Few people possess the ability to stop time. In 10 years I will forget a great deal of my high school education, but what will remain with me is more important: Frank; rather, memories of Frank. My school is divided into 5 "houses" labled A through E. They aren't physically separated, they're just hallways divided this way for organizational purposes. The pattern is that students with last names beginning with A - F have a home room in A house, G - L in B house, etc, but C house is different. C house is where the special chilluns live. Frank is a C house child, but he doesn't attend class in C house. Why? Perhaps he isn't special enough, or maybe there was a computer glitch in his permanent record. I prefer to think there is a deeper reason for Frank's life on Earth, like being a twisted form of entertainment for apathetic high school students. Maybe some background about Frank would be helpful. He was born to normal, god-fearing parents that thrust upon him the ideals of their faith through what they probably considered "protection from evil." Frank led a sheltered life as a young elementary school student. Naturally, he attended a catholic school; however, his parents didn't believe he was getting religioned enough, so they sent him to catechism as well. This was my first encounter with Frank. He was an unremarkable child. He stood perhaps 5'5" tall, had an unhealthily skinny build complemented by a pallor, kept a buzzed head of black hair, and always wore blue and white. If he wore a blue shirt, he wore blue shorts. If he wore blue shorts, he would wear a white shirt. In the rare event he went swimming he probably wore white trunks and used a blue towel. I never picked up on this quirk until the weird crap started happening. This was my first warning. As a student, Frank excelled. He was quiet, well-mannered, and always answered questions correctly, though he'd never volunteer to answer them. Also, these were catechism questions, so you could liken it to a multiple choice test where there are five choices, but all five are the same. I never really spoke to Frank, so I knew nothing beyond his ability to discern the "right" thing to do versus the "wrong" thing to do. Well, Frank's lovely parents decided at some point that too much Jesus was entering their son's blood stream, creating toxic levels of holiness that probably caused the psychosis he has today. At any rate, when I met Frank again in high school, he was a changed boy. We're in the same home room. Like I said, Frank somehow got cheated out of his choice to pass high school by coloring inside the lines and dry humping the dusty classroom rugs. We're obviously not the only ones in room. It's occupied by a gaggle of wannabe gangstas, one smoking girl of an indeterminate race, and a few friends of mine. Anyways, freshman year passed pretty quickly, and along comes sophomore year. A few weeks in our first Frank spazzout occurs. It's 8:20 A.M., time for home room period. Everyone clambers into the room after our androgynous home room teacher opens the door after flirting with the relatively hot, female student PE teacher. Frank was a little antsy when it came time to come in, he had been pacing about behind the mob of people, so he was in last. Now, I sit behind Frank at this point in the left-most row in the room. My friend, Jim, sits in front of Frank. Another friend of mine, Joe, sits to the right of Frank. Joe's psuedo-girlfriend, Himmler, sits diagonol to Frank in front of Joe. With the initial exception of Jim, the four of us witness the living incarnation of what can only be described as Voldo, from Soul Calibur. For some completely random reason, Frank's neck twitches in an inhuman manner, causing his torso to also twitch in the opposing direction. His pelvis then thrusts upward, somehow catapulting him to his feet. At this point, Joe and Himmler are slowly moving their eyes onto the spectacle while mine are already wide. Jim, unaware, turns around to ask me a question only to see Frank in the middle of raping the air. But it doesn't end there. With all of our eyes on Frank, he lurches forward, his pelvis returning to a more natural pose. Now, remember how Voldo walks in Soul Calibur? Well, Frank precisely recreates this motion and Voldo-walks to the front of the room. The whole thing happens in slow motion since we're all afraid Frank is going to turn into a demon and eat our colons. In reality the event was short lived, though, and Frank regains composure at the head of the class. He plays it off by looking at a calendar pinned next to the chalk board. Joe and Jim stare wide eyed. Himmler erupts in laughter, which prompts me to laugh as well, causing a chain reaction that simultaneously envelops Joe and Jim. Frank, losing control of himself again for a fleeting moment, twists his neck like an owl and faces us with one eye. He then returns to his seat by walking like a human. The laughter continues until