The Gatekeepers

by Jen Lancaster

  Pizza forgotten, we grin at each other like a couple of morons until Mallory pounces so hard on the riser that the aftershock knocks over my soda. I laugh and right my can, saying, “You’re stomping on these stairs like they owe you money, girl.”

  Mallory practically falls over as she stops in her tracks.

  She watches as I take a slug of my soda and a drop spills onto my awesome vintage Quint’s Deep Sea Fishing T-shirt, a nod to Jaws, one of the greatest movies ever made. The way Spielberg built tension in so many ways, like the underwater camera POVs and John Williams’s score? Epic filmmaking. First flick to break the hundred-million mark at the box office.

  Mallory narrows her eyes at me. “Is there anywhere else you need to be, Owen?”

  I look around, from the trees tinged in golden light to the cardboard box full of the best pizza on earth to the fascinating lady at my side. Robert Frost wrote a poem in which he claimed that nothing gold can stay, but I feel like he might be wrong in this instance. I lean closer to Simone and tell Mallory the truth.

  “Nope. This is exactly where I need to be.”

  Braden

  3:45 PM

  u around?

  Mallory

  3:45 PM

  running stairs, where r u?

  Braden

  3:46 PM

  weight room. can u text when ur done?

  Mallory

  3:47 PM

  ...

  Braden

  3:50 PM

  never mind, will email u later

  12

  MALLORY

  Oh, honey, didn’t anyone tell you that ironic T-shirts are so last year?

  “Cheers, Mallory!” Simone raises her soda in greeting while leaning in to Owen Fucking Foley-Feinstein.

  Of course she’d be into him.

  Of course she would.

  My heart’s racing in my chest and rivulets of sweat stream down my back. I hop from one leg to another so that the lactic acid doesn’t have a chance to collect in my calves, causing a cramp. Anyone else and this wouldn’t be my business, but I feel like I need to interject. I say, “Can I talk to you for a second, Simone?”

  She pats the spot next to her. “Have a seat.”

  I shoot a pointed glance at Owen. “In private.”

  Shrugging, she replies, “Okay. Shall I come up, or would you prefer to come here? Wait, on second thought, I’ll pop around to you. You’ve done enough up and down. I’m exhausted just sitting here.”

  Please. Like she knows exhaustion.

  Like I didn’t witness her sitting there in Constitutional Government class today, all unapologetic, all, “Dreadfully sorry, didn’t get to it,” when the teacher was collecting our homework. I wanted to scream, “If you have time to sleep, you have time to work!”

  You can survive on three hours of rest a night. Ask me how I know.

  She stands and brushes the dust off her weird front-snapped pants with the low crotch. They’re cut like she’s trying to accommodate an adult diaper. Again, she did this to herself voluntarily? I thought Europe was the fashion capital of the world!

  She moseys up to me and it’s all I can do to not just unleash on her. What is she thinking, just wasting the afternoon with that loser? Who does that during her senior year? And how is it that she’s gotten involved in exactly nothing since she’s been here? Mr. Gorton told me this in confidence because he was worried; his concern was that I’d somehow fallen down on the job as tour guide explaining expectations and it’s reflecting badly on him, me, and the school.

  “Trust me?” I’d replied to him. “Not my doing.”

  Seriously, though, she’s in no extracurricular activities. Zip. Nada. Nothingburger with a side of zilch sauce. She’s going to have a big fat goose egg to record on her college applications. I mean, when I do finally lie down at night, I can’t sleep because I’m overwhelmed. Every second of my day is booked and I still I feel like I’m not trying hard enough and here’s this girl who’s got zero going on and she’s just sitting around, calm as can be, not turning in homework and swilling high fructose corn syrup with assholes like it’s her job!

  UNFAIR!

  “You’re sweating a lot—do you have a towel?” she asks, looking at me like I’m a bug on the business end of a microscope.

  I swipe at my forehead with the back of my hand and run a fingertip under each eye to catch any stray mascara. “I’m fine.”

