+Bad Catholics+ Frank Iero

+31+

I sat and stared at the lockbox for a while. There wasn't any particular reason I had to be fearful of it- anything I already knew about my father was much more terrifying than a dingey old box full of his personal effects. If there were any secrets left for me to uncover, I had already accepted that there was nothing I could do to change any of it. So, whatever it was, I wasn't quite sure. Maybe there was just only so much left that I could handle.

The box itself was nothing special, and it didn't even technically get the job done, considering it didn't lock anymore. I asked Frank where he found it because I couldn't believe after all of the ransackings the house suffered since I moved out that no one managed to find it, and he told me it was nestled under an old floor vent cover that just happened to catch his eye with a shine from his lighter. It kind of felt like a one-in-a-million sort of thing. Either that or all of the people that explored the house before us were really, really unobservant.

Frank and I didn't talk much between our meeting with Gerard and then, but I was ok with that. The car ride back to his house was in a comfortable silence, one that I had subconsciously pleaded for. Something told me that it was likely going to be my only chance at a moment of quiet for a while. I thought about what Gerard said, about calling him if we had a "plan". I didn't even know what a plan would look like. We were just teenagers. Who would possibly believe any of us even if I were to go to the police? All I had to prove who I really am is that photo, and whatever else might be in that box. And even then, all that would prove is that my father was a criminal. I doubted that it would help my case.

Frank wouldn't say it, but I knew I couldn't hide out in his room forever without his mom knowing. I was essentially homeless.

She called the house while I was busy mustering up the courage to open the box to let him know she was coming home for her lunch hour before returning to work, so we grabbed the box and left. It began to snow by then, so instead of going to our spot by the quarry, Frank took us to the school's small, and slightly pointless football field. It almost made me laugh every time I thought about that pathetic patch of turf because I couldn't recall a time our school ever even participated in a football game. It seemed to me like the only recreational activities that were done there were drugs. Belleville Catholic wasn't particularly known for its athletic achievements.

I followed him across the field, the box under my arm. Even though there was a light snowfall, it didn't feel as cold as it looked. The brisk air felt kind of good. At that point in our time together I stopped asking Frank why he chose the places he took us to. Even when I did get an answer, it usually didn't make any more sense than before. I wasn't even sure that I cared anymore.

We approached the bleachers and Frank motioned for me to move in front of him, lightly placing his hands on my waist from behind.

"Careful, it's slippery."

I hid a smile as I walked up the steps, his hands giving a small squeeze with every wobble the structure made. I stopped somewhere in the middle and walked down, taking a seat on the bench, and Frank pulled away and sat on the bench directly behind me.

It was oddly quiet there. The field itself was far back from the main road, and although it was the weekend, I still expected at least a little bit of traffic or even an occasional passerby. Instead, all that could be heard was the faint trickle of snowflakes hitting the aluminum. The lockbox rested on my lap and I remained still, looking out at the field.

"You know you have to open it eventually," Frank said, breaking the silence.

I sighed, looking down at it.

Why am I so afraid to open you?

Frank made me promise to him that morning that I would open it at some point that day. "Whether it's bad or good, you can handle it," he said to me in his room. At first, it made me feel good, him saying that. Nothing ever seemed to bother him, and at times he made things seem as simple as they were supposed to be when I was busy overcomplicating them. But then I started thinking about everything happening around us- not just the box. That's when the guilt bled all the way through, so thick until I couldn't see through it anymore. Frank was no stranger to risk- everyone knew that. But this wasn't the same as running from the police, or careening our bodies off a bridge and into the water. This was incredibly real.