the announcements come on, some 3 minutes later. This event marked the beginning of the ongoing legend of Frank. After this day we took watched Frank like hawks. We began to noticed that he twitched a great deal - no one had ever noticed before. The kid was so average that you'd get bored just by being in the same room as him, so this was new to us. Nothing happens in home room for the rest of year, though. The next event came during track practice. Track at my school is the "look good" sport; that is, if you need a sport to pad your college resume, you go out for track. Joe took track to pad his resume. Frank did not take track to pad his resume. Frank was inhumanly (this adjective bears repeating) fast. I once had a theory for this anomaly, talent in a talentless individual, based around "Retard Strength," but since Frank has shown a degree of intelligence, I can't classify him as retarded, so the theory falls through. At any rate, Frank became a source of entertainment for a demoralized and underfunded (too much Vice City) track squad. The story starts like this: Frank is in a relay race. It's a competitive race between my school and a rival school, so the track team has actually been practicing for it. Realizing that their beloved Frank was only one on the team that could actually run, aside from a super-human Asian kid that everyone knows is a robot, the boys decide he should start the race. The robot has the last leg of the race. The whistle is imminent, and Frank has the baton in his hands. Joe, prepping for a dash event or something, stops to observe his teammates kick off the meet with the baton race. The whistle blows and our competitor's front runner sprints forward to the teammate a few yards ahead. Frank does not move. Joe, along with the rest of the team on the side of the track, blankly stares on as their opponents slow down to a jog, aware that something is amiss. Frank has not moved from the start, except now he is reaching out with the baton toward the second man in line. The coach, worn by continual losses at the hands of half-hearted athletes, says only this to his boys, "Don't say a word." No one did. The rival completed the race with ease and the final runner, with a look of immense consternation on his face, walks over the finish line all the while watching Frank, hoping for some sign of life. Nothing happened. Why Frank chose not to move is beyond reason, but it is interesting that by not moving he caused the entire event to grind to a halt. After the rival runner finished nobody knew what to do until the second man in line, who had faithfully been waiting on Frank's pass, jogs to Frank and takes the baton with a hint of fear. Frank eases up and sits down on the track. Joe commented that he looked absolutely exhausted. The second runner then walks to the third runner and passes the baton on. My school finishes the race Cool Runnings style, without the applause and feel-good afterglow. Frank was now a target. Frank now found himself on the receiving end of many launched pencils and erasers. Apparently stressed from these projectiles and fame he had garnered from his performance at the track, Frank was now speaking in tongues. In math class two days later Frank unleashed what was to be the new catchphrase of my school. The teacher, Mrs. Gorbachev, was doing some algebra fancy crap on the board. Joe was in this class, as was Frank. Keep in mind Frank had been unable to take notes in Algebra and often came to see me for extra help since I'm a SMARTY PANTS who actually failed Algebra 3 this year but this sentence is getting far too long. So Frank is twitching away and not taking notes when all of the sudden he belts out "FRAAAAAAAAAAAAAANK" in a voice that Joe could only describe as Sloth from the Goonies. The class is stunned. Joe is stunned. Mrs. Gorbachev takes this opportunity to snort the dry-erase marker, then acts stunned. Frank had once again stopped time. After a minute or so of suspension in time-limbo, Mrs. Gorbachev resumes the lesson, now high as a kite. Joe reluctantly returns to his notes along with the rest of the class. Whenever Frank entered a room for the following month someone would anonymously shout FRAAAAAAAANK as Slothy as they could. In fact, Joe went as far as hiding next to the door inside my Biology class one day and shouted it in Frank's ear as he entered the room. Fun, fun. Which leads me to the next story, which happens on the same day as Joe's surprise. Biology class was particularly boring. We had a teacher named Mr. Robles who would ramble on and on about chemistry and ionic charges and other chemical things like that. We never really did biology, actually, we just pretended. At any rate, Robles was a 20 inch dissembodied prick that was rammed between Janet Reno's bologna-like ass cheeks. He often sprung quizzes on material that we had very little background on just to keep his class average at a steady B (to maintain