CHAPTER THREE
It was stupid of her to think he might
be grieving, too.
Chris Dennehy seemed to go about his
morning as if it were a normal day. Walking through the corridors
between classes, he didn’t appear disturbed or troubled—only
slightly aloof toward all his fellow students, who couldn’t stop
staring at him. He didn’t make eye contact with
anyone.
He certainly hadn’t seemed to notice
her.
She felt invisible in the crowded
second-floor hallway of James Monroe High School. Now and then,
someone bumped into her and kept walking as if she weren’t even
there.
She was just like the others, watching
Chris, waiting for him to snap or start crying—or show some kind of
emotion, for God’s sake. His former guidance counselor had just
been murdered last night. They’d been very close at one time, and
everyone knew it.
“Are you—like—totally freaked out,
man?” she’d overheard a tall, lanky basketball player ask him in
the stairwell an hour before. She’d strained to hear Chris’s
answer. But there were too many other students stomping up and down
the stairs, and too much noise. Chris had shrugged, muttered
something to his classmate, and then he’d continued up the steps.
He’d seemed pretty nonchalant about it.
Now he walked down the corridor by
himself, close to the lockers on the wall. Even though his brown
hair was a mess, and his blue-striped shirt needed ironing, he
still looked handsome. He was on his way from Ms. Kinsella’s
trigonometry class to third-period study hall.
She knew his class schedule. She knew
he occasionally rode his bike to school—though most of the time, he
carpooled with those bitches from his cul-de-sac, Courtney Hahn and
Madison Garvey. He had swim practice from 3:30 until 5:30, and
usually caught a ride home from a teammate or took a
bus.
Not counting three empty lots and the
skeletal frames of two unfinished homes, the Dennehys’ was the
second house down from the start of Willow Tree Court. She knew
every inch of that cul-de-sac. From the forest that bordered the
backyards, she’d spied on the Dennehys and their neighbors. They
never bothered to lower their blinds or shut the drapes on that
side. She had a direct look into their day-to-day private lives.
She’d thought it might make her more compassionate toward them, but
it didn’t change how she felt—not at all.
She didn’t care much that some of them
would die soon.
But Chris Dennehy was different—at
least, she used to think he was. That was why she’d come to his
high school to follow him around today. She wanted to see if he
would shed any tears for Ray Corson.
She trailed about twenty feet behind
him in the hallway as he shuffled toward the study hall just around
the corner.
“Hey, Dennehy!” another student called
to him.
She stopped—and so did Chris, up ahead
of her.
A handsome, blond-haired jock swaggered
toward him. He wore a varsity jacket and carried a backpack. She
could see—as he approached—he was a bit shorter than Chris.
“Dennehy,” he said, slapping him on the shoulder. “Wow, you must be
so glad someone killed that slimy fuck. . . .” Then with a cocky
grin, he said something else—under his breath.
Chris glared at him. Suddenly, he
grabbed the blond-haired jock by the front of his shirt and slammed
him into the row of lockers. There was a loud clatter, and a girl
nearby screamed. Still holding onto the guy’s shirt collar, Chris
had his fist under the jock’s chin. He kept him pinned against the
lockers for another moment. Everyone around them froze—and it was
suddenly quiet.
She heard Chris growl at the young man:
“Get the hell away from me.” Then he let go of the other guy, and
turned away.
“What’s your fucking problem?” the jock
yelled. He was shaking. “Jesus, you’re crazy! Crazy
fuck!”
Chris kept walking.
Her heart racing, she pushed her way
through the crowd to catch up with him. She wanted to see his
face.
“Can’t you take a joke?” the jock was
saying. “What’s wrong with you, man?”
As he started to turn the corner, Chris
looked back and scowled at the other guy.
She stopped in her tracks. Chris looked
so angry and agitated. But he had tears in his eyes,
too.
He turned and disappeared around the
corner.
She’d figured he would cry. That was
what she’d wanted to see today.
She stood there, invisible to the
others, and wondered about him. She still wasn’t quite sure if—once
the killing started—Chris Dennehy would die like the
others.
He certainly would suffer. That much
she knew.
“I really wish you’d let me in, Chris,”
Mr. Munson said in his customary mellow tenor, which made him sound
slightly stoned. “I’m sensing some hostility from you, and that’s
okay. You own those feelings, Chris. They’re valid. But I’m your
friend, and I’m here to help you. . . .”
Mr. Munson leaned back in his chair and
scratched his gray-orange goatee. He was about forty with thinning,
red hair, a pasty complexion, and a stud earring. He wore an ugly
paisley tie and a denim shirt. Some sort of weird stone charm hung
on a chain around his neck.
