Kevin O'Brien - Disturbed

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. . ”