CHAPTER NINE
“So—in all this time that she’s been
married to your dad, Molly hasn’t once talked about her family?”
his mother asked.
“Not really,” Chris replied, ensconced
in front of her boyfriend Larry’s computer.
His mother didn’t see him roll his
eyes. She was arranging the sheets on the foldout sofa bed in
Larry’s study, which served as Chris’s bedroom whenever his mother
had him and Erin for the weekend.
He tolerated Larry Keegan, a stocky,
balding older guy who seemed to think they were really connecting
because they could talk about sports. Chris hadn’t told his mother,
but Larry’s habit of always calling him dude
drove him nuts. Larry obviously suffered under the delusion that
this made him a very cutting-edge guy. He had a thirteen-year-old
daughter, Taylor, who was kind of a pill both times Chris had met
her. She was with her mother this weekend, thank God.
Since his mom had moved in with Larry,
these alternate weekend visits had become more and more of a drag.
Chris didn’t know anyone in Bellevue, so all he could do was bus it
to Bellevue Square Mall or hole up in Larry’s study and play
computer games. The study was in the basement and had its own
bathroom, so at least Chris had his privacy. Larry had gone mallard
crazy decorating the place. There were pictures of ducks on the
wall, and duck-decoy lamps, and even a duck pattern on the sofa his
mother was preparing for him so he could bed down for the
night.
It was just past eleven. Erin was
already asleep up in Taylor’s room, and Larry had nodded off in his
La-Z-Boy recliner in front of one of those CSI shows.
Chris’s mom was tucking the bottom of
the sheet under the mattress. “The father’s dead, the mother’s in
Florida, and her brother killed himself, is that right?” she
asked.
“Yeah,” Chris said, staring at the
computer monitor. He was playing Cube Runner, and really didn’t
feel like answering questions about Molly. Lately, it seemed every
time he saw his mom, she wanted a full report on Molly’s every
activity. Did his dad seem happy with her? Did Molly get any calls
from her family or old friends?
It had been a week since he’d gone
against his dad’s orders and attended Mr. Corson’s wake. Molly had
been nice enough to drive him to the funeral parlor, and he’d been
pretty creepy toward her. As far as Chris knew, she hadn’t said
anything to his dad about it. After Molly had covered for him, it
just didn’t seem right to spy on her for his mom. Besides, he
really didn’t have much to report.
“And you’ve never met her mother—or
even talked to her on the phone?” his mom pressed.
“No, I haven’t,” Chris mumbled, his
eyes on the computer screen.
“Don’t you find that odd? I mean, after
all . . .”
He did think it was pretty strange. The
lady was his step-grandmother, and she hadn’t even spoken with him
yet. It was like she didn’t exist.
“Do you know how
her brother killed himself?” his mom asked. She was slipping a
flower-patterned case over the pillow. “Did Molly say anything to
you about it?”
“Nope,” Chris said.
“What was his name again?”
“Charlie, I think.”
“Do you know if he killed himself in
Chicago or in Washington, D.C.?”
He leaned back in the cushioned swivel
chair. “I really don’t know, Mom.”
Frowning, she tossed the pillow on the
foldout bed. “You probably wouldn’t tell me even if you did know.
You’re starting to like her, I can tell.”
“She’s okay, I guess,” he replied.
Chris consciously kept his eyes on the monitor. “It’s just kind of
weird that you keep asking me about her, Mom—practically every time
I’m here. Molly never asks about you at all.”
His mother clicked her tongue against
her teeth. “Well, excuse me if I want to know about this woman
who’s looking after my children part of the time. She had a brother
who committed suicide and a mother who never calls or visits. Who’s
to say some kind of mental illness doesn’t run in her family? I’m
just concerned, that’s all. I can’t help thinking about that crazy
stalker your father was—seeing, that
Cassandra character. He’s not exactly discriminating. . .
.”
“I think Molly’s pretty normal, Mom,”
Chris said quietly. He switched off his computer game, and then
faked a yawn. He turned the swivel chair to face her. “Boy, I’m
beat. I think I’ll hit the sheets. Thanks for making up the
bed.”
She stared at him. He could tell she
was hurt he didn’t want to talk anymore. She seemed to work up a
smile, and then kissed his forehead. “You know, I love these
weekends with you and Erin. Larry really enjoys having you, too.
Anything special you’d like to do tomorrow?”
He shrugged. “I can’t think of
anything.”
She mussed his hair. “Well, sleep on
it. G’night, Chris.”
Twenty minutes later, as he tossed and
turned on Larry’s lumpy sofa bed, Chris thought about how it drove
him nuts whenever his mom started criticizing his dad. Didn’t she
realize that kind of talk only made them both seem awful? It had been one reason he’d come to
depend so much on Mr. Corson last year.
