The Good Life: Next Generation Indie Book Awards Finalist

By Thomas Corrigan

Fifteen-year-old Walker Morrison has somehow managed to survive nine years in a religious, preppy K-8 school with his sanity and an actual group of friends. The six-foot-one football player and wannabe movie director has finally emerged from his shell, given the piano performance of his life at a final school concert, and secured a passionate kiss from the beautiful Candace Watson. But little does Walker know that his life is about to slowly unravel before his eyes.

After spending the summer with his rebellious best friend, Josh, Walker starts his freshman year at a prestigious coed high school in Northern California. Although he has heard mixed reviews about his new school, Walker has decided not to let the comments build his expectations. After all, how bad can freshman year really be? Unfortunately, Walker is about to find out as his classmates begin to bully him. When he risks his life for the sake of Josh and is officially rejected by his peers, Walker decides he has had enough, exacts bloody revenge, and learns that sometimes what he wants in life isn’t exactly what he needs.

The Good Life is the story of a teen’s journey to find acceptance while searching for his true identity during his formative years.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Feb 28, 2021
• ISBN: 9781663218650

Thomas Corrigan

Thomas Corrigan is a recent high school graduate. He is also the author of The Good Life, a coming-of-age hyper-reality action novel. When he is not attending classes, he enjoys screenwriting, composing and performing music live, and bodybuilding. He currently lives in California.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

AS I FADE IN AND out of consciousness, I look up to the sky and watch the rain fall all around me. My clothes are soaked, so I decide to take off my leather jacket. As I look down to unzip the now ruined jacket, I see that the water around me is a dark shade of red. I bend down to taste the water, at which point I fall off the park bench I was sitting on. A sharp pain shoots through my shoulder, and the water gets redder. I realize that, most likely in a couple of hours, I will be walking up to the golden gates. Well, hopefully walking up to the golden gates. I try moving off the ground and grab the bench to boost me up. As I get up, a pain shoots through my right foot, and I fall down. I take off my shoe and see that my ankle is swollen, probably broken. I use my left foot to push the rest of my body up, and I begin to move. I see a church steeple in the distance.

Priest probably lives there, sometimes at their convent or whatever. It’s shelter. Help—I need help. I’m going. I don’t deserve help, but I’m going.

As I stagger down the street, jacket in hand, I pull out my phone to check the time: 9:07. I press the home button, and my phone flashes a few times and powers off. Water damage.

Looks like 911 ain’t an option right now.

I continue down the street to the church, and I look back up to see a girl making out with her boyfriend under the shingles of the local liquor store. The boyfriend stops and walks up to me.

Are you good? he asks, concerned. You look pretty messed up.

I’m fine, I say. How far is St. Joseph from here?

Excuse me? he asks.

The church—how far is it? I reply.

Oh. Oh, maybe a half mile or so, he says. I see him begin to worry.

Thanks, I say.

I keep walking for about fifteen minutes, and I finally get to the entrance of the church. I try to take one step up the stairs, but I fall. I try to get back up, but I can’t. The pain in my foot is too much. I crawl up the remaining stairs and knock on the door. Not loud enough. I take my phone out of my pocket and slam it against the door. After banging the door, I hear someone start to walk toward it. The rain starts coming down harder. A priest opens the door, and I black out.

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I wake up, and I’m lying on a bed shivering from the rain. Though my vision is blurred, I look around to see a man in a white robe with crosses and shit on it walking toward me.

I ask, God?

Ha, I wish, son, the man answers as he pulls the sheets over me. What’s your name, kid?

Walker Morrison, I respond, trying to focus on his voice.

Father John Luke. Good to meet you, he says.

I realize it is the priest, and my vision returns. He sits down on a chair across from me and crosses his feet on top of a stool. He looks like he has just entered the priesthood and is very young—black hair, goatee, and a tattoo of Jesus on his wrist.

Father Luke walks over to a sink in the back of the room. How old are you?

Nearly sixteen, I reply. I roll around on the bed, avoiding pressure on my shoulder.

Now how did you find yourself at the front of my church with a broken ankle and a fragment of a bullet stuck in your chest? he asks, handing me some water.

It’s a long story, I say.

Well, long story or short, I’m gonna need to get you to a hospital, Walker, says Father Luke. He leans forward on the stool before standing up.

I look around and realize I’m in some sort of back storage room of the church. No, a confessionary? Chairs, bed I’m lying on. No, it’s the priest’s residence. There’s a sink at the back of the room, some cabinets, drawers. Definitely the priest’s residence.

No, no hospital, I beg.

Walker, your ankle looks broken, and I think you have a bullet in your shoulder, the priest insists. I’m calling the hospital.