prickhood I imagine). Needless to say, some kids cracked. Usually it was an innocuous "Fuck you" or a slightly less innocuous threat to murder his daughter. Frank has nothing to do with the latter because Frank has a special way of doing things, a way so unique that it stops time. No, Frank prepared a special show for me, Joe, Himmler, and the rest of the class that day. Frank receives his pop-quiz, a surprisingly easy crossword made up from vocab words like "sugar" and "DNA." Immediately he begins to go into hyper-twich mode. I look over behind me at Himmler, but she doesn't notice. I tried to get her attention, but Robles exists in 4 dimensions and sees all, so I backed off to avoid being nailed for cheating. Joe, however, noticed as well. He sits right next to Frank, on the right side of the room, whereas I sit on the left side of the room in front of the trash bin. Robles goes to sit down and diddle himself while his class struggles to fit "enzyme" in a 4-square sequence. No sooner had his seat groaned in dismay, Frank was out of his desk and at the head of the class (but not Voldo style, sadly). Frank stares Robles in the eye and the class, one by one, looks up to watch the epic battle of stares. I hear a hushed "Haha, oh shit" from Himmler. Before I continue, I must say I have a great deal of respect for Robles. He doesn't take shit from anyone in the school, student, faculty, or gun-toting gangster. It's too bad his class sucks and a picture of his demon daughter haunts his desk. That being said, Robles opens up conversation with a modest inquiry as to why Frank is at his haunted desk. Frank answers, "You gave me a fixed test." The class squints trying to perceive reason in this statement, as every other sense fails to understand the accusation. Robles, nonplused, regains composure and says, "It's not fixed, Frank." Frank then freaks out, turns toward his desk, turns back toward Robles, and then faces the trash can to his left. He rushes around Roble's desk of doom, clipping the corner painfully. This does not stop Frank in his fit of Frankness and he continues toward the can teetering on his right foot. Frank is clumsy. After staring down into the abyss of papers and pieces of Roble's shattered DNA model that a clever student had broken with a paper football and some chewing gum, he takes his paper, holds it up to the class, and rips in half with thunderous might that would make Thor pop wood. Once again, Frank makes time stop. He continues his abominable display of raw, unreasoned rage and rips the paper down to its very molecules - or at least eighths. He then slam dunks the papers into the trash can, striking his wrists on the edge. It looked painful, but Frank laughs in the face of pain and knows nothing of the sensation. He then returns to his seat and twitches some more. Robles shakes his head and motions the class to look at their papers and pretend nothing happen. We indulged this one request, and it probably stands at the only command we took seriously from Robles that year. The Legend of Frank had now touched the faculty. To this day Frank swears that quiz was rigged. This all culminates in one final confrontation between Crazy Bitch English Teacher Who Wants to Fuck Her Students, One of Which Is Me (Ms. Crazy for short) and Frank. Before this story though, there are two smaller things that stick out in my fragmented and failing memory. Frank is good at soccer, too. He's not good at soccer like he's good at track. He's good at track because he has inhuman traits, like his speed. He's good at soccer because he's just plain inhuman. Frank never falls for a fakeout. One of Frank's many names is Frank the Statue because he can stare at you for hours and not blink, plus he's been shit on by birds before, or at least he claims he has. So, Frank's kicking the ball around one PE class. He's heading toward my goal and I'm kinda defending his teammate on the side, but neither of us are really playing. Frank makes a run for the goal and another home room buddy, let's call him Gordon, is the goalie. Well, Frank plays some Martian version of soccer where if someone stands in front of you while you possess the ball you have to stop and feign being a statue until said person moves. If said person makes any advances you are not allowed to move. Frank is the undisputed champion of Martian Soccer. That being said, no one else was playing Martian Soccer today. Gordon, confused as to why Frank is now standing in front of him instead of shooting the ball, immediately kicks into OMG ENEMY BALL STEAL KICK mode. Gordon pushes his elbows out, strikes Frank in the temple, and bombs the ball to midfield. Frank is on the ground now. Gordon helps him up and apologizes, but Frank does not know the meaning of apology. In retaliation, Frank invokes a crucial rule of Martian Soccer: in the event that you are struck in the temple, you may steal any electrical device on the attacker. Frank