  “We have loads of napkins,” she persists.

  This is not how this conversation is supposed to go; this is not about me. I need to take control. “I see you’re hanging with Owen,” I begin. “Are you sure that’s the best idea?”

  She cocks her head. “Meaning?”

  Damn it, is she going to play dumb?

  Am I going to have to break this down for her?

  Owen is headed exactly nowhere in life. Trust me, I know him. I’m glad our parents don’t get together anymore. He was the worst influence. He loved to spout drivel like, “Get off the treadmill, Mal. Literally and figuratively.” As though I’m somehow having a problem? I’m not the person who’s all Welcome to Losertown, Population: You. He’s the one throwing off the stats here, not me. I’m setting the curve, the goddamned standard, while he’s part of the 2 percent of NSHS students who likely won’t go on to college, despite everyone’s best efforts to prepare him for the real world.

  If he’s lucky?

  If he’s lucky, he moves to LA after graduation, gets cast on some lame MTV reality show, has an on-camera threesome in a hot tub, and then spends the next ten years tending bar and living on people’s couches while he milks his infinitesimal bit of fame until he’s eventually sent to rehab and then moves back home to his parents’ house.

  Then we’ll all be embarrassed when we see him at our class reunion when he’s, like, “Hey, remember how we used to par-tay back in the day?” And we won’t because we’ll have been too busy becoming neurosurgeons and litigators and tech gurus. Or, investment bankers, like me.

  Ugh.

  But I don’t say any of this.

  Instead, I say, “Meaning, are you sure that’s a good idea?” I gesture down at him with the tip of my right sneaker before I return to my light jog-in-place.

  “Why? Because of the weed?”

  Oh, good, so I don’t need to explain. “Obviously.”

  She surprises me by snorting. “Um, Mallory? Snoop Dogg stayed at my house when my mum was photographing him for Vanity Fair. Trust me, I’m familiar with controlled substances. I tried an edible brownie once, giggled the whole time and I’m not a giggler.”

  I must be giving her the impression that I’m interested, because she continues.

  “My best friend, Cordy, and I inhaled about six bags of crisps apiece and she encouraged me to tell everyone on Instagram that I loved them. Which ended up being massively humiliating, by the way. Mr. Knapton, our math teacher, was so amused when Cordy and I showed up in his Algebra II class that Monday morning. He said he was glad at our enthusiasm about his first attempt at making sourdough bread because no one at his house cared much for the loaf. Too spongy.”

  So, what are we, girlfriends now?

  Except that it kind of feels good to stand here and catch my breath for a second. If her boring story is the price of admission, so be it.

  “When I woke up the morning after, I felt like I’d swallowed the whole Dead Sea. Wait, you look confused—the Dead Sea? The water has a mad-high salt content? You almost can’t drown in it, no matter how hard you try to go under, because the sodium changes the buoyancy. See, now I need Mr. Knapton here to explain because I’m not saying the math-y-science-y part right. Anyway, drugs aren’t of interest. Not my jam, as you say. Ergo, I’ll be fine around Owen. He can’t corrupt me—I’m inc
orruptible by choice.”

  Gripping one ankle in a quad stretch and then the other, I tell her, “Great, then I’ll cross losing you at Coachella off my list. Can you explain to me then how you have a free afternoon to do nothing?”

  “We’re not doing nothing, we’re getting a bit of sun before tackling this mountain of books,” she replies, pointing in the vicinity of her satchel. “We’re taking a little break before we get to work.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? I dunno, specifically. Don’t you ever feel like eating your pudding first?”

  Pudding? No.

  I say, “Don’t you understand how important it is to appear well-rounded to university admissions officers? Colleges aren’t just judging you on your grades—your homework’s a part of that, you know—they also want to see your extracurriculars.”

  And, it can’t be said enough, college is the big dance.

