St. Joe’s for me, but this one run by the Brothers of the Sacred Heart as a top-notch preparatory school. This St. Joe’s was an all-boys school, but it was no place for roughnecks like John; here the emphasis was on academics and the tradition of service, and the only strongmen wore long cassocks. Among them was Brother Michael, a fanatical and passionate instructor in world history who inspired both fear and excellence in his students. One afternoon when he was late to class, pandemonium broke out in his classroom. As I stood by and watched, therowdier kids started throwing anything they could get their hands on—chalk, then erasers, then books. Eventually some projectile struck the door with great force, cracking the glass and sending us boys back to our seats in dread.
    Thankfully, when Brother Michael arrived, he didn’t notice the damage. Instead he launched right into a discussion of The Scarlet Pimpernel , our reading assignment. He called on Bill Thomas, one of my classmates, to report on the story of gallantry and adventure during the French Revolution. But Bill hadn’t read a word of the assignment; instead he made a valiant effort to appear prepared, concocting a fantastic narrative that had little to do with the novel at hand. Rather than call his bluff, though, Brother Michael lured him down the garden path with cunning questions, until Bill was caught up in an elaborate yarn in which French aristocrats were being shuttled across the English Channel on the backs of marine mammals. We were all trying desperately to contain our laughter. Not Brother. With each audacious new twist from Bill, he paced the room more furiously—until suddenly, just as his rage was cresting, he looked down and discovered the cracked windowpane.
    â€œWho is responsible for this?” he bellowed. “Which one of you broke my window?” Nobody in the room dared breathe. The guilty boy bravely raised a hand, though there were plenty in the room who should have shared the responsibility. I remember watching Brother’s pectoral cross swing back and forth across his chest as he taught the kid a lesson, Catholic school style.
    These were the last days of corporal punishment in American schools; perhaps it was already gone from most public classrooms, but at St. Joe’s it was still common, especially during freshman year. There was one short and stocky Brother the older boys called “Cannonball,” for reasons that were obvious to all. One day, for example, a towering freshman named Joe Mondoro accidentally dropped a piece of paper on the stairway when Cannonball was serving as stair monitor.
    â€œPick it up,” Cannonball said sternly.
    Joe bent down begrudgingly. “Yeah,” he muttered.
    Cannonball took offense. “Is that, ‘Yes, Brother?’” he snapped.
    â€œYeah,” Joe said.
    â€œWhen I speak to you,” Cannonball intoned in his fiercely controlled voice, “you will respond ‘Yes, Brother,’ or ‘No, Brother.’ Is that clear?” And with that he lifted Joe, who must have been six feet tall and twice his weight, over his head and threw him through the plasterboard wall. The damage went unrepaired all semester, a reminder of the cost of insubordination.
    At St. Joe’s, obedience was next to godliness.
    Â 
    I FINALLY FOUND A GIRL TO KISS. FOR THE SAKE OF THE STORY, I’ll call her Carla. It was the eighth grade, shortly after my first sexual encounter with a boy. She was a year younger, just like him, and just as attractive. All the boys paid