rightfully claims Gordon's cell phone, which is conveniently strapped to a belt, and bolts off the field. Gordon is very confused, but regains his cell phone in the locker room later on after calmly asking Frank to return it. Frank, like most Franks, has a good heart. A few days later I come to home room to hear Frank is suspended for three days! Apparently Frank had an altercation involving a young man we'll call Staff in the hallway. Staff has a thing for physical contact. If Frank can be declared mentally insane, Staff can be called physically insane, which makes no sense. The key word is insane. Staff has a penchant for pushing people. Sometimes he pushes lovingly, like a coy girl playfully rejecting the advances of her summer fling, and sometimes he pushes annoyingly, like your bunkmate prodding your face with his bare ass in an attempt to "be funny." Frank received the annoying pushes and this drove him mad. One day Frank decided he'd turn the tables and try pushing Staff instead. Clever, Frank. Only, instead of pushing him, Frank fucking knocked him out. Then he ran home, skipped school for the rest of the day, and came back to suspension the following day. When he returned to home room 3 days after the punishment he asked me if I had heard anything about his suspension. I said no. Jim said yes, and Frank nearly cried. Himmler laughed. And not more than a week later, the culmination of Frankdom came crashing down upon the Legend himself. His final stand would be in Mrs. Crazy's suedo-English class where you actually watched movies of books more than you read them. She made us watch Marty one time, Jesus Christ. I'd cut funding to this school too if fucking MARTY was in the CRITICAL English curriculum. But I digress, Frank is more important. Mrs. Crazy's shtick was emotion. She often went off on a tangent about her four failed relationships and how horrible marriage was. Often she singled out a boy by the name of Danforth and showered him with praise, or attempted to use comical pick-up lines on him. She didn't fool anybody, she wanted some 16 year old penis. I have reason to believe she wanted me too since she'd often meet my eyes and do saucy things like lick her lips or toss her hair; however, she was 60 years old and her hair was in no condition to be tossed. Indeed, I could see clouds of dust escape her ancient scalp and almost hear them jubilantly celebrating their new freedom, only to settle on the floor with trillions of their brethren, doomed to rest in their former master's room forever. Frank had no one to share emotion with. His parents were to afraid of him and I'm a jerk, so he was up shit's creek. But somehow Frank had to feel, share his innermost secrets, and what better way than to use the attention whore? So, much like the math incident, Frank pipes up in the middle of class. He says to Mrs. Crazy, quote: -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- "My parents make me sleep in the basement. My grandpa gets my room for now." -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- You've no doubt heard the old and tired Lewis Black bit about the horse and the college whatever. Well, this is one of those statements. Frank, once again, froze time by taxing out the thought resources of every individual in that room. Why, oh why, had Frank said that? That's what everyone wanted to ask. Perhaps the answer would give insight to Frank's weirdness, perhaps he would impart upon us the very meaning of life itself, or he would call upon the Passion of Christ and show us the true meaning of "married to the church," but no one dared ask. No one had the authority. This was Ms./Mrs. Crazy's room. The only noise that could be heard what the hum of the dust mites who were awed at the magnanimity of the statement. It came from Frank's heart, his heart of hearts, assuming he had a heart, and if it didn't it came from an organ much like the heart, but then again it could also be called the heart since emotions aren't even made in the heart, blood is made in the heart; emotions come from the hearts on Valentine's Day cards so I will continue just call it Frank's heart. Everyone looked to Mr. Crazy to logically ask the question, "What?" Instead, the bitch said, "That must be very hard," and escorted him out into the hallway. When they returned, she was crying, and Frank was less twitchy. The following day Frank was absent from school. Three weeks would pass until Frank returned. When he did there were rumors swirling about pertaining to his whereabouts in the absence. It's generally accepted that Frank was whisked away to a mental institution for the time and received medication. After the incident with Crazy, Frank seemed to calm down a bit, much to our dismay, and aside from random bits like when he was about to lick my ear, nothing big has happened since. I'm exhausted. I probably forgot something. Feel free to add your own Frank stories, or something.