The Gatekeepers

by Jen Lancaster

  I should have known Kent would be a traitor. That’s his nature. Look at how he went to astronomy camp without me TWICE. The first time, my mom decided I was too young for sleepaway camp and the second time, I had to bail because my grandfather was sick. What bullshit. That camp was my idea—he wanted to go to computer camp! Then I barely heard from him either summer, and whenever I did, his emails were nothing but Braden and I this, Owen and I that, Braden said, “I enjoy constellations, I mean it, I am being Sirius.”

  Freaking lame.

  So I worked on my own awesome pun that second summer. When he came back I told him, “I bought Stephen Hawking’s new book on antigravity and I just can’t put it down.” He looked at me and shrugged and said he hadn’t seen it; he was too busy to read at camp. He didn’t get the joke. I’m surprised he even deigned to hang out with me after his perfect BFF summers with Owen and Braden were over.

  What’s so ironic is that for the past few weeks, Kent’s been super distressed about Braden, agonizing if there was something he could have done.

  Riiiight.

  Braden got sucked into the cool crowd the minute he started playing football in junior high and that was it for our crew. He and Kent hadn’t even hung out in years. So for Kent to think there was something he could have done? Like somehow the outcome would have been different if Kent had, I don’t know, followed him on Snapchat? I’m sure Braden would have been, “That Kent sure is a lifesaver.”

  Don’t get me wrong, I feel terrible about Braden. What a fucking waste of talent and opportunity and, just, everything. My point is that Kent overestimates the impact he might have had.

  Meanwhile, I’m right here, heartsick due to Simone’s rejection and out of my head about midterms, sweating bullets over my interview. But does he have a minute to spare for me? Does he have a supportive word for me? Is he even patient with me anymore?

  No. Hell, no.

  You know what? I’m blocking both their numbers right now. That way when I don’t hear from them I won’t be disappointed. That’s it. That’s my line in the sand.

  I pull out my iPhone and make the changes.

  Bye, Felicia.

  There. Done. That’s better.

  So why don’t I feel better?

  You know what the bitch of it all is? The bitch of it is that if Braden was beloved before, now he’s practically canonized. He’s more popular in death than he even was in life. Girls are going around with the #31 from his football jersey drawn on their hands in ballpoint. All the guys on the team slapped roach stickers on their helmets. A huge group of kids did a flash mob in his honor at the pep rally today. Saint Braden’s gone but in no way forgotten. People are talking about him like he’s the second coming of Paul Walker and Jesus H. Christ combined.

  And now I’m the lowest person on the face of the earth because I envy a dead guy.

  How pathetic am I?

  No wonder my friends don’t want to be around me.

  I wouldn’t want to be around me.

  So...that’s why when I heard the car coming up behind me, I didn’t rush to get out of the way. I could have easily moved onto the sidewalk, but I didn’t because for a split second, I thought, Why not? Why fucking not?

  Suddenly, I understood what Paulie and Macey must have been feeling in their last moments. Like, they just didn’t want everything to be so hard anymore.

  Wouldn’t that be the most fitting end to this night—a real car wreck to go with the proverbial car wreck that is my life.

  21

  OWEN

  I don’t know how to live with myself.

  I should have been faster.

  I should have tried harder.

  I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. Can’t talk to my friends.

  I can’t look at texts, or answer calls; everyone asking me if I’m okay, like I’m the victim, like this somehow happened to me.

  Am I okay? No, I am not okay.

  I am not okay.

  I was on the cusp of everything and now I have nothing. Because I deserve nothing.

  I should have been the hero but I was too weak.

  Too slow.

  Too worthless.

  Too high.

  I don’t deserve to keep living my life like nothing happened. I don’t deserve normal. I don’t deserve a future. I don’t deserve to wake up to music. I don’t deserve the right to pick up my camera, to play my guitar.

  I don’t deserve to be happy.

  I don’t deserve anything.

  I failed.

  I failed Braden. I failed myself.

