Kevin O'Brien - Disturbed

“Shut up already!” Chris heard George growl. Then there was whispering.

Chris buttoned his shirt back up. He quickly collected his jacket and backpack of books. He just couldn’t stick around there. He closed his locker, spun the combination dial, and then ducked out of the locker room.

It was raining out, so Chris stood under the bus shelter while waiting for the number 331. Only a few other students were at the stop. They looked like freshmen. Chris didn’t have to wait long before the bus showed up. He took a seat near the back. Staring out the rain-beaded window, he thought about Ian Scholl.

Ian was thin and pale with jet-black hair. There was something weird about his looks — he seemed pretty instead of handsome. Courtney claimed he must have sculpted his eyebrows to get them to look the way they did. Yet he didn’t have a metrosexual thing going on. He always dressed very neat and conservatively in what Courtney called Mormon clothes. Ian was a mess of contradictions. He was obviously gay, and just as obviously uncomfortable with it. His effeminate manner — paired with a rabid homophobia — alienated everyone and made him a prime target for teasing.

Chris didn’t talk to him much. They were in the same English lit class, but that was about it. Mostly, he just saw Ian in the hallways, carrying his books like a girl — until some guy inevitably knocked those books out of his grasp or tripped him. On one of those occasions, Chris had felt bad for Ian, and he’d picked up one of Ian’s books for him. “Are you okay?” he’d asked.

Ian had snatched the book out of his hand. “I don’t need any help from some dumb jock,” he’d hissed.

Chris had let out a surprised laugh. “Well, screw you, then.” He’d turned and walked away.

So later, when Mr. Corson had asked him to be nice to Ian, Chris resisted. They’d been jogging around the track together. Chris told him about the episode with the schoolbooks in the hallway. “The guy’s a jerk,” Chris said, between gasps for air. “I already tried to be friendly with him, and he got all pissy on me. And you want me to be his pal? No thanks!”

Mr. Corson slowed to a stop, and then caught his breath. His Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band Concert Tour T-shirt was soaked and clinging to him. Jogging in place at his side, Chris had only a few beads of sweat on his forehead.

“You weren’t offering Ian friendship,” Mr. Corson said. “You were offering him your pity. He was mad and humiliated. So he snapped at you. Give him a second chance. I’m not asking you to be best friends with him. Just be nice, and maybe persuade some of your pals to stop tormenting him.”

Chris suddenly stopped running in place. “I’ve never tormented him,” he pointed out. “And the guys who pick on him aren’t my friends, so I doubt they’ll listen to me when I tell them to lay off. I don’t have that much clout around here.” He shook his head. “Really, I’m sorry, but I can’t help you out, Mr. C.”

“Fine, I understand,” Mr. Corson muttered.

“We’ve still got two more laps,” Chris said. He started running in place once more. “You aren’t pooping out on me, are you?”

Mr. Corson nodded. “Yeah, I am,” he sighed. “You go ahead and finish up without me, Chris. I’m beat.” He turned and lumbered toward the school’s athletic wing.

Chris remembered watching him walk away. He’d almost called to him. But instead, he’d just let him go.

Chris heard the bus driver announce his stop. He let out a sigh and started to reach for the signal cord above his head. But then he hesitated. He didn’t want to go home just yet. He couldn’t pretend for Molly that everything was okay. He just didn’t have it in him right now. Slowly, his hand went down and he watched the bus speed past his stop.

He realized there was someplace else he had to go.

The bus made three more stops, and Chris was the only passenger left. He wasn’t too familiar with this part of the route, but he knew they must be getting close to his destination. He’d only been there once before.

Getting to his feet, he made his way toward the front of the bus. The driver was a cinnamon-skinned, thirtysomething woman with short-cropped, shiny, dark auburn hair. Chris caught her looking at him in the mirror.

“Excuse me,” he said, grabbing an overhead strap to keep his balance. “Does this bus go to the — the Evergreen Wasabi Cemetery?”

“Ha!” She grinned up at him in the mirror. “You mean, Evergreen Washelli, honey! Wasabi is Japanese horseradish. Ha!” She gazed at his reflection; and obviously she saw he wasn’t smiling. She shifted in her seat a bit, cleared her throat, and nodded. “Evergreen Washelli Memorial Park is coming up in two more stops. Why don’t you sit down, honey? I’ll tell you when we get there.”

Chris plopped down on the handicapped seat behind her. He figured the bus driver must have thought he was related to someone buried in the cemetery, and maybe that was why she got serious all of the sudden. “Thanks a lot,” he said.

Chris thanked her again a few minutes later as the doors whooshed open and he stepped off the bus. He was about a half block from the open gates of the Memorial Park entrance. By the time Chris started down the private drive of the park, his hair was wet and matted down with rain. His jacket had become soaked. The cold dampness seeped through to his shoulders, and he shuddered. He passed the administration building, which resembled a modern-looking chapel. He’d gone in there on his last visit for help finding the grave.

But he was pretty sure he still remembered where the marker was. Taking a curve in the road, he started up a gentle slope and kept a lookout for a tall statue of St. Joseph. That had been how he’d found his way when he’d been here back in January. The trees were bare then, and the grass had some brown patches. But everything was in bloom now, and the lawn was a lush, misty green — punctuated by squares of gray, rose, and white marble. There were only a few other people in the park, and they’d had the good sense to bring umbrellas. No one was close enough to see him muttering to himself: “I’m sure this is the way. I know St. Joseph is around here someplace. . ”

He finally spotted the statue behind a huge evergreen. Just beyond that was a section of the cemetery with no upright markers. The grave he wanted to find was near one of the two Japanese maples on the far side of the section.

As Chris trudged on the grass, he felt water seeping into his Nikes, soaking his socks. The rain seemed to be getting worse. His hands were wet and cold. He rarely strapped on his backpack, but he resorted to that now — so he could shove both hands in his jacket pockets. Shivering, he imagined catching pneumonia, maybe even dying.

Well, he deserved to die.

Perhaps they would bury him here among these flat markers, where people could walk over the gravestones, as well as the graves — and not give a damn. He realized that without any standing tombstones, it might be tough to find the right grave — a lot tougher than he thought.

Chris reached the Japanese maples — with rain dripping from their red spidery leaves. He started looking for the marker . Near the end of the row , he reminded himself. He couldn’t remember the color. He walked up and down the end row of markers with his head down, looking at the ground. It was his posture of the day, because he didn’t want to talk with anyone.

The only people he wanted to talk to were dead.

And they hadn’t buried Mr. Corson yet.

After a few minutes, the names started to blend together, and Chris retraced his steps. “You’re here someplace,” he whispered, running a hand through his wet hair. “I know you’re here. . ”