Chris squirmed in the hard-back chair
facing Munson’s desk. The little office had a wide window in one
wall, looking out to a corridor full of lockers. Munson kept a
bunch of self-help books and pamphlets on the shelves behind his
desk. There was also a really cheesy poster of a guy dressed as a
clown, flying a kite by a lake at sunset. It said: To Thine Own Self Be True
Mr. Munson had pulled Chris out of
third-period study hall for this impromptu touchy-feely, new-age,
psychobabble session. Chris could barely tolerate the guy, but he
kept telling himself that Munson meant well.
Munson was Mr. Corson’s replacement.
This was Mr. Corson’s old office. Chris remembered the cool Edward
Hopper Nighthawks print—of those
lonely-looking people at a café at night—that had been where the
stupid-ass clown poster was now. He remembered pouring his heart
out to Mr. Corson in this office and feeling better for it. He
couldn’t open up in the same way to Munson.
“I’m fine, Mr. Munson, really,” Chris
said, slouching in the chair a little. He tried to keep from
tapping his foot, but the restless, nervous tic was almost
involuntary now. “I’m—I’m sad Mr. Corson is dead, of course. And
it’s a real shock. I feel really bad for Mr. Corson’s family, too.”
He shrugged, and glanced down at the tiled floor. “I don’t know
what else to tell you.”
“How are the other kids at school
treating you today?”
Chris kept looking at the floor.
“Fine,” he lied. “Just fine . . .”
He realized what this session was all
about. Somehow, word must have gotten to Munson that he’d shoved
Scott Kinkaid against the lockers.
All morning long, Chris had felt people
staring at him. In the corridors and classrooms, he heard people
whispering about what had happened last December with Mr. Corson
and him—and another classmate, Ian Scholl. If they weren’t
whispering about it, they were Twittering and texting about it.
They rehashed old jokes that had circulated around school after the
incident in December. And they told new ones, making fun of Mr.
Corson’s brutal murder last night. Madison Garvey’s wiseass
comments in the car this morning had been just a sneak preview of
the snickering remarks Chris overheard in the school
hallways.
Several of his classmates—even kids he
barely knew—approached him this morning with comments and questions
about Mr. Corson’s death:
“Isn’t it weird what
happened to Corson? God, what a trip. . . .”
“Have any TV news
people talked with you yet? After all, you’re the reason he got
fired. . . .”
Then there was Scott Kinkaid:
“Wow, you must be so glad someone killed that slimy
fuck. . . .” He added, under his breath: “After he tried to get into your pants, you must figure the
faggot had it coming. . . .”
That was when Chris lost it. Before he
knew it, he grabbed Scott by the front of his shirt and threw him
against the lockers. It was all he could do to keep from punching
his face in.
And that was why he’d ended up here in
Munson’s office. He was certain of it.
“I don’t know if you heard,” Chris
muttered, unable to look Munson in the eye. “I kinda shoved Scott
Kinkaid, because he said something creepy about Mr. Corson. But it
was nothing.”
“Do you want to talk about it?” Munson
asked.
“Not really,” Chris
answered.
“Is there someone else you can talk
with?” He leaned forward in his chair. “Have you discussed with
anyone how you feel about Mr. Corson’s death?”
“My dad and I talked this morning,”
Chris said. “It’s cool.”
“And your mom?”
“They don’t live together anymore,” he
replied. “My dad remarried and my mother lives in Bellevue
now.”
“Oh, um, well, I see. . . .” Munson
nervously cleared his throat and started searching through some
papers in a file folder on his desk. Obviously, the guy hadn’t done
his homework. “Give me a minute here,” he said.
Chris glanced over his shoulder. He
caught a glimpse of a girl on the other side of the window to
Munson’s office—or it could have been a teacher, he wasn’t sure.
She’d ducked away so quickly he didn’t even get a look at her face,
just her shoulder-length brown hair and her black coat. She must
have run down the corridor.
A stocky young man with thick glasses
and brownish-blond hair stopped at the window. He was Chris’s best
friend, Elvis Harnett. They’d known each other since sixth grade. A
stack of books under one arm, Elvis peered into the office. He
looked concerned. “Are you okay?” he mouthed to Chris.
Chris glanced warily at Munson, still
searching through his paperwork. He turned toward his friend and
nodded furtively.
Elvis half smiled, but then he suddenly
looked away and retreated down the corridor.
Chris swiveled around in his chair.
Munson was staring at him. Eyes narrowed, he scratched his goatee
again. “You had several sessions here with Mr. Corson, didn’t
you?”
Chris nodded.
“Did Mr. Corson take any notes during
these sessions?”