Attending his wake a week ago had been
pointless and painful. First, Mr. C’s sister had chewed him out,
then his widow had told him what a creepy little shit he was. He
had to remind himself that Mr. Corson had forgiven him—and so had
the niece, Serena. Chris was still baffled over his encounter with
her. He was convinced Serena had been the one who had snuck into
the funeral parlor men’s room and said whatever she’d said to screw
around with his head. She must have picked up his sunglasses and
followed him to her aunt’s apartment complex. Chris couldn’t think
of anyone else who might have done that.
He’d had a pretty miserable week. It
was hard to kick back and have anything resembling a good time when
he knew certain people hated him. And he still wasn’t over Mr.
Corson’s murder. But finals kept him busy—as did rehearsals for
Aquanautics, the show the boys’ and girls’
swim teams put on twice a year to raise money for charity. This
time it was for leukemia. There were races, diving competitions,
and the girls put on a synchronized swimming routine. Chris was
surprised they’d decided to have it again—especially after what had
happened at the last show.
He remembered four months ago, throwing
himself into rehearsals for the January Aquanautics. He still hadn’t had a chance to talk with
Mr. Corson, who had left school about three weeks before. Ian
Scholl had lasted only a few days once Mr. Corson had gone. It was
all over school and the Internet about the two of them in the boys’
locker room. Even people who assumed Mr. C was merely consoling the
kid had figured it was because Ian had finally admitted to his
counselor—and himself—that he was gay. He’d spent so much time
trying not to be identified as homosexual, and now everyone
knew—including his crazy, Bible-thumping parents.
When Ian had failed to show up to
school the first Thursday in January, rumors flew about what had
happened to him. Elvis heard that Ian’s parents had pulled him out
of school and stuck him in some clinic in Encino that was supposed
to cure his homosexuality. “They may as well try teaching him to
breathe underwater,” Elvis commented. “Even if Ian figured out how
to pull off something like that, it would still be a constant
struggle.”
By the time Chris was practicing for
Aquanautics in mid-January, people had
stopped talking about Mr. Corson and Ian. Chris still felt
miserable for his part in what had happened. But he couldn’t do a
damn thing about it.
So he focused on mastering a reverse
one-and-a-half-tuck-position dive for the show—even though he was a
swimmer, not a diver. He really punished himself, trying to get the
routine right. He went home every night with a headache from all
those repeated botched dives from the high board. Coach Chertok
kept telling him to lighten up and do a simpler routine. This was
for a charity show, not some competition. But Chris was obsessed
with getting this particular dive just perfect in time for the
show.
All the while, he wondered if Mr.
Corson would be in the audience for Aquanautics. It was a popular event at the school, and
Mr. Corson had originally suggested the charity they ended up
choosing: Big Brothers Big Sisters of Puget Sound. So it wasn’t
totally implausible that he’d attend. Chris imagined himself
perched on the high dive, spotting Mr. Corson in the crowded
stands. He would salute him, and announce to everyone there, “I
dedicate this dive to my guidance counselor, Mr. Corson,” and then
he’d perform a flawless gainer-one-half.
But the day before the show, Chris
still hadn’t mastered the dive. He’d only been able to pull it off
a few times in about sixty attempts. Coach Chertok said his form
was poor most of the time. Either his arms weren’t extended high
enough at takeoff, or his feet were apart when he hit the water.
Chris didn’t have a lot of confidence he could get it right for the
show.
He had this weird notion that if Mr.
Corson came to Aquanautics, he’d be able to
tackle the dive—for him. Chris furtively looked for him in the
crowded stands as he filed out of the locker room with the boys’
team. Meanwhile the girls marched out from their locker room on the
other side of the pool. Both teams dove into the water in perfect
synchronization. All the while, the theme to Hawaii
Five-O played over the tinny-sounding intercom. Between his
swimming routines, Chris scanned the bleachers again, hoping to see
Mr. Corson, but he didn’t spot him. Then came the diving portion of
the program, and they turned off the music. Coach Chertok provided
color commentary, whispering into a mike a little something about
each diver—and how amazing they’d been in this meet and that meet.
Chris tried to tune him out as he climbed up the ladder to the high
board. He had to focus on his dive. Yet he couldn’t help looking
around from his lofty vantage point, still hoping to spot Mr.
Corson in the audience. Again, there was no sign of
him.
“. . . not only that, but Chris is one
of the nicest guys you ever could meet,” Coach Chertok finished
up.
Chris was really touched by that
comment, but he told himself to think about the dive. He paused at
the top of the ladder. Push off with your arms high
over your head, and then tuck tight—like a little ball. He
slowly, deliberately started toward the end of the diving board,
ready to raise his hands over his head.
That was when he heard the
screams.
