After a week of dusting, changing lightbulbs, sweeping, and occasionally dish-washing, it got around that the threesome of Roger, Ginny and myself walked to the church every day after school. One of Roger’s jock buddies asked what was up with that. With a toothy grin, Roger exclaimed, “Well, he works up at the church, Altar Boy does. Y’know, he’s the one with the locker next to mine, the new kid?” His buddy nodded, glancing over to me, giving me a good-natured smile. I nervously waved. “Hey Alter Boy,” Roger called, “This is Tom, good friend of mine. Tom, this is Altar Boy.”
“How do?” I asked polietly, reaching out my hand for him to shake. He took it slowly, then his arm cringed.
“Sheesh!” he cried, laughing. “You have quite a grip!”
I shrugged, catching the contageous grin. “Sorry ‘bout that, all my folks got strong grips. What can I say? It’s in my genes.”

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