Chris nodded again. “Yeah, he—he used
to scribble stuff down.”
Munson glanced at the papers in front
of him. “That’s odd, there aren’t any notes here. These records are
from your freshman year. There’s nothing from the last two years.”
Shaking his head, Munson got to his feet and grabbed the file. “I
need to go figure this out. Be right back. Stay put, okay? While
you’re waiting, here . . .” He reached for one of the books on his
shelf and handed it to Chris. “Take a look at this. I think you’ll
find it very useful.”
Chris glanced at the book’s cover. It
had bright purple lettering against an orange background. At the
very top was the banner: “A breakthrough in getting
yourself on the road to happiness and self-fulfillment!”—Dr. Tim,
National Syndicated Radio Personality
HELP YOURSELF!
A Cathartic Cookbook of Easy
Recipes for Overcoming What’s Holding You Back & Finding a
Better You
By Dr. Sonya Swinton
Bestselling Author
of You First!
“She’s got a fantastic chapter in there
about dealing with anger and grief,” Munson said, on his way out
the door.
“Fantastic,” Chris muttered, once he
was alone in the office. He glanced up from the book in his hand to
the empty chair that used to be Mr. Corson’s.
“Psssst, hey, Chris . .
.”
He turned to see Elvis poking his head
in the doorway. “Is Mellow Man Munson guiding you on a
personal-growth journey? Or are you in here because you kicked the
crap out of Scott Kinkaid?”
Chris rolled his eyes. “All I did was
push him against some lockers.”
“Well, depending on whose Twitter
you’re reading,” Elvis said, hovering at the office threshold, “you
either had a slight altercation with Scott or you beat him bloody
and put him into a coma. Personally, I’d hoped the coma story was
true. I’ve always hated that douche bag—ever since eighth grade,
when he called me Goodyear Blimp in front of our entire homeroom
class. Remember that?”
Chris nodded. “Vividly.”
“Hey, listen, I’m really sorry about
Corson,” Elvis whispered, suddenly somber. They hadn’t had a chance
to talk this morning. “How are you holding up?”
Chris nodded again. “I’m
okay.”
“You’re not going to talk about this,
are you?” Elvis whispered. “Even though it’s eating away at you
inside.”
“Probably not,” Chris murmured.
“Listen, you should scram before Munson comes back. I’ll call you
later.”
Elvis sighed. “You better.” Then he
headed down the corridor.
Chris turned and faced the empty
desk.
Besides Mr. Corson, Elvis was just
about the only person who could get him to open up and talk about
things that truly upset him. And even then, it took Elvis a lot of
prodding.
“You’re so tight-lipped about
everything,” Elvis had observed a while back. “You care too much
about what people think. Always putting on your best face, no
matter what—I think you get that shit from your mom.”
Elvis’s own mother was a lost cause.
With her drug and alcohol problems, her terrible taste in men, and
her penchant for dressing like a slut, Mrs. Harnett would have been
a terrific guest on The Jerry Springer Show.
Chris rarely went over to the Harnetts’ place.
While he’d dated Courtney Hahn, his
image-conscious girlfriend had wanted very little to do with Elvis.
“I’m sorry, but how can you let yourself even be seen with him?”
she’d asked at one point toward the end, when they were breaking
up. “I mean, he’s a nice guy and all, but he’s poor white trash.
You’d think he’d try to lose a little weight or dress in something
besides farmer clothes. And when’s he going
to get those stupid glasses fixed?”
One of Mrs. Harnett’s loser boyfriends
had slapped Elvis for mouthing off to him, and he’d broken the
hinge on his glasses. For the next three months, Elvis had silver
electric tape bunched around the corner of his
progressives.
Elvis couldn’t help that he didn’t have
money for new glasses or new clothes. He couldn’t help that he was
overweight from being raised on junk food. He never even ate a
vegetable until he had dinner at Chris’s house. Elvis slept over at
least once a week. Chris felt the overnights gave his friend a
taste of what a fairly functional, normal
family was like.
Just two weeks before his parents sat
down with him for the talk, Chris had
watched them at a block party at the Hahns’ house. They looked so
happy, and it made him feel lucky—not only compared to Elvis’s
situation, but also compared to his neighbors, Courtney and
Madison. Madison’s parents had split up three years before; and as
for Courtney, she admitted that her father could barely tolerate
her mother. Chris could tell, too. Mrs. Hahn would act all
lovey-dovey around him, and Mr. Hahn would hardly crack a smile.
He’d get a sort of constipated, slightly annoyed look whenever she
started to hang on him.
