Simone explains, “The installation—called SegaGenocide—was a commentary on the death of old technology and our quick-to-dispose society. Dad filled Wembley Arena with antique boxcars, and each was stuffed to the brim with obsolete machinery. One car contained Betamax machines, another Walkman cassette players, there were brick-sized calculators, Atari games, floppy disks, typewriters, etc. The whole thing stretched from one side of the stadium to the other. If seeing the exhibit, even in a news broadcast, made Stephen uncomfortable, then Dad will be chuffed. He believes art should always be evocative.”
I say, “Your dad’s a weird guy and I mean that in the best possible sense,” but Simone’s not paying attention to me. Instead, she’s totally focused on Stephen.
See?
Even she’s getting attuned to monitoring and managing his emotional well-being.
She says, “I’m sorry, Stephen. Please accept my apology for any perceived slight. You clearly have very strong feelings for your Bean and I respect that. I would never question the artist’s vision, just wanted to know if there was some feature I wasn’t to miss.”
Mollified, he says, “The Bean looks like it’s made from liquid mercury and you can walk under it. Reflects the whole skyline and it’s just badass.”
She replies, “Well, I can’t wait to see it. I’ll make it first on my list.”
We stop and check both ways before we walk over the railroad tracks. Simone says she’s still getting the hang of which way to look before crossing anything here because they drive on the opposite side in the UK. I tell her there are plenty of lights and a protective barrier that comes down when the commuter rail is about to pass, but that you can’t be too careful. She’s aware pedestrians have been hit by the train before, but I didn’t elaborate that these were deliberate choices. She wasn’t here at the beginning of the summer so she wouldn’t know the details about Paul or Macey, and I doubt anyone’s been anxious to tell her. She probably assumes any casualty’s an accident.
If only, right?
“You realize this train right here will take you downtown in thirty minutes. No fuss. No muss. Five bucks. That’s the price of a coffee. You can walk to the station from your house,” Stephen says. “You don’t even need to drive and park. The train’ll bring you into Ogilvy station and from there, you can either hoof it or cab it to anywhere downtown. Or, when the weather’s nice, you can ride the water taxi to Navy Pier on the same route as the big-buck architectural tours.”
“Is Chicago paying you a commission or something?” I ask, giving Stephen a friendly shove.
He shoves me back, harder than I pushed him, and I stumble while balancing myself.
(Mental note: seriously, self, double-down on the pushups.)
Stephen tells us, “I’m just sayin’, we barely ever get to go into Chicago, what with everything we have going on, so it would be nice if someone took advantage of it.”
“He’s obsessed with the city. That’s because of one time we were down staying with his older sister, Caitlyn,” I explain. “She’s doing her med school residency at Northwestern Hospital and she and her fiancé, Greg, live in a high-rise. Greg has a boss telescope, real high line. So it’s late and they’re already asleep and we decide to use the telescope, but it’s too bright and we can’t see any constellations. We start looking around instead. We spot this beautiful girl in the building across from us. Seriously, she’s a total smokeshow. She’s eating a turkey leg in her apartment...and then we notice she’s completely naked from the waist down. Boom, commando! Just maxin’ and relaxin’ and chewing on her turkey leg, like it’s the most natural thing in the world to do sans pants.”
“That was the greatest day of my life,” Stephen confirms with an enthusiastic nod. Poor Stephen. His mom net-nannies his internet usage so closely that he’s the only kid in twenty years to comb the library for old issues of National Geographic in order to see a single nip.
“I pinky-swear promise you I will hit the city very soon. Maybe Saturday. No more excuses,” she says, while linking one pinky to the other for good measure. “My goal is not to peep at the naked, though.”
“Go to the Museum of Science and Industry first,” Stephen says.
“Thought I had to see the Bean first.”
“Go there second. The Bean won’t take that long,” he replies.
“Any chance you guys can tag along?”
“Pfft, I wish. Can’t. We have a tournament this weekend,” I say. “Gots to get our physics on, son.”