Chris stopped dead. The board wobbled
beneath him. He gaped down toward the source of the noise and saw
someone in the bleachers, pushing his way past people in a row of
seats. He barreled toward the aisle. A few women cried out, and
there was a rumbling. People ducked and recoiled from him, anything
to get out of his way. One mother in the next row up tried to
shield her two young children as he passed in front of
her.
Precariously standing on the end of the
high dive, Chris gazed down at the person causing all the commotion
and panic. He recognized Ian Scholl and saw the gun in his hand. It
was hard to miss. Ian waved it at everyone around him.
More people started screaming as Ian
charged down the aisle steps toward the pool area. In their dark
blue one-piece swimsuits and matching bathing caps, the girls’ team
had lined up along a dividing wall from the bleachers, right beside
those steps. Suddenly the girls scattered in many different
directions. The pool area was like an echo chamber, and their
horrified shrieks were deafening.
Some of them were too scared to move.
They stood there with their backs pressed against the wall. Ian
grabbed one of them by the arm. It was Margaret Riddle, a petite,
pale girl with freckles. She struggled to pull away from him, but
he jabbed the gun barrel against the side of her neck. Margaret let
out a scream.
“Shut up!” Ian yelled. “Everyone, shut
up!” He hoisted his gun in the air for a second and fired. The shot
reverberated through the pool area.
There were more shrieks. “Goddamn it,
shut up!” he cried. “All of you!” He held Margaret in front of
him—almost like a human shield. He pressed the gun under her chin.
She shook and wept uncontrollably.
Everyone turned quiet. The crying from
people in the stands became muted. It was as if they were suddenly
too scared to make a sound. Margaret’s bare feet squeaked against
the tiles as he hauled her closer toward the other side of the
pool, where Chris stood paralyzed on the high dive.
Ian looked up at him. Slowly, he took
the gun away from Margaret’s chin.
Chris started to tremble. The diving
board teetered beneath him. He suddenly felt cold and naked in his
blue Speedo—so vulnerable. He clutched his arms in front of his
chest. Horrorstruck, he watched Ian point the gun up at him. All at
once, he couldn’t breathe.
Chris thought for certain he was a dead
man.
“I’M NOT QUEER!” Ian
yelled.
His mouth open, Chris shook his head at
him. He wanted to say, It doesn’t matter.
But he couldn’t get any words out. He took a step back on the
board.
Ian glanced around at the people in the
bleachers, randomly waving the gun at them. “Do you hear me?” he
shouted over the muffled crying. “I’m not a queer! I’m sick of
people saying that! You’re all liars!”
Helpless, Chris gazed down at him. Ian
turned, and his back was to him for a moment.
Out of the corner of his eye, Chris saw
Coach Chertok through the window of his office. He was on the
telephone in there. Chris began to notice a few people in the
stands furtively whispering into their cell phones. He wondered if
all the calls to the police would do any good. Would the cops make
it there before Ian started shooting?
“Nothing happened with me and Mr.
Corson!” Ian shouted. “You’re all liars! What did I ever do to any
of you?” He seemed to clutch Margaret even tighter, and his face
was pressed up against hers. He stuck the gun under her chin
again.
Squirming, she let out a shriek. “God,
somebody help me!”
“Ian, stop it!” Chris managed to say.
“Please, you don’t want to do this. . . .”
Ian swiveled around and gazed up at him
again. All at once, he shoved Margaret away. She screamed again as
she hit the tiled floor. He aimed the gun at her.
“No, Ian, don’t!” Chris
yelled.
Ian stared up at him. Tilting his head
back, he opened his mouth, then stuck the gun barrel in
it.
The shot rang out, and Chris recoiled,
almost falling off the board. He managed to grab on to the
railing.
Stunned, he watched Ian’s body flop
down on the tiles. The gun dropped out of his hand, and his head
hit the edge of the pool.
Everyone was screaming. Chris could
hear Coach Chertok yelling over all the noise that the police were
on the way, and everybody should stay calm. Mrs. Chertok hurried
from the stands and helped the traumatized Margaret to her
feet.
Doubled over, Chris clutched the
diving-board rail and gazed down at Ian Scholl’s lifeless
body.
Sometimes, when Chris lay in bed in the
dark, he could still see Ian—with his eyes open and his face turned
sideways against the pool’s edge. Chris remembered the puddle of
blood under his head, some of it running into the pool, billowing
in the blue water.
He suddenly bolted up in Larry’s sofa
bed and tossed back the covers. He started to reach for the duck
decoy lamp on the end table, but changed his mind.
He could hear someone walking around
upstairs. He wasn’t sure if it was his mother or Larry. Either way,
he didn’t want anyone to know he was awake.
So he sat there in the
dark.
He didn’t want anyone to come down and
see he was crying.