  College is everything, which is why there’s so much pressure on us about it. Our future is all we think about, our singular obsession. Part of the problem is some parents (particularly the narcissistic, self-involved douchebags, i.e. Liam’s dad or my mom) see us as status symbols and as an extension of their “personal brands.”

  We are the feather in the cap that is their Facebook status update.

  They don’t understand that we are not them.

  When they look at how hard they’ve had to work to live in North Shore, their expectations naturally are so much higher. What that means is that even though Southern Illinois University may have been fine for, say, Liam’s father, damn it, the kid’s going to Princeton. What’s so ironic is that Generation X—our parents’ generation—is best known for being “slackers.” Yet they’re the ones who are such taskmasters now.

  How is that okay?

  With our folks, it’s like their self-worth has become inexorably linked to ours. If we aren’t out there winning, if we aren’t out there overachieving, if we aren’t representative of the very highest standards of success, then there’s hell to pay. Like they’re somehow flawed if we don’t get in early decision at Princeton, if we don’t crush our ACTs, if we don’t win a state title.

  I’m like, when the fuck did they ever win State? How come it’s incumbent on us?

  I always regret it when I ask that question out loud, but it’s like I can’t help myself.

  Simone shrugs. “Meh, don’t particularly want to go to college. It’s not as big a deal in Europe. Half the kids end up in skilled trades instead, which are viewed with much more respect over there than over here. I plan to design jewelry for a living. Technically, I don’t need a degree for that. And, if by some miracle I were to be admitted to university, I’d take a gap year first.”

  Her attitude is so askew, so cavalier, that I accidentally let out a bark-like noise in protest.

  Owen looks up at us, confused. “You guys have a poodle up there?”

  Idiot.

  I seem to be amusing Simone, like I’m the clown in this situation. (I’m the clown? Have you even looked at your pants?)

  She says, “Would you feel better if I told you I agreed to take photos for the school paper?”

  “YES, so much better!”

  I practically collapse with relief. I didn’t realize I’d been so tensed up. I feel like I can check one tiny box off a to-do list that’s presently about eight miles long. As a peer counselor and as the leader of Novus Orsa, it’s my duty to make sure she’s getting the most out of North Shore, as it’s given us so much. How is she not wildly appreciative of being here? A North Shore education is like someone handing her a billion-dollar check and instead of falling to her knees in gratitude, she’s like, “Can I have this in small bills instead, then? I’d like to buy a Kit-Kat.”

  I don’t relax for long, though.

  I say, “You know, the paper’s very competitive. Most students have to try out for it. Hmm...wonder if they just wanted you because they’re hoping you’ll introduce them to your mother? Like maybe she’ll offer them internships?”

  Can I legitimately check off this box or are the kids on The Round Table Express just trying to use Simone for her connections? I’m concerned. Does this count as an accomplished mission? Am I shirking my duties or not?

  Now she’s confused. Ugh, does she have to telegraph every single one of her emotions across her pasty, freckled face? God help her if she ever plays strip poker. “You’re saying you don’t want me to take pictures for the paper?”

  I grip her arm to emphasize the importance of this first step. “No, do it, definitely do it. You need the experience for your apps. You’ll need more, though, much more. Let me think on what else might be a good fit for you. I’ll hit you up in Government with suggestions.” After I let go of Simone, I squat and cross my right calf over my left thigh to open up my hip flexor.

  Owen shouts, “You look like the number four!”

  “Do you ever stop moving?” Simone asks.

  Why do I have the feeling she’s judging me? Is she judging me? IN THOSE PANTS? I’m only trying to help. I reverse positions to stretch the other hip.

  “No. Okay, I think we’re done.”

  “Then this was...enlightening?” Simone says. She starts to shuffle back down to her spot on the bleachers, hampered by her horrible sartorial choices.

  Oh, she’s definitely judging me. She’s awfully smug for someone who probably can’t even get into the University of Iowa. Before she sits, a light breeze musses all the unshaved portions of her hair.

  “Wait, one more question. Your bangs—they’re blue now.”