  I can’t.

  Something has to change. I can’t go on like this.

  I can’t.

  I can’t.

  I’m all alone and I can’t.

  I can’t.

  Kent

  10:04 PM

  u cool yet? yes? then get ur ass over here

  10:46 PM

  mean it bro, night wont be same w/out u

  10:55 PM

  now im txting u 2 say im calling u—pick up pick up pick up

  11:11 PM

  cant believe ur missing this

  11:22 PM

  well be out back—meet us here, pls?? u will thank me!

  22

  SIMONE

  “Moon Girl!”

  “Liam!” I squeal. In fact, I squeal so loudly that I practically slide off the back of the couch on which I’ve been perched, watching a bunch of Jaspers play ultimate Frisbee with a Die Hard boxed set.

  I add, “Yippie-ki-yay, motherfucker!”

  Look at me, squealing and quoting Bruce Willis movies and speaking in exclamation points! I suspect I’m buzzed. Not my fault, really. The beer here’s so cold, so refreshing, not like those thick, tepid, metallic glasses of bread they serve at pubs at home. Whatever’s in my plastic cup is chilly and light and doesn’t make me feel like I’ve just swallowed fifteen slices of pumpernickel. That’d make anyone giddy, I recon.

  “Never seen you at one of Jasper’s bashes before.”

  “Never been invited before,” I reply.

  “His house parties are the best.”

  “Wait, are you saying this is Jasper’s actual home? He lives here? He didn’t rent out the Playboy mansion?” I glance around the sprawling room, shocked that it could be part of someone’s residence. I simply assumed we were someplace fancy that wouldn’t return Jasper’s security deposit.

  “Nope, this is his place. He mostly has it to himself, though. His folks spend a shit-ton of time traveling.”

  “That sounds so lonely,” I say. I can’t imagine being on my own that often. I’d desperately miss my family, but people up here seem used to it. I don’t know how it doesn’t bother Kent and Stephen that their dads are gone every week from Monday morning to Thursday night.

  There’s not a second that goes by where I don’t need both my parents. I require my mum for a million different reasons every day. And I can’t imagine not endlessly talking with my dad. I believe we’re so close because we’ve always lived in such small spaces; we can’t help but be enmeshed in each other’s business. Even now in our big house (well, not big compared to this palace/chateau/castle here) we tend to cluster up, never leaving one another by ourselves for long. “That must be terribly sad for him.”

  Liam thrusts his chin in Jasper’s direction, where he’s busy being dry-humped by two girls in tiny skirts, dancing on either side of him. “He looks pretty broken-up.”

  I laugh. “Fair enough. Tell me, are we celebrating anything specific tonight? What made him throw this to-do?”

  Liam gives me a sly grin that just reveals that bold incisor. “Other than ‘because he can’? He’s letting everyone blow off some steam before midt
erms. Also, Thursday’s our last game before regionals, so this week’s going to be intense.”

  He takes a seat on the back of the couch next to me and sort of leans in so his shoulder is touching mine. I’m not sure how to interpret his body language. This feels like flirting, but he has a girlfriend, so I’m obviously wrong.

  “Shall I wish you luck, or is that a bad omen? Do I say something like ‘break a leg’ instead?”

  “How about you come to the game and cheer us on?”

  An invitation to watch him play? That also seems a tiny bit flirty, but again, is probably just my buzz. “Not sure that I can. You see, someone gave me loads of grief about not having taken my ACTs, so now I’m tied up with test prep. Couldn’t fit being a cheerleader into my cram-packed schedule of trying to choose the best answer.”

  The whole family has gotten into the act of readying me for the ACTs. After dinner, we sit at the table with Mum’s laptop and Dad and I compete against each other for the correct answer.

  Let me just say this—it’s a blessing my father’s already found his professional calling, even if he’s not worked much lately. Dad argues every answer he biffs, too, so we’re not plowing through the prep as quickly as we should. But he’s having a fine time and I feel like I’m learning when I hear his rationale, so I see no reason to stop.

