Make them Cry Read Online Free Page A

very athletic in a white polo shirt and jeans. He didn’t say much, and barely cracked a smile. The boys were supposed to introduce themselves, and talk a little about their interests and hobbies. The other newcomers were cooperating, chatting nervously about their scholastic or athletic endeavors, and how they’d spent their summer vacations.
    When his turn came, John took a sip of milk, then, without looking across the table at Jack, he muttered: “I’m John Costello. I’m from Seattle, and this is my best friend, Pete.”
    Peter Tobin smiled and nodded at everyone around the table. Lanky and pale, with his brown hair in disarray, Pete came off as geeky beside his brooding, good-looking friend.
    Jack had a list of questions he was supposed to ask—to “bring out” every freshman. It must have been drawn up in 1952, with real cornball queries such as What’s your greatest accomplishment as a Christian? and Tell us about your last good deed . He consulted the list for a moment. “Um, John, do you have any hobbies or interests?”
    John Costello rolled his eyes. “Not really.”
    “What did you do over the summer?” Jack pressed.
    “I caddied at this cake-eater country club. It was pretty boring.”
    “How long have you known Pete here?”
    “A few years.”
    Jack nodded. He decided to give up and turned to John’s pal. “Pete, maybe you can tell us something about yourself.”
    “Yes, Father,” Peter Tobin announced, clearing his throat. “Well, when I was just a baby, my parents and I went down in a plane crash over the Andes. They died, and I was raised by wolves….”
    It took a moment for the boys at the table to realize that Peter was joking. Peter quickly went into his repartee. His sulky friend cracked a smile occasionally. In all likelihood, he’d heard the routine before.
    Peter was trying a little too hard, and while the other boys were a good audience, they obviously sensed his desperation to please. Once the formal talk was over, they didn’t approach him. For a few moments, Peter stood alone by the table—until Jack patted him on the shoulder. “Thanks for loosening everybody up,” he said. “You really have a great sense of humor, Pete.”
    Most of the boys wanted to meet Peter’s sullen, pouty friend, and they came up to shake John’s hand. Jack figured this sullen punk was going to be a real problem.
    He was scheduled for a one-on-one with him that night. Part of his job on this orientation day was to check with each boy at curfew to make sure he had settled in his room. Jack thought imposing a curfew on eighteen-year-olds was ridiculous. But he didn’t make the rules.
    Checking Peter Tobin’s room, he found that Pete already had several of his drawings up on the walls. He was a talented artist. He let Jack see one of his sketch books, and even showed him his portable case of art supplies. It was stocked with paper, coloring pencils, and markers, and a box full of special fine-point pens from Calgary, Alberta: GOWER GRAPHIC, THE FINE POINT FOR FINE ARTISTS . He also demonstrated his juggling abilities for Jack, and admitted that he was a little homesick. So he was grateful to have his best friend, Johnny, just down the hall.
    But John Costello wasn’t down the hall. Jack knocked on his door, then waited—and waited. Finally, he used his pass key to let himself in. The room was empty, and the boy hadn’t even unpacked yet. The sheets were still stacked and folded at the foot of his bare mattress.
    Jack checked the bathroom down the hall, then glanced out the window at the end of the corridor. A full moon reflected on the lake’s ripply surface, and he could see the silhouette of a young man sitting at the end of the boat dock.
    Jack headed down the stairs and outside. He reached the dock, then stopped suddenly. Past the sound of water lapping against the breakers, he could hear John Costello quietly crying.
    Jack stood there a moment. He cleared his throat and started down to