Kevin O'Brien - Disturbed

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!”