"What did you get for number five?" Matt—Matthew only to his parents—asked while poking Frank somewhere in his left kidney. "C'mon Francis."
Frank shrugged. "No idea, son. Got a dime?"
"What?"
"Might jog my memory," he offered, laughing.
"Aw, you're crazy if you think I'll give you a dime. I saw you do that to Jimmy, and bought a hot-dog with it. Ate it right in front of the guy."
"Licked my lips, too!" sniggered the haughty thirteen-year-old. "Shoulda seen him. Told me it was his last dime, too!"
Matt wagged his finger at Frank. "'Last time I trust Frank!' he told me. What'd you do that for?" Honestly, sometimes Frank was infuriating. Cock of the walk, this kid, and never shared the loot. Well, that was a lie; Frank was the source of the loot, a wellspring of bounty. Matt didn't care to argue the point though, he had an agenda.
Another shrug. "He coulda said no. I'm the leader, ain't I? Maybe I should start chargin' dues." Frank brought a hand up to his chin, adopting a pose of deep, and obviously feigned thought. "Yea, that sounds real good. Dues. Pay up, Mattie." Matt gave him a look that said, are you kidding me? and Frank chuckled. "C'mon, I'm just pullin' your leg. You know I don't know why. Just seemed like the right thing to do. Ask for a dime—see if I get one. You'd do the same if you wasn't chicken."
Matt rolled his eyes. "No, really. What did you do for the test? That old rat Mr. Barbrick killed me. Multiple choice? What is that? That guy's just lazy."
"A-yup," agreed Frank. "S'why I didn't study. Total Mickey Mouse. No skin, get it? I flipped a coin for the answers. I always do. Last year I got all B's. Whatta ya say to that?"
"Famous last words, buster. Fake it all ya want, but it'll catch up." Matt wiped a hand across his leaking nose, sniffling for emphasis. And that was why Frank was the leader. He got things done like nobody else possibly could. It was a gift beyond measure, some crazy skill like them surreal paintings that looked like the artist was seven kinds of high, where a black-and-white bird with eyes all over the wings was titled Horse on a Leash.
It made no sense, and no matter how brazen their skullduggery, nobody got wise. Frank always just smiled, tilted his head at a convenient alcove where the gang hid until the heat was off. They stole test answers, harassed girls, cleaned out lockers where nerds hid their books and ever so useful notes, and they were scot-free. Every time.
Best yet, everyone thought Frank was some kind of saint, anointed by his dad, The Reverend, who looked stoic on the best occasions, and downright viciously indignant—brimming with righteous current—on the worst. Nobody fooled that mirthless man, except his godly son. Frank went to church. Frank was in the choir. Frank burned bibles in a garbage barrel he found in Old Sean's field because his father asked him to deliver them to the masses. He sure did. Those bibles went to everyone in town, as chunky wind-blown ash.
Technically when he claimed he'd distributed every book to the needy parishioners, he told no lie, and that overly serious preacher rewarded Frank with a bike for Christmas. A bike! Matt knew all the stories, but he never really believed them until the day Frank rode to school on a shiny new Schwinn. Bastard!
Not one cohort really knew how it worked, and it didn't matter. Frank's close circle, the ones embroiled in his mischief, were like tiny gods: beyond reproach, overachievers in school, forgiving bullies, and The Law. Nobody argued with The Law. So let him have his ill-won dime; there were worse things.
"So, what then?" wondered Matt. "Malts later? To celebrate?"
"Good idea!" Frank thundered, glowing and maniacal. "But I can't treat. I got this plan though..."
That was Frank's teenage years. Hooligan extraordinaire, a legend even generations later; places he'd long since forgotten, and nobody should know about his exploits. But they always did. The ones who mattered, the prospective copycats striving to inherit his legacy by imitation or inspiration. Kids who never met him, sometimes even Kyle's age, claiming his old stomping grounds but paying him homage even decades later.
He remembered Matt fondly. It was Frank who initially led the boy astray, befriending him and taking him on an adventure to some old shanty he found straddling a crick irrigating at least five farms in town. It was probably a clubhouse a generation ago, but it was their personal escape, lost to history, moldy and absolutely flush with wonder—the very antithesis of banality. They planned adventures there. They brought girls there. They tanned there, naked in the sun, unafraid of being disturbed by man or animal.
That such was a low point in his life was hard to imagine. But when every new day eclipses the last, no matter how wondrous and magical his past exploits, reminiscing was hard to justify. Why bother?
That last summer of his thirteenth year was surely grand, would be the pinnacle of youth for nearly any man or woman, flush with adventure and resplendent with universal truths. A normal person could have died then, and still felt fulfilled. For Frank, it was just another day.