But at that party, Chris watched his
parents sitting together on the floor by the Hahns’ fireplace. His
mom looked especially pretty that night. Snuggled next to his dad,
she whispered in his ear. His father chuckled and kissed her on the
cheek.
Two weeks later, on a Friday last
March, his mother called him at school on his cell, saying he
shouldn’t make plans for the evening. She and his dad needed to
talk with him about something. Chris wondered if maybe his mother
had discovered the two adult DVDs he’d hidden in his desk drawer:
Slutty Betty and Hot Meter
Maids 2: Violation! He’d stashed them beneath a collection
of old birthday cards, some of which were sent from his
now-deceased grandmother. Had he no shame? His parents probably
thought he was a major pervert.
But that wasn’t it at all.
He came home from school that Friday at
4:30 to find his dad sitting at the kitchen table with a scotch and
soda. He wore his blue suit. His dad never came home from work
before six—unless someone got sick or had an accident. Chris’s mom
was pouring herself a glass of wine at the counter. It was kind of
early for them to be drinking. The house was quiet, no TV blaring
in the family room, no sign of his sister.
Hanging his coat in the pantry closet,
Chris gave them a wary look and asked where Erin was. His dad
hugged him, and said they thought it best Erin spend the night at
Aunt Trish’s.
Chris didn’t understand. “Are you guys
mad at me about something?”
His dad shook his head.
“We wanted to discuss this with you
first—and then we’ll talk to Erin,” his mom explained. She sat down
at the breakfast table.
Chris suddenly thought of something he
hadn’t considered until just that moment: cancer. Panic swept
through him. “Is somebody sick?” he murmured. “Is that what this is
about?”
With a sigh, his dad shook his head
again. “Nobody’s sick, Chris,” he said. “Sit down,
son.”
Numbly he obeyed him, taking his usual
spot at the kitchen table. “What’s going on?”
His dad sank down in his chair and
reached for his scotch and soda. The ice clinking in his glass
seemed loud against the silence. He took a gulp. “It’s this,” he
said, clearing his throat. “Your mom and I have decided to live
apart for a while. . . .”
Chris let out a stunned little laugh.
“You’re joking.”
He looked at his mother, whose eyes met
his for the first time since he’d walked through the door. She
didn’t appear sad or apologetic or angry. It was as if all her
feelings had shut down. She quickly looked away—and gazed down at
her glass of wine. She took a sip.
Chris realized this was no
joke.
He couldn’t remember anything else
they’d said—just that his mother was moving out. All the while, he
kept looking at his dad’s hands, one around his highball glass and
the other clenched in a fist on the kitchen table. His mother kept
fiddling with the saltshaker—picking at the little grains of salt
stuck in the pour holes. She and his dad wouldn’t look at each
other.
When Chris finally asked if he could go
upstairs and they let him go, he saw the clock on his nightstand
read 4:58. He’d been sitting at that kitchen table with them for
only twenty-five minutes, but it had seemed like
hours.
He kept thinking of the way they’d
seemed so affectionate at the Hahns’ party two weeks before, and he
realized it had been a lie. Chris hated admitting that to himself.
And he didn’t want to admit it to his friends—especially Elvis. So
he didn’t talk about it at all.
He felt bad Elvis had to find out about
his parents’ separation from someone in school. Apparently, Mrs.
Hahn had told Courtney, who broadcast it on her Facebook page.
Chris had kept hoping—right up until the day his mother moved out
of the house—that his folks would work things out.
Her new home was a two-bedroom
apartment in a tall, eighties-era condominium on Capitol Hill. She
showed them the indoor pool off the lobby—and off her balcony, a
sweeping view of downtown Seattle, Elliott Bay, and the Olympic
Mountains. She kept going on about how they were walking distance
from Volunteer Park and all these great restaurants, movie
theaters, and shops. So when he and Erin visited, they’d never be
bored.
Chris couldn’t figure out why his
mother had moved out of the house and given his dad custody. It
didn’t make sense. It wasn’t practical. His dad was hardly ever
home.
It wasn’t as if he liked his mother
more than he liked his dad. In fact, he felt a stronger connection
to his father—even though his dad was away so often. Chris
remembered when he was a kid, and his dad used to give him the
white cardboard eleven-by-eight sheets the cleaners put inside his
folded dress shirts. It was heavier than regular paper, and Chris
used the cardboard inserts for elaborate drawings of Lord of the Rings scenes. But mostly he used them for
the posters he created to welcome his dad home from business trips.
Chris would post one sign on a tree at the end of their block:
WE MISSED YOU, DAD! He’d tape another
welcome home sign on the lamppost at the start of their driveway,
and another on the front door. It was always special when his dad
came home. Chris would get a T-shirt or snow globe from an airport
in another city, and he’d bask in his dad’s presence for the next
few days—until another business trip took him away.