He walks to the back of the residence and picks up a phone, presumably dialing 911. The phone rings and rings and rings … and ends on the busy tone.

Strange. The priest hangs up the phone, pulls out his mobile phone from his pants pocket, and dials 911 on it as well. The phone rings and goes to another busy tone. Storm must’ve caused a power outage. Cell towers probably failing right now as well.

Thank God. I exhale, relieved.

What? the priest asks.

I mean thank gosh, I say.

No, not the ‘God’ part. Why don’t you want to go to a hospital? Father Luke asks.

I sigh and avert my eyes from him. Well, first off, I think I could go to juvie, and second, I don’t deserve help at this point. Shouldn’t even be alive right now.

I cough, and blood falls onto the bedsheets. Father Luke’s eyes widen, and we stare at each other in horror. I cough again, and more blood shoots out. Soon I’m coughing up so much blood that I might as well have punctured my throat.

I wasn’t bleeding from my mouth like this before, I say between coughs. My vision blurs again.

Father Luke comes over to me and taps my face lightly. Walker, you need to stay awake. Focus on my voice.

I strain to focus on the muffled sounds in the growing blackness on the edges of my eyes.

Walker! The priest shouts.

I jolt awake.

Walker, I need your permission to help you right now, Father Luke demands.

No prob, I say as blood drools out of my mouth.

Walker, let me tell you a brief story, he says as he props my head up on some pillows and turns my face to the side to let the blood drain out.

I look up at him as he walks to the opposite end of the room.

He shouts back, Always have these here in case of an emergency during Mass or nearby or something. Finally coming into play, I guess.

I look up to see him fumbling through the drawers and cabinets.

I came here to California to attend Stanford for medical school. I was doing great in classes and eventually became a surgeon. However, my career was cut short when I was hit by a pickup truck and rushed to the hospital. The priest returns to the room with a pair of tweezers, a pair of medical scissors, a syringe, and sutures. He continues, Well, I prayed to God while I was fading in and out of consciousness on the way to the operating room. I promised him I would go into the priesthood if he spared my life, and look where I am.

So you can hel— I cough again. Help me?

You bet, Father Luke confirms. He flicks the syringe, comes over to me, and kneels at the bedside. Small pinch.

I wince and feel the needle go into my shoulder multiple times. Soon the whole area is numb. I poke my shoulder and feel no pain where there was agony before.

Feel good? Father Luke asks me.

I nod and say, I’m gonna look away while you do this bit, cool?

Father Luke chuckles, Fine by me. I’m gonna go in, take the bullet out, and put some sutures on the entry and exit wounds. It should take around five to ten minutes, and you’ll feel some pricks here and there, but please try to remain still so I can grab the bullet.

I nod and pull part of the bedsheet into my mouth in case the pain becomes unbearable. Hopefully it won’t. I feel the skin surrounding my shoulder being moved around and pushed and pulled. I feel some liquid running down my chest and assume it’s residue from the anesthetic. Then a prick in my shoulder sends pain through my arm.

Mmmgh, I grunt.

All good? the priest asks. I think I can feel the bullet. Yeah, the tweezers are hitting something hard and rough.

Mmkay, I groan as another prick of pain surges through. In a moment of sheer curiosity, I turn my head to the wound and see the priest’s hands engulfed in blood. My blood. My eyes widen. The liquid I felt earlier was blood running down my chest.

Almost … there … The priest grunts, and the scissors in his left hand snip away bits of skin as he squeezes the tweezers in his right hand. I’ve got it; hold still.

I release the bedsheet, which turned out to be unnecessary, from my mouth. I watch as Father Luke’s hands shake and eventually yank a bullet out of me, at which point I lose consciousness.

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I wake up and look to my right to see no one. Father Luke is back on his chair with his feet on the stool. I look down at my shoulder and then at the top of my back. Both wounds are sutured with clinical-level stitching.

You’re up. Father Luke takes his feet off the stool. Feel all right?

You’re a fuckin’ saint, you know that? I smile. Thank you.

Wasn’t gonna let you die. He smiles back.

So about the hospital? I ask.

Power’s still out; don’t know when it’s coming back, he explains. For now, how ’bout you explain to me why you didn’t or still don’t think you should be alive.

Long story. I attempt to end the discussion. Nothing you’d get.

Well, we’ve got until the power comes back on, Father Luke says. Try me, kid. I can provide some guidance, or if you want, you can use your ‘long story’ as a kind of confession. You Catholic?

I stare at him blankly and eventually sigh, Yes, I am. Fine.

You can rest a bit longer if you want, Father Luke offers.