Stephen digs into his backpack and pulls out his iPhone, which is wrapped in a case that makes it look like an old cassette. He’s so excited, he’s practically dancing around us. “I have a surprise for the team. I made the best, most turnt-up playlist for the bus.”
The prospect of the interview has him particularly chipper. Elated, even. I like his energy, but I’m wary. He’s super mercurial and his temperament changes on a dime. When we studied bipolar disorder in Behavioral Psych last year, I asked Stephen as gently as I could if any of the symptoms seemed...familiar. I mentioned the time he was up for three straight days working on our robot’s reticulating arm, and then how he crashed afterward, thrown into a funk that lasted for weeks. He admitted to having his own concerns and promised to talk to his mom about it. I doubt he did, though, because nothing’s changed and the mood swings continue. As vigilant as his mom is, she’d have been on it.
When Stephen’s down, he speaks in monotone and won’t make eye contact, but today his words are animated and full of life. Is it wrong that I think this is the guy who’s my best friend, this dude is awesome?
He tells us, “The playlist is all dis tracks. We’re gonna start off super thug with Eazy-E’s ‘Real Muthaphukkin G’s,’ then we’re gonna pull it back, just a little, with Dr. Dre featuring Snoop and ‘Fuck Wit Dre Day.’ Then we have Jay Z, Mobb Deep, we’ll go sorta new school with Eminem, then back to old-school with Nas, Makaveli, Boogie Down Productions—”
“You should add Nicki Minaj’s ‘Roman’s Revenge,’” Simone suggests. “Cordy and I are mad for that song. We used to sing it together all the time. Our favorite part was the chorus. Suspect we sounded like two damp cats in a sack, but we still belted it out full tilt.”
Stephen pulls a face like she’s just cut the world’s most pungent fart.
Now it’s Simone’s turn to stop in her tracks. “Whoa, why are you looking at me like that, Cho? This a no-girls-allowed list, then? I mean, Eminem’s on the track!”
Stephen smirks. “I’d like to keep walking to school with you, so Imma pretend I didn’t just hear you ask that ratchet question.”
She raps a couple of lines from the song. “See? What’s not to love?” Stephen responds by crossing his arms and staring off into the distance; she’s genuinely flummoxed.
I shake my head. “You bring up Minaj, he’s not going to acknowledge you. PS, never rap again—it shames us all.”
She holds her hand out like she’s holding a shopping bag handle and then says, “Can you hear this, Kent?”
“Hear what?”
“No? Then let me turn it up,” she says, rotating her wrist to flip me the bird and she sputters with laughter.
I like this.
I like us.
We have kickass friend-chemistry. She balances us out. When we roll, we come across as quirky instead of spazzy and everything’s more fun. Now, maybe I’m a total prick for even thinking this, but I wonder if her hooking up with Stephen would wreck our new trio? If a love connection would ruin everything? I want him to be happy, but...fuck, I want me to be happy, too.
I haven’t said anything to Stephen, but I’ve quietly encouraged the whole Owen thing for the past two weeks. Simone says she’s confused about how he feels because he hasn’t even kissed her yet, but I suspect he’s biding his time, establishing a true friendship
first. Like he wants to have a solid foundation built before bringing in romance. Doesn’t seem like the worst idea to me. (Of course, I’m no expert.)
I tagged along to his short film screening last night with Simone and her folks. I kind of didn’t grasp what the movie was about, but that’s not a negative. Simone said it was “brilliant,” pointing out what was so artistic about the flowers and the wheels and stuff, and then I got it. After spending time with him, I’ve gained a whole new appreciation for all things Foley-Feinstein. People underestimate him. I forgot that I used to like him and I underestimated him. There’s more to Owen than weird hair and a too-casual relationship with soap.
When Owen invited us to his event, I suggested we not tell Stephen because he’d be at his oboe lesson at that time and that he’d have felt bad about missing out, but that’s not entirely accurate.
Truth is I didn’t want to watch him agonize over every single word, glance, and touch Simone and Owen exchanged and I definitely wasn’t up for the Monday morning quarterbacking he’d insist on while doing the postmortem.