His dad might not have been home much;
but when he was around, he spent a lot of time with Chris—and
attended his swim meets (something his mom never did). All of his
friends’ mothers had crushes on his dad. So when people told him
that he was starting to look like his father, Chris took that as a
big compliment.
He wondered what they’d do now whenever
his father went away on business. Hire a live-in housekeeper? Go
stay with Aunt Trish in Tacoma? Chris didn’t like it there. Aunt
Trish had a house that smelled like rotten fruit and a cat who
hated him. Plus she was vegan, and there was never anything decent
to eat in her place.
It didn’t make any sense that his
mother was the one moving out. Was she sick of looking after him
and Erin? Was that why she’d decided to leave?
“Your father and I have already told
you—several times—this separation has nothing to do with you and
Erin,” his mother pointed out. “And neither does my moving out of
the house.”
She was behind the wheel of her SUV.
Chris, in the passenger seat, couldn’t see her eyes behind her
designer sunglasses. Wind through the open window blew her
close-cropped hair into disarray. She’d recently highlighted it
with some silvery-brown rinse, a new look for her new
life.
It was his and Erin’s first weekend
visiting her in her new condo. He and his mom were driving on
Interstate 5 back from North Seattle, where they’d just dropped off
Erin at ballet class.
“You had to know, Mom,” he said,
squinting at her. “You had to know that Erin and I would really
miss you. It just screws up everything with you moving away. I
mean, if Dad was the one who got a new place, I don’t think it
would have made that big a difference, because he’s away so much
anyway. Y’know?”
“I had to know that you
and Erin would really miss me,” she paraphrased him in a
cool, ironic tone. She looked stone-faced as she stared at the road
ahead. “The way you used to miss your father when he was away? Do
you think it was easy for me, raising the two of you practically on
my own? Yet every time your father came home, you kids treated him
like visiting royalty. You were always so happy to see him. Always
the hero’s welcome . . .”
“I thought you felt the same way
whenever he came home,” Chris murmured numbly.
“See how much of a hero he is to you
and Erin when he’s the one who stays put and does all those
thankless household chores,” she growled.
Chris swallowed hard. “Then it’s true,
you’re sick of us.”
“No, goddamn it, I’m sick of him!” she
cried. She twisted the wheel to one side. The driver behind them
blasted his horn. Chris braced a hand against the dashboard as his
mother pulled over onto the shoulder of the road. She slammed on
the brakes and the tires screeched beneath them. “I’m sick of you
and Erin thinking he’s so goddamn wonderful when he’s never really
been there for you—or for me.”
Stunned, Chris stared at
her.
One hand gripping the wheel, she
swiveled toward him. “He fucked around. Did you know that? Did you
know your father—your hero—can’t keep his dick in his
pants?”
Chris just shook his head. He’d never
heard his mother use such language, and he couldn’t believe what
she was saying. He still braced himself against the dashboard,
though the Saturn was idling on the shoulder of the road. Other
cars whooshed by.
“Every time he goes out of town, it’s
just another opportunity for him to screw whomever he wants. Five
years ago, he came back from Boston and gave me a dose of
chlamydia—at least I think it was Boston where he must have caught
it. I can’t be sure. For a while, he even had regular, steady
girlfriends in some of those cities. Of course, he couldn’t stay
faithful to them any more than he could stay faithful to me. One,
her name was Cassandra, she lived down in Portland, and she was
crazy. I’m talking certifiable. She was calling the house day and
night, threatening me, for God’s sake. She even left a decapitated
squirrel by our front door, the insane bitch. Your father can sure
pick them. That was last year. . . .”
Chris vaguely remembered for a while
the previous May, when his mom had instructed him not to answer the
phone and not to let Erin pick it up. She’d said some crackpot had
been calling. He couldn’t comprehend that the crackpot had been a woman his father was screwing. He
just kept shaking his head at his mother. He couldn’t say anything.
He felt sick to his stomach.
“Now you know,” she said, her voice
cracking. From behind her dark glasses, tears started down her
cheeks. She leaned back in the driver’s seat, took off the glasses,
and sobbed. “This is no way for a mother to be talking to her son,”
she muttered, plucking a Kleenex from her purse. She wiped her eyes
and nose. “But I couldn’t stand to have you go on worshiping him,
when—when he’s been a terrible husband and at best, a part-time
father.”
A few cars sped by, and Chris cleared
his throat. “How long have you known he was—messing around?” he
asked timidly.