  She grins. “Dip-dyed for school spirit. Go, Knights! See you later, Mallory. Have a nice run.”

  She sits back next to Owen, who passes her a fresh Coke from a Styrofoam minicooler. Sweet Jesus, a second can. I have diabetes just imagining two sodas in one week. I shudder as I contract my hamstrings.

  Seriously, though, that was outstanding advice on my part. I feel like I can count our conversation toward my time commitment to volunteer peer counseling for the week, maybe a fifteen-minute increment if I round up like attorneys do. When my father speaks to a client, even if it’s for two minutes, he rounds it up to the full fifteen. He says otherwise the accounting on his billable hours would be out of hand. (Yes, he has people who do the bookkeeping, but still.)

  Now, let’s get back to the stairs. Wasn’t I on eight hundred and twelve? I quickly flex each of my calves and stretch out my quads again.

  Here were go.

  Lots of energy, Mallory, I say to myself. You just had a rest. You should be raring to go.

  Eight hundred and thirteen. Eight hundred and fourteen. Eight hundred and fifteen.

  I ease back into my groove.

  It’s going to be okay.

  See? I already helped Simone. I can totally do difficult things. I’m good enough. I can be in control. I’m in control. I’m not slipping, regardless of what my mother says. Listen, I needed to eat that half tuna sandwich; I blacked out in the shower after practice that day! And I made up for the calories on the elliptical.

  I’m going to be accepted to Princeton.

  They’ll take me, they have to. I’m the full package.

  Nine hundred and nine, nine hundred and ten.

  My calves burn with the sting of victory and I’m breathing hard. Sweat is pouring off me once again. This feels good. This feels right. I am the master of my own universe. This is all about me right now. I’m doing everything I can to ensure my own personal best, even if Liam isn’t.

  Of course he blew off the stairs again today.

  Of course he did.

  Thing is? If Liam isn’t striving, if Liam decides to sit this one out, that’s his problem. I can’t have him hold me back. I’m not committed to him. I’m not married; I’m seventeen. I have to do what’s
right for me.

  I’m all about Team Mallory.

  After all, winners never quit and quitters never pepperoni.

  Um...

  Quitters never pepperoni?

  Wait...what?

  I find myself stopping short again and this time I can’t control the momentum of my body pitching forward. I go down hard on my left knee, landing with a thud on the metal riser.

  “You okay, Mal?” Owen asks, motioning like he’s going to get up. Pfft, like I’d take Dr. Feelgood’s help.

  “I’m fine!” I say, holding up my leg. “See? Not even scraped.”

  The pain in my left knee radiates all the way up to my hip and down to my foot. I keep my face very still so that I don’t wince as I shake the left side harder, trying to increase the blood flow. I bend my knee a few times and it seems to be operating normally.

  So I’m golden. I am. As always, I play through the pain.

  They resume what they’re doing, which is eating a freaking deep-dish pizza from Lou Malnati’s. I can smell it from here. Look at how those strings of mozzarella are stretching, like, a foot long. Simone takes an enormous bite, just crams it right on in, and a chunk of pineapple falls onto the riser, landing with a moist splat. Ugh.

  Bringing a goddamned pizza to where people are working out?

  Who does that?

  What is wrong with them?

  Why is my mouth suddenly watering?

  Which step was I on before I fell?

  Nine hundred and...?

  The Metra train blows its horn as it chugs down the tracks behind the school and the sound makes me tense. Then again, that sound always makes me tense.

  Okay, I need to focus.

  I’m off my game today. I’m mad that Liam’s MIA again. Where does he even go? Unacceptable. Plus, Braden was acting seriously weird last night, like, lingering outside of my room when I was trying to finish my work after I’d shut my bedroom door. I was probably more dismissive with him than necessary, but I was looking at maybe getting two hours of sleep and I literally could not handle one more thing. Then earlier today in the hall outside of my Italian class? He was all, “Can we please talk?” and I told him I was late for a meeting with Mr. Gorton and that I’d circle back to him later.