Make them Cry Read Online Free

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    He watched Ernesto and Art head down Whopper Way, then disappear into the forest. The two of them were best friends, and almost as dedicated as Jack with their morning runs.
    Jack wished he had a friend here, someone he could confide in, another priest maybe. The closest person to him right now was a freshman named John Costello. At times, St. Bart’s seemed like a mental institution, and John the only other sane inmate there.
    During his first week at the school, Jack had had some revelations about the other teachers and resident advisers at the freshman facility. “It’s sort of a proving ground for new guys like you,” a priest friend had warned him. “New priests and nutcases, that’s who they have running these freshman dorms, Jack. It’s SOP. They don’t want any of these guys managing a parish. So they stick them with these poor, vulnerable teenage boys. It’s sad, really.”
    Of the eleven other priests at St. Bartholomew Hall, four were definitely alcoholics. Some even taught classes while drunk; and the kids weren’t dumb, they knew. Most of the clergy were gay, which didn’t matter to Jack. The ones who bothered him were the bullies; two priests in particular seemed to take pleasure in picking on the students. It was a weird sight, watching them hit or pinch these eighteen-and nineteen-year-old boys who probably could have taken them apart.
    Jack guessed that just over half of the seminarians would actually become priests. For many students, this was a cheap college education with the archdiocese footing the bill. Still, a majority of the young men at St. Bart’s had a true calling. However, a handful of them took it a bit too far, practicing self-flagellation or fasting for days at a time as a way of becoming closer to God. One student on Jack’s floor woke up at dawn every morning to scrub out all the toilets and sinks in the bathroom on his floor. He said it made him happy. There were also several boys who took after those sadistic priests. They picked on their fellow students as a way of feeling powerful—or physically closer to them. All the unspoken crushes and furtive sexual activity among the boys caused one minidrama after another: fits of jealousy and contempt, friendships broken and rivalries started.
    On their first day, all of Jack’s residents had reported to him in St. Bartholomew Hall’s basement “social room” for student orientation. It was a gorgeous, warm September day when the first of three groups were herded into that damp, musty cellar. The eight students were treated to a buffet lunch whipped up by the cafeteria staff: bologna sandwiches or peanut butter and jelly (bleeding through the bread), Fritos, Jell-O, and a choice of plain or chocolate milk. That was gourmet stuff compared to the usual fare in St. Bart’s cafeteria. Jack once saw a refrigerated delivery truck unloading boxes by St. Bartholomew Hall’s kitchen door. The boxes were labeled GRADE D CHICKEN—EDIBLE . The next day, he bought a minifridge and microwave oven. The cafeteria was run by a surly, chain-smoking Filipino woman named Valentina. Her staff consisted of two ancient nuns who belonged in a nursing home; Bob, a twentysomething mildly retarded man; and Valentina’s creepy ex-reform-school son, a skinny, tattooed weasel named Angel who probably wasn’t beyond spitting in the food when he had the chance.
    None of them were in view for this desperately cheerful orientation luncheon. Jack found his first group waiting for him at their assigned table. Most of the students had arrived and unpacked the previous night. They wore their nametags, and among the eight were Peter Tobin and John Costello from Seattle. They were smart enough to forgo the cafeteria fare and split a pack of Hostess cupcakes from the vending machine.
    It was hard not to single out John Costello. He was an extremely handsome kid, with straight black hair that occasionally fell over his blue eyes. Lean and tan, he looked