“It’s been going on since you were
about five, maybe even before that. I’m not really sure. He hasn’t
exactly been honest with me.” His mother blew her nose, and then
turned to him. Her red-rimmed eyes wrestled with his. “You said
earlier that my moving away screwed everything up—and that if your
father was the one getting a new place, it wouldn’t make such a big
difference. Well, sweetie, you’re right. His life wouldn’t change
much at all. It would be very easy for him. He’d get a bachelor pad
and probably have a live-in girlfriend within six weeks. Well, I’ll
be damned if I let that happen. It’s why I moved out, honey. Maybe
if he actually had to be a full-time father for a while and keep
house for you and Erin—well, perhaps then he’d grow up. He might
even begin to appreciate me a little more, though I doubt
it.”
“I think he appreciates you already,
Mom,” Chris whispered. “I really do. He’s going to want you to come
back, I know it.”
His mother took a deep breath,
readjusted her seat belt, and put her sunglasses back on. “I’ll
tell you what’s going to happen. Your father will cancel his
business trips for a while, but he’ll hire a housekeeper to do the
cooking and cleaning. After about a month, he’ll need to go out of
town, and he’ll get the housekeeper to stay with you and Erin. And
pretty soon, he’ll start traveling on a regular basis again. . .
.”
She glanced over her shoulder and
pulled back onto the highway. The SUV began to pick up speed. The
sound of the wind through the windows and the motor humming almost
drowned her out. But Chris could still hear her. “And then one
day,” she muttered, “he’ll come home from one of those trips with a
woman he’s very serious about—some woman who’s younger and prettier
than me. . . .”
It was scary how accurate his mother’s
prediction was. His dad did indeed stay home for a few weeks. They
went through two housekeepers: one who stole and one who was lazy
as hell. Then he found Hildy, an honest, hardworking Russian woman
who didn’t speak English very well and smelled like an open can of
vegetable soup. Hildy stayed with him and Erin when his dad started
traveling again.
What his mother hadn’t predicted was
how miserable Chris would be. He was utterly disappointed in his
dad—to the point of contempt. His grades started sliding, and he
didn’t care. His timing at swim practices and meets was atrocious.
He hated disappointing his swim coach, Mr. Chertok, because he was
such a nice guy. Mr. Chertok tried to get him to talk about what
was bothering him. But Chris was so ashamed. He couldn’t talk to
Mr. Chertok, or any of his teachers, or Elvis.
He never uttered a word to his dad
about what he knew. At this point, he didn’t want much to do with
him.
He wasn’t too happy with his mother,
either. In order to get even with his dad, she was willing to screw
up his and Erin’s lives. Neither she nor his dad were around to
hear Erin crying in her room at night. Hildy, who slept on an air
mattress in a curtained-off corner of the basement rec room, didn’t
hear her, either. So Chris always came in and sat in a white wicker
rocking chair that was usually reserved for a big stuffed giraffe
she called Bill. Chris would keep her company until she nodded
off.
“At least Erin has you to lean on,”
Elvis pointed out to him, while they wandered around Northgate Mall
one Saturday night. “But who do you have? Why don’t you ever tell
me what’s really going on with you? Something’s bugging you
big-time, and it’s more than just your parents’ splitting up. . .
.” He grabbed hold of Chris’s arm. “Are you even listening to me?”
he asked, raising his voice. “I’m worried about you, man. I mean
it, you’re acting really weird.”
Frowning, Chris glanced over at the
entrance to a clothing store. “A little louder. One or two people
in The Gap didn’t hear you.” He started walking again—toward the
food court.
Elvis caught up with him. “Listen, if
you don’t want to unload on me, then you should talk to a shrink or
maybe Mr. Corson at school.”
Chris squinted at him. “Corson? Are you
nuts? Only losers, psychos, and problem cases go to him. No
thanks.”
Elvis cleared his throat. “Maybe you
forgot that I had a few sessions with Corson a while
back.”
Chris remembered, and immediately felt
bad. After meeting with Elvis, Corson had tried to get Mrs. Harnett
to join AA, but it didn’t take. Nevertheless, Elvis liked him a
lot—as did most of the kids at school. Corson’s claim to fame was
that two years back, he’d decided to quit smoking, and gotten over
a hundred students to pledge they’d quit, too. The final number of
students who actually stopped smoking was seventy-something, but it
was still a big deal.
Chris gave his friend a limp,
apologetic smile. “If I buy you a Cinnabon, would you forget that
last remark—and drop this whole conversation?”
Elvis frowned at him. “That’s really
disgusting. Do you think just because I’m slightly overweight, that
I’d trade in my dignity and my deep concern for your psychological
well-being—all for a Cinnabon?”