Owen’s a good dude and he looks at Simone like she’s this rare butterfly, almost too delicate to touch. How can she wonder if he likes her? Pretty sure he worships her already and if he’s not been quick to make moves, then it’s out of respect. Most of the guys in this school aren’t like that. Most are total misogynists. You should hear the way they talk in the locker room after gym class. I mean, I’m embarrassed, and I’m a Gold Medallion Member at Porn-o-copia.com so I’ve seen everything...even if I’ve yet to experience it.
A while ago, my dad decided we needed a father-son talk about the whole porn thing. He sat me down to caution me about images online. He said that the internet would give me unrealistic expectations of what’ll happen when I do get a girlfriend. I replied that I’m a five-foot-four future physicist who can bowl a perfect game; the only unrealistic expectation here is that I’d ever even see a live girl naked.
I can’t complain about the lecture too much, though. When Mrs. Cho busted Stephen after he downloaded an X-rated video on his new phone, his punishment was to sit there and watch it with her.
Something like that will FUCK YOU UP FOR LIFE.
Anyway, after the big, awkward porn lecture, Dad took me for sushi, which my mom hates so we never have as a family. Over volcano maki, I told him I do believe I’ll eventually find a girlfriend, but probably not in this zip code. He poured me some green tea and promised that the ladies at MIT would recognize my charms. Assured me that I’ll have come into my own by then.
Am living for that day.
’Til then, I have a whole harem in my imagination.
(PS, they all look like Mallory.)
My point is, NSHS is the worst for most girls. I wanna shout, You know how much easier your life would be if you liked the nice guys? but they’re too distracted by washboard abs and chiseled jaws and Macklemore hair to listen. What am I supposed to say to them? What are my selling points? Hey, baby, wanna watch me make a robot walk? It’s almost like they’re trying to hook up with terrible choices. Christ, every Monday there’s half a dozen hot chicks crying off all their mascara in the halls because one of the Jaspers used them and abused them over the weekend. (This place is full of Jaspers/Jasper wanna-bes.)
As for Owen? He strikes me as a gentleman. Like, a funky gentleman who might be better served with actual Right Guard and not rock crystal, but still. Washing off patchouli oil is way easier than learning how to be chivalrous.
Stephen scrolls through his list. “Anyway, then we’re on to Tim Dog with ‘Fuck Compton.’ He wasn’t a huge player in the whole rap game, but this song put Ice, Dre, Eazy, and, really, all of NWA in the crosshairs, so Imma allow it. And because I’m not sexist,” he throws a sidelong glance at Simone, full of shade, “I’ll include MC Lyte’s ‘10% Dis’—she’s a female, just so you know—then Kool Moe Dee, and the penultimate dis, ‘No Vaseline,’ by Ice Cube.”
“Before I came here, I thought penultimate meant ‘most ultimate,’” Simone muses. “I’ve been using that word wrong for quite a long time. Ages. This really is an excellent school.”
Stephen plows ahead, not acknowledging her comment because he’s too excited about his mix to even consider an awkward stab at flirting. “That leads us to the greatest dis of all time... A drumroll, please.”
He pauses, expectantly.
Simone and I just look at each other. “Are we supposed to be doing something?” she asks.
“Why aren’t you drumrolling?” Stephen pouts.
“Oh, sorry,” I say. Simone makes rolling rrrrrrrr sounds with her tongue while I beat an imaginary snare drum.
“And the number one dis song is... ‘Hit ’Em Up’ by ’Pac!”
I drop my imaginary drumsticks and I can feel my mouth narrowing into a thin, hard line.
This is so typical.
This is the exact bullshit he always pulls.
Suddenly, I don’t feel so guilty being Team Owen. “Are you seriously not putting Biggie’s “Who Shot Ya” on your playlist? That’s just insulting and intentional. And wrong. It’s wrong and it’s insulting and it’s wrong.”
“Are you saying you feel this is wrong, Kent?” Simone interjects.
While we’ve been walking and talking (and arguing), we’ve arrived on campus.