  Of course, when he does manage to get an answer right? He showboats like an NFL quarterback scoring the winning Super Bowl touchdown. (Yes, Dad’s rediscovered American football—LOVES IT. Calls it “the real football,” having completely abandoned his longtime obsession with footy and Liverpool FC.) Even Warhol gets into the act during our quizzes, barking and tearing around the table.

  Liam nudges me with his shoulder. “If you change your mind, let me know.”

  I take a sip of my beer so he doesn’t see me blush. Stupid half-English skin, broadcasting my every emotion. I ask him, “Will you miss it? Soccer? When the season’s over, will you still play for fun?”

  He darkens. “This year? Nothing about soccer is fun.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “The team’s largely seniors, so it’s doubly important that we win because for most of us, that’s it. Not many are playing in college, by choice. We want to go out on top. Like, I don’t even know what would happen if we don’t bring home the W.”

  “Bring home the W?”

  “The win,” he says. “Like on the flags for the Cubs’ wins.”

  Something clicks inside my brain. “Ohhh, the W stands for the win; that explains a lot. So much, in fact,” I say.

  “What do you mean?” he asks.

  “Promise me you won’t laugh?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “I promise you I will laugh, but tell me anyway.”

  I explain, “Well, ever since we got here, we’ve spotted all the W flags hanging from people’s flagpoles and letter-boxes.”

  “Mailboxes?” he says, trying to suppress a snicker.

  I glower at him, but I’m not seriously mad. “See? You’re already laughing at me.”

  “Uh-huh, just as I told you I would.”

  “Anyway, we didn’t understand why everyone was hanging their flags. We were all, like, ‘Is this a new form of protest?’”

  Liam cocks his head and peers directly into my eyes. There I go again, feeling squishy inside. “I don’t follow.”

  I explain, “We thought they were hoisting the W in praise of former President George W. Bush.”

  His entire body convulses as he holds in his laughter, trying to maintain a straight face. “You thought Cubs Win flags were a form of social activism?”

  “That’s about the size of it, yes.” When I face-palm in utter mortification, my hair gets all tangled.

  The sides of his lips are curling up, but he manages to not emit a single guffaw. He tucks a stray lock behind my left ear, telling me, “You are too cute for your own good.”

  !

  !!

  !!!

  I mentally begin to take notes, as I want to remember every word for when I Skype with Cordy. I need her to tell me if he’s flirting. At this point, I’m pretty sure I am, though. The drinks have made me forget my troubles and now I feel all fluttery inside, like I’m filled to the brim with fizzy water...or Natural Light. Same difference.

  He holds up my wrist, which is encircled by loops and loops of beads. “I like this. You didn’t get the memo about the Return to Tiffany bracelet? Every girlfriend demands one on her birthday. Pretty sure it’s in the manual.”

  “Afraid not.” I can practically feel an electric charge passing from his skin to mine. “This is a Tibetan prayer bracelet.”

  “That mean something special?”

  “To practicing Buddhists, yes. The bracelets are used to keep track of prayers. See, there are 108 beads, which is how many times they chant their mantras. They move their fingers along the beads so they can concentrate on what they’re saying and feeling, rather than being distracted by remembering what number prayer they’re on. I made this one with seeds from a Bodhi tree. You feel how the texture is all nubby?”

  Liam rubs the beads and I try not to squirm under his touch. Be cool, I tell myself. Act like you’ve been here before.

  I continue in a rush, “I bought them on the street in Marrakesh for a song. You don’t have to use Bodhi seeds though—you can grab any stone or seed. But I like Bodhi seeds because this tree is sacred in India, so it’s extraspecial to me. Story is that Buddha was sitting under one when he became spiritually enlightened.”

  He looks at me like I’ve just spilled the most delicious secret. “That’s so badass. Wait, hold up—you made this?” he asks, turning my hand this way and that.