Chris nodded.
“Absolutely.”
“Make it a Caramel Pecanbon, and we
have a deal.”
As they headed for Cinnabon, Chris
thought about Mr. Corson. He couldn’t go to him for help. It was
like admitting to himself—and everyone else—that he was indeed very
screwed up.
Instead, Chris exercised every day—to
the point of exhaustion. After swim practice, he ran laps around
the track or lifted weights. It was a good excuse to avoid going
home for a while, maybe even miss dinner, especially when his dad
was in town. He’d come in late, make himself a sandwich, and then
hole up in his room with the TV and his homework.
This routine went on for about three
weeks, but it didn’t make him any happier. The only sliver of
happiness he knew was a weird, warped satisfaction whenever he made
it obvious to his dad that he politely loathed him.
His mother had been right about another
thing. Sure enough, his dad brought some woman home from one of his
trips. And she was indeed younger and prettier than Chris’s mother.
She worked at the Hilton in Washington, D.C., where his dad
attended a pharmaceutical convention. But she was really an artist, so his dad said—whatever the hell that
meant. The way the two of them talked, they’d known each other only
a few weeks. But Chris wondered if his father had been screwing her
long before the separation. Was this Molly person the reason his
parents had split up?
He was thinking about that as he ran
the track at dusk on a chilly Tuesday in early May. It was the
second of three laps he intended to make around the football field.
But his lungs already burned, and he felt depleted. Cold sweat
soaked his jersey. He hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before.
He’d spent most of it in Erin’s room, comforting her from
nightmares. She’d woken up screaming—twice,
for God’s sake.
He started to run faster and faster as
he thought about his poor little sister, who was always so
frightened at night now. He thought about the last time he’d stayed
at his mother’s, when she’d been so concerned about how skinny he’d
become—and the dark circles under his eyes. But within moments, she
was grilling him about his father’s new girlfriend, Molly. His
mother was far more concerned about that situation than she was
about his health. She was pathetic. So was his father, already
smitten (at least that’s the word he used)
with this young woman—just two months after separating from his
wife. What an asshole.
Chris poured on the speed until it felt
as if his heart was about to burst. He staggered off the track and
collapsed onto the cold, damp grass. He started
crying.
He didn’t know how long he sat curled
up on the ground, shivering and sobbing. But he noticed someone
else on the track, rounding the turn and making his way toward him.
Chris quickly tugged the bottom of his jersey up to his face and
wiped away the tears and sweat. He tried to catch his breath. He
recognized the other runner now, in gray sweats. Tall and lean with
wavy, dark hair, it was Mr. Corson. Just keep
moving, pal, Chris thought. Get the hell
away from me. I don’t feel like talking to
anybody.
Slowing down, Corson smiled and waved
at him. Glaring back, Chris just nodded.
Corson must have gotten the hint,
because he trotted past him and started to pick up speed again.
Chris let out a sigh. He didn’t mean to be rude. He just wanted to
be left alone.
“Goddamn it!” he heard Corson cry out.
“Son of a bitch!”
Chris saw him hobble off the track and
stumble to the ground. Corson grabbed his right leg below the knee
and rubbed it furiously. “Damn it!” he howled. He was wincing in
pain.
“Are you okay?” Chris called. His
throat was a bit scratchy from crying.
“I think I pulled a muscle or
something,” Corson replied, still grimacing. He rocked back and
forth while he massaged his calf. “This seriously hurts. . .
.”
Chris got to his feet. “Maybe it’s just
a leg cramp,” he said, approaching him. “I get those when I don’t
have enough sleep or I’m stressed. It’s best to walk it off.” He
stood over the guidance counselor and held out his hand. “Let me
help you.”
Corson frowned at him. “Are you a
sadist? Walk it off? I’m practically crippled here.” He continued
to rub his calf, then gazed up at Chris again and nodded. “Okay,
okay, I’ll try walking on it.”
Chris helped him to his feet and led
him back to the track. “Ouch . . . ah . . . damn it . . .” Corson
grumbled. With an arm around Chris’s shoulder, he hobbled along. He
kept sucking air through his gritted teeth. But his faltering walk
seemed to improve. “I think you’re right,” he admitted at last.
“Must be a leg cramp. I’ve just never had one this severe. Then
again, I’ve been stressed a lot lately. My daughter’s driving me
crazy. How old are you—sixteen, seventeen?”
“Sixteen,” Chris replied. Corson was
still leaning on him and limping a bit.
“That’s how old Tracy is,” he said.
“So—do you hate your parents, too? Does everything they say and do
seem stupid or shallow or phony to you?”
“Kinda,” Chris admitted.
