You Don't Know A Thing About My Sins

I will never forget the first time I laid eyes on Frank Iero.
But then again, really nobody at the school would. He was a 4’11” freshman with a black Mohawk and bleached sides; he left quite the impression. Perhaps one could take it as a compliment; at least he’s not nondescript, and the interesting hairstyle was certainly a signature trait of his. If you wanted to tell someone about something Frank said or did, you would just say, “The freshman with the Mohawk,” and that person would be either stupid or forgetful if they didn’t know who you were talking about.
I often wonder what my identifier would be. I’m not particularly distinguishable from any other boy in the high school; I work hard at blending in. Now, I know that everyone’s supposed to be a special star or snowflake or some shit, but the thing is, snowflakes melt, and stars burn out and die. Being unique has its price, and it’s a tax that I’m not willing to pay.
I associated Frank with an intriguing hairdo. However, most people used to and continue to refer to him as “Jesus Freak” or “Bible Fucker” mockingly.
You see, Frank is a devout Catholic, and this is frowned upon in our school. Liking God is cool and widely accepted in most circles, but loving him is generally not. No one told Frank this mandate. He wears a cross necklace, which most kids claim makes him a faggot, and plays guitar for the church on South Street.
And on the very first day of freshman year, Frank decided to bring a Bible to school.
He would’ve been fine, had he carried it in his backpack or kept it tuck away in his locker. But either these spaces didn’t have room or he just didn’t have common sense, because he carried that thing with him to all of his classes.
At lunch, these boys began to tease Frank over the whole Bible thing. I was just one table across from Frank (who was sitting alone, incidentally), and witnessed the entire thing.
Frank’s Bible was sitting on the table unsupervised, so one kid took this as permission to snatch it. He dangled the leather book over Frank’s head, crooning,
“Did you bring a Bible to school, Jesus Freak?”
Frank blushes, and mumbles nervously, “I do love Jesus a lot.”
The kid shoves Frank in the chest, demanding, “What the fuck is wrong with you?” With that, he begins to rip out pages from Frank’s Bible.
Frank yelps, and jumps to his feet, trying to take the book back. The other boy restrains Frank, who watches as his precious Bible is torn to bits.
“Quit it! Please!” Frank begs. “It’s a sin to purposely rip a Bible!”
The boy chortles, and so does his friend. “You think I give a fuck about what God wants? God has left us, you little puissant. Don’t you get that? Why do you think 9/11 happened?”
“God has plans for everyone involved in that tragedy,” Frank replies, legitimately confused by the kid’s mistrust in God.
“I hate to tell you, but no, he doesn’t. They all died, and none of them deserved it. What kind of God does that?” the kid challenges.
Frank has no answer, but stands there, eyes vacant. “I… I can’t answer that, but I assure you that you must have faith.”
The kid sneers, “Fuck you and your God.” With that, he rips the Bible once more, and throws it to the ground. Frank is shoved to the floor, and by the time his back make contact with the linoleum, he is crying, hard.
No one is helping him, just all trying to subtly look over and see what’s going on.
Frank’s hands scrape against the floor as he picks up all of the remnants of his Bible, setting them on the table. It’s really pitiful to watch, so I decide to go over and help the poor guy.
I am an atheist myself, so I feel sort of strange picking up the Christian’s sacred text. I shuffle all of the scraps I found together, and place them on the table. I help Frank to his feet, who sniffles, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “Thanks.”
“The pleasure was mine,” I assure. “Do you want me to sit with you?”
“S-sure!” Frank stammers. Y-yeah, go ahead and take a seat.”
I can tell right off the bat that Frank’s social skills aren’t the most polished. He sits there, twiddling his thumbs. Finally, I break the palpable tension by asking,
“So, are you from around here?”
Frank smiles and shakes his head. “I’m actually way from Twin Lakes.”
My jaw drops. “That’s like 20 minutes away!”
Frank shrugs. “I get up pretty early but it’s whatever. I drink a lot of coffee.”
“I think it’s our turn to go eat,” I observe, watching some freshman join the lunch queue.
Frank hops up, skipping over to the line, which elicits judgmental glares from surrounding students. I duck my head and follow, trying to ignore all the eyes in my back.
When Frank and I return to the table, I begin stuffing my face, but Frank does the sign of the cross, and then bows his head, hands clasped and pressed to his forehead.
He’s praying, and everyone’s looking at him. His lips move silently along with his prayer. Finally, he does the sign once more, and begins to eat.
I roll my eyes and shove another forkful of corn into my mouth.
“What church do you go to?” Frank asks.
I cringe; because I’ve met enough Christians to know how Frank will react to the information I’m about to tell him. “I’m actually an atheist.”
Frank’s brow furrows. “Atheist? What’s that?”
I can’t hide my chuckle, and Frank continues to gaze at me earnestly. “It’s… I don’t believe in God, Frank.”
Frank recoils in shock. “Then how do you get through every day?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, the whole idea in believing God is that everything we go through happens for a reason; there’s something bigger behind it,” Frank explains. “So how can you go through what you have without any condolence?”
“What do you mean, ‘what I have’?” I snap. My arms and thighs tense, and my wrists tingle. “I haven’t gone through anything; I’m perfectly normal!”
Frank frowns. “Surely you’ve gone through something; everyone has.”
“There’s nothing wrong with me,” I mutter.
“I never said there was,” Frank points out. His eyes trail up my arm, across my scars. He reaches a hand out to touch one, and I flinch.
“I have to go,” I mumble, collecting my things.
And I didn’t see Frank Iero for a week.

Notes

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