No, no, if I’m gonna get through this whole thing in a few hours, we gotta start now, I say. So …

Oh, all right. Well, okay. The priest nods, does the sign of the cross, and invites me to do the same. I do the gesture, and then I begin.

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned, I start. It has been … too damn long since my last confession.

The priest snickers.

I pause. That’s all I have to say, right? I ask.

Yes, that’s all. He laughs. Begin.

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START

I GUESS I SHOULD START with the end of eighth grade. I was stoked to finish nine years of the tenth circle of hell in a religious, let’s-shove-faith-down-your-throat, preppy K–8 school. A school in which I not only received nine years of the same boring people on the same boring day-in, day-out routine, but I also did not leave that school without a legacy. Some kids pissed on the walls of the restroom; some kissed the teacher’s ass. Yet no one got expelled, because it would’ve killed my school’s perfect record. And then there was I, Walker Morrison, who left with the best damn piano performance that school had ever seen and will ever see. I somehow survived the years and was leaving with an actual group of friends. At least I would no longer be known as the shy movie buff, the I’ll-try-every-sport-until-I-find-one-that-fits kid. Nope. Get ready, world; Walker has finally come out of his shell. I guess the only reason I made it is because no one messed with me. I mean, I was six foot one and played football, so I looked like and still look like I could crack you in half.

Nope, I was about as tough as a dandelion. I still cried at sad movies—but not like the crappy, sappy romance movies. I’m talking about real movies, like The Champ and Dead Man Walking. The only people who knew this were my close circle of friends and my family and now … you.

I always wanted to become a movie director. I mean, what better job is there than to tell people what to do and make $200 million? There isn’t one. Being a director would be such an escape from all the boredom and depression of my hometown, May View, California. May View was, and is still, just a smaller Los Angeles. With about forty thousand residents, it’s the place where dreams go to die, just like Los Angeles. If a person went to May View or LA and ended up living there, they probably had done so because they thought they would become a singer or a real estate mogul. That logic rendered my whole director dream pointless because it was. I hadn’t had any real experience in directing or acting or anything film related. I just watched a lot of movies and therefore thought I knew enough to go into the business. Once I reached high school, I figured that would be my chance to prove myself, break free of my awkward-kid-who-has-two-friends persona, and start going somewhere in life. As you can see, high school had other plans for me.

I digress. The point is I somehow survived those long school years filled with sadness, anger, joy, and fear. And then I was going to play piano for the first time in front of a massive crowd of all these bastards with their heads stuck up their asses, who never conceived I might do anything special. See—almost no one had heard me play before graduation. Sure, they knew I could play, but they’d thought I was just some mediocre white kid who could barely play the ABC song. They had no idea I composed, played at an insanely high level, and couldn’t read music so I learned everything I knew playing by ear.

Anyway, come graduation we were all seated in four rows at a painfully long Mass. Even the priest seemed bored, this graduation being probably the twentysomething graduation he had done. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, I stood when the slide came up that read Walker Morrison: Meditation. Ha! Meditation, my ass. I was about to play the hardest version of Leonard Cohen’s world-renowned Hallelujah you ever heard. I sat down at the bulky, rundown fifty-year-old Yamaha. I looked down at my hands and noticed my veins were pulsating like I’d taken five thousand doses of epinephrine. My hands only looked like that after I’d played for an hour. Man, I was shaking. You probably couldn’t tell from the audience, but it felt like my stomach had leaped from its holding position up to my throat and was asking me to hurry this shit up; otherwise, its contents were going to line the floor in five … four … three … two … one.

I started playing, slowly and steadily at first. I went through the first verse and chorus, catching yawns from the audience. On the second verse I threw in some glissandos. You know, that thing pianists do when they drag their nail over all the white keys really fast. I added some sixteenth-note chord progressions, nothing crazy. Still, the audience began to seem captivated. My hands rose and fell, building to the last verse and chorus. I stopped playing and paused during a rest as sweat dripped from my brow. I looked around during the half-second rest, and people’s mouths were sinking to the floor. I slammed my hands down.

Uh-oh, wrong note. Oh my God, wrong note again—fix, fix, fix.

I looked up, and some of the awestruck faces on people had turned into laughter, which was ridiculously humiliating. I’d built up to this moment of the song only to fuck up. Clank!

A-fuckin’-nother wrong octave, dude. What are you doing? Practiced a million times.

I finally collected myself and got back to playing everything right. Eventually I was doing a glissando every five notes, using only octaves for insanely fast thirty-second-note striking, and playing arpeggios so fast with my left hand that my fingers nearly bled. By the time I finished, slamming my hands down into the last chord of the song, I felt a sensation of bliss pass over me and heard a voice in my head saying, Done. All the people I’d loved and hated over nine years and all their families and their friends looked at me with awe and then erupted into the sweet sound of applause. The only thing I could compare that moment to was the moment after you kiss someone for the first time.