  “Yep. Here, check this out—the last bead, the anchor?” I point to a smooth piece of jade I’ve strung on the end, with loose strands forming a tassel on the bottom. “This is a guru bead. This one isn’t counted. It’s the end marker. Buddhists skip over it and begin their prayers anew.”

  “Where have you been?” he asks.

  I shrug. “Everywhere. Name a continent and we’ve set foot on it, save for Antarctica. We do have plans eventually, though, as we’d very much like to hang with the penguins.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” He’s still hanging on to my hand as he rubs a thumb over my knuckles.

  “Then what did you mean?” I ask. My stomach flops again he gazes directly into my eyes. Hold on, is he going to lean in to kiss me? Is that possible? I think yes. I can feel his breath brush my lips as he exhales.

  Before he makes contact and before I can reciprocate (suspect I would reciprocate him rotten, FYI) he catches himself, perhaps remembering that he has a girlfriend who is, sadly, not me. He jumps to his feet and says, “You’re empty. Lemme get you a refill.”

  He returns with one glass of beer.

  “Nothing for you?” I ask.

  “No, I’m being careful. I’m taking meds for my jacked up ACL. In a perfect world, I’d rest it, but with the upcoming games, that’s not an option. Advil wasn’t cutting it, so I’m on something stronger. Drinking with pills is a little too Amy Winehouse, you know?” He takes a prescription bottle out of his pocket and taps out several thick, white oblong tablets. He pops them into his mouth and crunches down.

  I shudder. “Oy! Doesn’t that taste like poison?”

  He nods. “Works faster if you chew. And yes, tastes like ass, so I will borrow a sip.” He takes my beer and rinses his mouth, but swallows everything instead of spitting. “The doctor is in.”

  Kent comes dashing up to us, carrying what looks like a crystal vase full of beer. “They were out of cups,” he explains.

  For someone who’s never consumed alcohol before, he’s taken quite a shine to it. He was shy at first, all tensed up, but once he realized no one was going to t
hrash him like an ’80s movie, he came to life. He was surprised that people knew him and I was like, “Didn’t you grow up with all these folks? Like they were going to forget?”

  Don’t know why Kent never goes to parties—he turned into a complete social butterfly once he had a few drinks. Sometimes confidence comes in liquid form. I’ve been watching him whip and nae nae all night—the kid’s got moves!

  He falls down on the couch next to me and I’m impressed at how he’s able to keep his beer from sloshing all over the place.

  “No shit, Simone, this is the greatest night of my life. That hot girl Noell? She saw Stephen’s shirt and was all over me—said she just watched Straight Outta Compton and it made her cry when Eazy-E died. She said seeing me in this shirt was like, fate.”

  “Fate how? Does she want to rap professionally?” I ask.

  “Who cares, she stuck her tongue in my ear! I don’t know what that means, but I liked it. A lot. How’s our boy missing this? I’ve been texting him all night. Now I gotta thank him for the loan! This shirt changed my life. Also beer. But mostly this shirt. Where is Stevie-boy? He’s ignoring me. Let’s send him a Snap and convince him to get over here.”

  I ask, “Liam, you want in on this? Your presence might be helpful, if you don’t mind.”

  “Which Stephen?” he asks. “Stephen the hockey player or Stephen the genius?”

  I reply, “Genius.”

  “He keeps ruining the curve in our Quantum Mechanics class.”

  “Typical,” Kent says, but with obvious pride in his friend.

  “Let’s go for it.”

  The three of us huddle together while Kent pulls up Snapchat, his arm extended far enough for all of us to be seen in the shot. “Yo, Stevie C, DJ Wonderbread in the hizzy!”

  “DJ Wonderbread?” Liam asks out of the side of his mouth.

  “Shh, we’re rolling,” I whisper back.

  “Get your flat ass over here, bro! We are throwing down! We’re drinking out of home décor!” He holds up his vase, now spilling half of the contents onto his lucky shirt. He doesn’t seem to notice. “You gotta come! You gotta!”