Fenwick High School…a place where memories are made. Some good, some bad. Everyone has that story. The one you just can’t shake. The one that grows with every time you tell the tale, sprouting new details that only add to its magnificence. Some would call it your “Roman Empire.”
Rose Woods climbs the five flights of stairs to the west wing after 6th lunch, out of breath, just hoping she’ll make it to class. She trips, catching herself on the railing. All of the sudden, she’s reminded of the near fatality of a freshman on those very same stairs… “I was going pretty slow, on the opposite side of the stairs.” she recounts. Out of nowhere, a freshman comes flying around the corner, hurdling straight into Rose’s tall red-headed frame. In an instant, he turned ghostly pale and tumbled down the stairs— almost in slow motion—backpack and Bible in tow. Rose watched in horror. Stifling the pain in fear of the Ginger Goddess who nearly sent him towards the light, the nameless freshman fled the scene of the crime. “He kind of just ran away when he got up.” Rose shakes her head, her eyes red and brimmed with tears. “Sometimes I wonder where he is now.”
Will Healy drags his feet as he walks into 9th period study hall. His usual excitement is missing as he pulls out his iPad to study a Quizlet for French class. Healy looks across the cafeteria to his friends laughing, huddled together over an iPad, and buries his head in his hands. Every day since that one 9th period study hall has been a disappointment. He remembers it now, the week of Senior Homecoming… “We were just hanging around and wanted to have a good time.” Energy was high, but the stakes were higher. “A man who won’t be named brought a speaker and played a song all too familiar to me. YMCA by the Village People was blaring in all of our ears.” Soon enough, a posse of unqualified cheerleaders took their dance into the hallway behind the cafeteria. Healy’s eyes glaze over like those of a child in a candy store as he recalls: “Water bottles were being popped and the floor was soaked.” Led by Healy, the eclectic group of gentlemen turned the stone speckled floor into a makeshift slip and slide. One by one, they had their turn, soaking their school issued Homecoming T-shirts. By some miracle, the sound of Ms. Ieremia’s heels never echoed through the hallway, and the amusement ran its course. Healy shakes his head with a grin, “We just enjoyed all it had to offer.”
Mike Harnett pulls the white gown over his uniform and prepares his heart and mind to altar serve for all school mass. Clutching the tall golden cross, he starts the long walk down the aisle toward the altar. As he approaches his seat, out of the corner of his eye, something silver and shiny catches his attention. There they are. The bells. Harnett recalls, “It was during the Baccalaureate Mass, my junior year.” He had been perched behind the chairs, clutching the bells, waiting for the moment when the bread became the Body. When the time came, Harnett began to ring the bells. He was quickly caught up in the euphoria of the moment, loving the power of being the esteemed bell-ringer. The sound was so beautiful, he had to hear it just one more time. “I rang the bell one too many times.” Harnett says, his eyes cast toward the ground in shame. “I thought no one would notice. But I was completely wrong.” Each Father’s eyes shot to Harnett, with a furrowed brow. Sure his career as an altar boy was over, Harnett turned to the harshest judgment of all: “All of the seniors in the front row started laughing.” Nobody knows exactly what the punishment for this grave mistake was, but all were glad to see Mike Harnett grace the stage for another chance to ring the bells.
Dillon Murphy stands at the door of his second period calculus class blowing his nose. He looks up to catch the eye of Mr. Wieckiewicz, walking down the hallway. They exchange a nod and a small smile. Murphy shakes his head as he walks back to his desk. He laughs as he remembers, “It was in AP Gov class, we were playing a review game.” The game was simple, one player was asked a review question which you answered with the help of your team. If you answered correctly, you were permitted to shoot the small foam basketball and earn your team a point. Murphy bounced his knee in anticipation as he watched his teammate ponder over the question. When he answered correctly, there were cheers and fists pounding on desks. Then the long awaited moment. The victorious AP Gov scholar brought a chair over to the line from which he was to shoot. Murphy closed his eyes tight to picture it perfectly: “No one knew what [he] was going to do besides himself.” In what had to have been a slow motion affair, the student jumped from atop the chair, dunked the foam ball into the basket and slid across the ancient hardwood floor face first. A scene straight out of a cartoon. Jaws dropped. A hush befell the room as the students readied for the tragic moment they all knew came next. Murphy turned to see Mr. Wieckiewicz’s slow retreat to his computer where the Blackbaud tab sat, most certainly ready for the JUG to be written. “During my four years at Fenwick I don’t think I have seen anything more comical than that.”