Now, being a fifteen-year-old kid at the time, I would have been considered lucky if I had hugged anyone outside of my mother, let alone kissed her. Nonetheless I had managed to bring in a kiss to close out my eighth grade year by none other than Candace Watson. This girl had been at the center of my attraction, motivation, and emotion for almost the entire time I’d known her. I promise I’m not a creep. This girl was just everything I could hope for—smart, beautiful, down to earth. But probably my favorite characteristic about her was the fact that she was not about to let any guy or girl fuck with her for even a second. She had always been one of my best friends and at some point may have actually liked me. Of course, that could’ve just been my testosterone-filled body preying on any sign of affection. In spite of that, I was just happy to be able to say I even got to hug her before I was finished with classes once and for all.

There I was on the last day of school, three days before graduation, with the smell of a summer breeze going through the trees as they swayed back and forth in unison. I was sitting on the scoreboard platform overlooking the baseball field, and I felt the platform start to shake. I looked down, and there she was. Was Candace coming up to talk to me? Odd, I thought I saw her leave twenty minutes ago to hang out with the bitchy, popular chicks of our class.

What’s going on? My voice cracked.

Not puberty apparently. She laughed.

That was hilarious, Candace, I joked sarcastically.

Don’t be so kind, Walker.

I’m not.

That was another thing I liked about Candace: her sarcasm. I love sarcasm if you couldn’t already tell, and I really like it when people, especially women, use it right back at me. It shows they aren’t following the blind of society and were raised with a sense of humor.

No, for real, what’s up? I saw you leave a while back with all of those annoying fakers. Ha, ha, ha.

The joke fell flat, and there was a bizarre silence between us.

Too far? I inquired.

She shook her head. I never know what to do when someone gives you a gesture rather than a direct response. I couldn’t just sit there like a bump on the log waiting for her to say something, so I asked, Candace, what is it? You good?

Yeah … yeah. I’m good. I’ve just been thinking lately.

About?

About the fact that, after graduation, high school starts, and let’s be real for a minute. We both know that neither of us are really going to keep in touch.

I will. My parents will probably force you into my social life no matter how much I beg them not too.

I finally got her to laugh right there.

Candace continued, "No, I’m serious. I know you and your friends will be because you will all be at May View High. But I’ll never see you. At least nowhere near as often as I usually do. I mean our class is split down the middle between two choices of high schools, and I didn’t get into May View."

Well, that’s because I’m your everyday Einstein. Isn’t that right?

Says the guy who got a seventy-six on his last math exam.

I passed, didn’t I? I added proudly.

She shook her head with a commiserating look on it. My point is, Walker Morrison, I’m going to miss you.

I feel touched, I said and laughed.

She punched me in the shoulder. Man, I didn’t think women could hit hard, but Candace proved me wrong.

I was kidding. Candace; I’ll miss you too. But don’t worry about the school. When people ask me what school I went to, and I say ‘May View High School,’ it’ll sound like a generic public school name instead of a college prep. It’s nothing special, just not in the same fuckin’—I don’t know what it’s called—same category? As a public school, I guess, I said, hoping to avoid another slug.

That’s true, thanks. And I know you’ll miss me, you big oaf.

"I think oaf is a strong word."

Candace looked down at her phone. Shit, Walker. I have to go to a swim practice, she sighed.

You can miss swim practice for one day, can’t you?

Why? You planning to kidnap me and turn me into a lampshade, Walker? she chuckled to herself.

No, I just like talking with the nicest girl I’ve ever known.

After I said that, I half expected it to start raining and for Candace to jump into my arms like Rachel McAdams did with Ryan Gosling in The Notebook. Instead, there was silence and the lava-red blushing of Candace’s face. Then, about ten seconds later, she asked tentatively, Are you serious?

Dead serious. I can’t think of a better way to spend my afternoon than to be with Candace Watson.

She smiled. I gulped, trying to figure out what to say next.

I started, Candace, when you started saying that no one would keep in touch anymore, my brain started going haywire. Because if there is one person I could never forget, it’s you. Whenever I felt like absolute horse—

I was cut off. Before I could say anything else, she leaned in and kissed me on the lips.

Candace had, in fact, kissed me, but not a quick peck. This was something that had erupted like a volcano from within her. I reciprocated for almost an entire minute, but it felt like an hour. She pulled away and looked at me, waiting for words to spill from my mouth again. All I could say was, That was pretty sick.

That was apparently enough