“Don’t know what to tell you two, except that ’Pac rules. Don’t believe me? Then let’s take a simple random sample of our classmates,” Stephen suggests.
I roll my eyes so far back that I can see my frontal lobe.
(Mental note: consider other colleges. Maybe I don’t even want four more years of this, you know?)
Stephen starts looking around at the kids cruising past us on the quad. Mallory and Liam approach from one of the practice fields. While they seem like they belong in Barbie’s Dream House together, they’re acting more like something out of Fight Club. Those two are perpetually bickering. We’ll have to work on her attitude when we’re married.
(I’m open to going to counseling, though.)
Mallory takes some big strides away from him, as though she’s trying to ditch him.
That’s right, girl. Walk this way. Come to your new daddy.
“Hey, um, you! Mallory! Liam! Real quick—who was better? Tupac or Biggie?” Stephen calls after them.
Mallory curls her lip and replies, “Ohmigod, you’re such tools. You need to get a life.”
Stephen retorts, “Yeah? You need to get a sandwich.”
Liam frowns at Mallory and says, “Take it easy, Mal.” He turns to me and Stephen and says, “I’m sorry, guys. She’s not really a morning person.”
I reply, “Hey, Liam. ’Sup?” I’m extra nice because he would kick my tiny ass from one side of campus to the other if he knew how heavily his girlfriend factored into my active fantasy life. “It’s okay. I’m not even worried about her. Would you say that’s a vote for Biggie, then?”
Mallory huffs audibly and says, “I can’t even,” before dashing off and Liam hustles to catch up with her. His movement is quick but stiff, like there’s some pain associated with having to run.
The next four students vote “Um, who?” and one says “They’re Drake’s parents,” before a music teacher walks past us in the same tweed and leather patched blazer he wears every day, toting a briefcase and a battered old plaid thermos.
“Mr. Conroy, Mr. Conroy! Settle an argument—who was better? Biggie or Tupac?” I ask.
Mr. Conroy removes his bifocals and rubs the bridge of his beaked nose. He has two cottony puffs of comma-shaped hair clinging tenuously to either side of his head. “Hmm...that is a puzzler, indeed it is. I would have to say...my goodness. Such a question and I’ve not even had my first cup of Earl Grey. If I had to choose, I would opt for...Mr. Shakur.”
Stephen begins to bounce
on his heels as Mr. Conroy speaks.
Mr. Conroy says, “Admittedly, Mr. Wallace had the better flow, particularly when you break down his rhyming sequence vis a vis his sense of humor. Pairing birfdays and worst days and thirs-tay? Cheeky. He let you in on the joke, that was his power. That was his appeal. With Mr. Shakur, there was something more lyrical, more complex. Heartfelt. Poetic. I feel as though Biggie showed us his personality, he invited us to the party. However, Tupac touched us with his soul and that is the telling difference. Tupac is my decision. Yes. Westside, if you will.”
Stephen proves to be a poor winner. He struts around the quad, high-fiving random freshmen, hooting and “throwing up the ’dub,” which is a W-shaped gang sign made by splaying the palm and crossing the middle and ring fingers. We learned the gesture together from watching Ice Cube and Da Lench Mob on old episodes of Yo, MTV Raps on YouTube, but one of us has enough sense not to do in public.
I mean, dude...no.
He carries on for three solid minutes before he returns, beaming, his brow damp with perspiration, to where Simone and I are standing. His grin has taken over his entire face and I can’t even see the whites of his eyes. I’m torn between being embarrassed for him and wanting to punch him in his smug face.
The celebration is cut short when we hear the quick bleat of the Metra train’s horn, followed by increasingly plaintive pulls, and then the squeal of air brakes applied too late, the sound of metal on metal as the train grinds uselessly against the rails for purchase.
No.
Not again.
Owen
7:19 AM
need investment advice
That Jasper
7:19 AM
bonds?
Owen
7:19 AM
stock
That Jasper
7:20 AM
position?
Owen
7:20 AM
GO LONG
14
OWEN
The note read, We’re so proud of you!
The Gatekeepers Page 11
