Wild Reckless (Harper Boys #1)(110)

The obituary is the first thing to come up. It’s a scan of an old, yellowed clipping from the Woodstock News. I read the list of survivors over and over again—James, Owen, and Andrew. That word…survivors…it catches me. Surviving someone—I don’t know that there’s a better way to describe Owen.

I flip through a few more pages, some of them not the right Bill Harper, some of them stories about the warehouse Bill worked at, condolences from longtime co-workers and friends. I’m about to flip the computer closed when a small photo catches my eye.

Owen’s dad is standing in front of a big forklift, his hair hanging heavy over his eyes, his face so much like his son’s. But it’s the face next to him that stops me. It’s familiar, and the name with it can’t be a coincidence.



I don’t sleep at all, too anxious to get to the next day. I greet Owen in the driveway in the morning, and he’s a little surprised to see me up so early. He’s leaving with Andrew, his brother’s school bag slumped over his back, his body wearing sadness like a suit.

“Don’t you get to sleep in later now?” Owen asks. His hair is still wet, and it smells like his shampoo. I kiss him on the lips quickly, breathing the scent in through my nose to remember it, then run back to my own car.

“I do, but I have to do something for English. It’s an extra-credit thing, and I have to get it in this morning,” I say. I can tell Owen doesn’t believe me, but I keep moving forward, waving at him, closing my door, and driving off without glancing back. I know I’ll have a good half-hour at school before he shows up. I just need Mr. Chessman to be there, too.

I’m hopeful when the teachers’ lot is halfway full, and when the light is spilling out from Mr. Chessman’s classroom, I pick up my step into a light jog. I startle him when I stumble through his door.

“Kensi, good morning! To what do I owe the pleasure?” he says. I notice the stack of homework on his desktop, Owen’s name scribbled at the top of a few papers. He pushes them into a pile, moving them to the side, trying to get my attention away from them. But it’s the only thing my eyes see. I leave my gaze there as I speak.

“How did you know Bill Harper?” I ask.

I take the silence that greets me as confirmation. I move closer to Mr. Chessman’s desk, sliding the printout of the picture I found online in front of him. He picks it up, holding it in both hands, his eyes spending long seconds on every detail. It’s more than recognition that shadows his face; it’s memories.

“How did you find this?” he asks, his eyes still on the black-and-white page. The photo is a bit fuzzy, but the faces are distinct. It’s the eyes. I saw him in those eyes.

“At first I wasn’t sure why the guy standing with Bill looked so familiar. I thought maybe it was a relative, or that I was remembering a picture I saw at Owen’s house. I’m not sure how you flashed into my head. But I’m glad you did,” I say.

Mr. Chessman puts the picture down on his desk, the caption below labeling Bill Harper and Dwayne Chessman. His palms are flat along either side of the paper, and he peers up at me slowly.

“How did you know him?” I ask again. I know it isn’t a happy memory. Mr. Chessman’s eyes are distant. His breathing is slow, and it takes a few seconds before he resolves himself to answering my question.

“Bill and I worked at the warehouse together. For about a year,” he says, leaning back in his chair. He folds his arms in front of him, his eyes moving lower, to the space under his desk. “I had just gotten out of the Navy, and I was back home, trying to put myself through school. I took the job at the warehouse because the hours fit my classes. They paired me up with Billy because he’d been there the longest,” he says, his eyes coming up to mine briefly before he stands and begins pacing his classroom.

“Bill trained me on the machines, and I liked working with him so much, they let me stay on his team permanently. His wife, Shannon, would bring him lunch every day, and after a few months on the job, she started bringing a lunch for me, too. I spent a year on Bill’s team, and for a year I sat outside on the picnic table, next to him and across from his wife, eating sandwiches and talking about my college classes and learning about their kids. Shannon wanted to go to college too, but they never had enough money.”

Mr. Chessman’s gaze drifts away again, his eyes fixed outside, to the sidewalk along the street. More students are arriving, and I know my time with him alone is growing short.

“Is that why you help Owen? Because you knew Bill?” I say. He turns to me quickly, his brow pinched. I move to his desk and lift the stack of papers, all Owen’s. “His homework. His grades. I know you’ve been collecting things and turning things in for him when he misses other classes.”

Mr. Chessman’s mouth slides into a smile as he chuckles, moving over to his desk and taking the stack from my hand, spreading it out between us.

“I don’t do anything for him. I collect his work, check in with his teachers, sure. But Owen…he always does the work himself. He finds a way, finds time. He’s always been that way, ahead of the rest of the class,” Mr. Chessman says, a proud and satisfied grin showing as he pushes the papers back together before moving them to a wire basket on his back table.

“Ahead?” I question. Mr. Chessman leans against the table, crossing his legs and folding his arms. He’s told me so much, more than he probably should. His quiet worries me, and I start to think I’ve gotten everything I’m going to from him. It’s not enough. I need more; I need to find out if there’s enough there for him to help me, for him to convince Owen to stay.