Kevin O'Brien - Disturbed

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 hardback 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.