Corson pulled away slightly, but still
kept a hand on his shoulder. “Well, then maybe it’s normal for the
age. Or have you always felt this way about your
folks?”
“Not always,” Chris heard himself say.
“Just lately.”
“Why the sudden change? That’s what I’d
like to know. Tracy used to be such a loving child, and now she
acts like she can’t stand me. All she and her mother do is fight.”
He broke away and rubbed his calf again. “So—what happened with
you? Did you just suddenly decide on your sixteenth birthday that
your parents were losers? Is that how it works?”
“No. At least that’s not how it worked
with me,” Chris mumbled, glancing down at the ground. “My parents
are getting a divorce. And they’re both being pretty selfish, so
I’m pissed at them. In fact, lately, I’m pissed all the time—at
everyone.”
Corson stared at him. “That sucks.” He
seemed to work up a smile, and then held out his hand. “I’m Ray
Corson, the guidance counselor.”
Chris suddenly felt his guard go up,
and he wasn’t sure why. Still, he shook Corson’s hand. “I know who
you are. I’m Chris Dennehy.”
“Well, Chris, if you ever want to talk,
just let me know and I’ll block off an hour for you. It’ll get you
out of study hall.”
Chris shrugged. “I don’t see how
talking about it is going to help. They’re still getting a divorce.
And no disrespect, but you can’t even figure out how to connect
with your own daughter. So how are you going to help
me?”
Corson let out a stunned laugh. “You’re
a real wiseass, aren’t you? But I like that. Listen, it’s always
easier to help other people with their problems than to solve your
own issues. That’s why I was asking how you got along with your
folks. I recognize that I need help dealing with my daughter.” He
bent down and massaged his calf again. “So—Chris, when you
recognize that you need help dealing with your parents, come see me
in my office. Or you can usually find me here between five and six
on weekdays. I could use a running partner—if for nothing else, in
case I ever get another leg cramp.”
He straightened up, and still limping
slightly, started toward the school. “Take care!” he called over
his shoulder.
Two days later, Chris came and saw him
in his office.
Between the scheduled appointments and
the impromptu running sessions together, Mr. Corson helped him to
understand his parents better and forgive them for not being
perfect. Mr. Corson also urged him to give Molly a chance, and
Chris realized his soon-to-be stepmother was actually kind of nice.
From what he could tell, she had nothing to do with his parents’
breakup. And she was a good artist. In fact, Molly even had him
pose as the hero for the cover of a young adult novel that could
end up being the start of a series.
Though he liked Molly, he still felt a
loyalty to his mother, who clearly disdained her. Mr. Corson helped
him deal with those conflicts. Chris took drivers’ education at
school during the summer, and he met up with Corson at the track
once or twice a week. The guidance counselor had become his friend,
and Chris depended on him. He didn’t mean for Mr. Corson to take
the place of his father, but that was what sort of
happened.
And just as his father ultimately
disappointed him, so would Mr. Corson.
In the end, Chris would wish he’d never
walked into this office, where he now sat waiting for Munson to
return.
Slouched in the chair, he nervously
tapped the cover of the self-help book and sneered at the
To Thine Own Self Be True clown poster on
the wall. He heard someone coming and quickly straightened up in
the chair.
“That’s the damnedest thing,” Munson
muttered, stepping back into the office with a file folder. He sat
down at his desk again. “There are no records of your visits here
with Mr. Corson.”
Chris just stared at him and
shrugged.
“Corson made evaluations and progress
reports of every student who consulted him—even the onetime
visits,” Munson explained. “Your evaluation—along with your
progress reports and all the notes he took during your
sessions—they’re missing.”
Chris shook his head. He remembered all
the deep, private conversations he’d had with Mr. Corson in this
room, all the things he could admit to his trusted counselor and no
one else. Corson was taking notes during all those sessions. “What
happened to them?” he asked numbly. “You sure Mr. Corson didn’t
just take them with him when he left?”
“No, I checked the files from last
semester, and his critiques and progress reports are there for the
other students,” Munson said.
“Well, who would want to steal Mr.
Corson’s notes on our sessions? Those conversations were private.”
Chris felt a pang of dread in his gut—as if realizing he’d lost his
wallet. Only this was far more valuable—and personal. “Maybe we
should call Mr. Corson, and ask—”
Chris remembered and stopped himself.
He swallowed hard. He hated the look of pity in Mr. Munson’s eyes.
“I just don’t understand why anyone would take something like
that,” he murmured. “Who would do that? What would they want with
it?”
Munson continued to study him in a
pained and wondering way. He sighed and shook his head. “That’s
what I’d like to know, too, Chris,” he replied.