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Authors: Kevin O'Brien

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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—”

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