The Gatekeepers

by Jen Lancaster

  As for Stephen, well...he hasn’t said anything to me. He has his MIT interview soon and Kent and I both fear it will go badly. He won’t talk to us about it, or allow us to help, and that does not portend good news. (Ten points for my use of portend. I feel like my prep has been efficacious.) (Ha! Ten more points for efficacious.) What I’m saying is that Stephen’s been more taciturn than usual. (Taciturn! I’m going to slay this test. Wait, is there even a vocab section? Or is that just the SATs? Shit.)

  Anyway, I suspect Stephen is jealous of Kent for hooking up with the field hockey girl. Kent tells me he and Stephen have always been matched in every respect, from overbearing mums to performance on Common Core Learning Standards to “Call of Duty: Black Ops” scores, so Noell has tipped the scales, even though she started ignoring Kent the minute she sobered up. Kent insists that’s a bell you can’t un-ring, so he’s still gloating about having become a man.

  What does become a man mean exactly? Don’t know. I’ve not asked for details, even though he’s dying to tell me.

  “Well done, Warhol!”

  I can hear their muffled voices downstairs, despite a closed door. It’s a bit shocking that my parents are involved with anything as mainstream or pedestrian as dog obedience, but I’m glad. When we found out that bringing Warhol back to England would be near impossible—importing pit bulls is banned—my folks sought out a loophole. Now they’re training him to be an emotional support dog. They’ve already bought him a snappy service vest and Warhol loves it almost as much as he loves wearing his sweater. I believe parading around in his support uniform makes him feel important and hard, like one of those tough German Shepherds you see patrolling the airport. (Wearing the sweater just makes him feel smart and fashionable.)

  The trainer’s been buzzing the doorbell for the past fifteen minutes to get Warhol used to sudden noises. More unfortunate, my father realized he’s able to change the sound the doorbell makes so I’ve been subjected to the opening bars of “America the Beautiful” over and over. I find myself humming about purple mountain majesties while I’m trying to study and that needs to stop right quick.

  The bell rings again.

  “Oh, beautiful for spacious skies...”

  Enough fruited plains already!

  A moment later, Dad shouts, “Simba! C’mon down, love!”

  “I’m busy. Listen, I’m glad Warhol sits when someone comes to the door, but I truly don’t need to see him do it again.”

  “Well, he’s terribly clever so you should. That’s not it, though. You have a visitor.”

  Who would be here? Stephen’s MIA and, besides, Mrs. Cho would never let him out after 9:00 p.m. the night before a meet. Kent was headed to the game and then the dance, in the hopes that Noell might get drunk and give him the time of day again. Owen’s been clear about his feelings, so...that’s it, the entirety of my inner circle. I have friends in my classes and on the newspaper, but we’re not tight enough for a late visit, especially unannounced.

  Must be Kent. Suspect I’ll be hearing every dirty detail of his newfound manhood soon, whether or not I want to. Might as well be done now.

  I tighten my robe and head down the stairs. Didn’t bother to dress after my bath or mess around with makeup, so I’m bare-faced with a towel still wrapped around my hair. Kent will have a tremendous laugh, seeing me like this.

  Except it’s not Kent standing in my entry hall; it’s Liam.

  !

  !!

  !!!

  I spot him before he sees me and I fly back up the stairs before I’m noticed. “I’m just out of the bath!” I holler. “Down in two shakes!”

  I quickly ponder the contents of my closet. What outfit makes me look the most nonchalant? The most insouciant? (No time to congratulate myself on my outstanding word usage, though.)

  I settle on an old pair of Levis with holes worn in the knees and a faded black skull-embossed Misfits T-shirt from my dad’s punk rock days. Mum’s always after me to toss the natty old thing, but it’s so beautifully and genuinely tattered that I can’t bear to part with it.

  I twist my hair into a messy topknot and brush on some gloss, pencil in my eyebrows, and finish off with a bit of mascara. (I resemble a mole without certain cosmetics.) I slip on my shoes and spray myself with a quick spritz of perfume.

  I glance in the mirror—not bad for five minutes.

  I head down the stairs again, pretending I don’t know who’s here. “Kent, I thought you were going to the—oh. Liam. Hey.”

  He hits me with the kind of slow, lazy, Bowie-esque grin that lights up the whole front hallway. The sheer wattage of his presence makes me feel melty inside, like a bar of chocolate left on the dashboard.

  My parents are hovering around beside Liam, like...well, like parents.

  “Hey, Moon Girl.”

  My mum cocks an eyebrow in my direction. She’s not succumbed to any of those horrible chemicals many women of a certain age shoot into their foreheads, so she’s still able to make expressions. Cordy’s mum has a whole chemistry lab injected into her face. You have to listen to the tone of her voice to figure out if she’s cross or happy or sad; it’s too weird.

  “Mum, Dad, um, Warhol—this is my friend Liam.”

  Dad offers a curt nod. “We met.”

  Huh. My folks are normally more gracious. They’re incredibly chatty! I came home last week to them entertaining both the UPS and FedEx men at the kitchen counter. Such is their cheer and effusive nature, they brought détente to the hyper-competitive overnight shipping industry.

  “Hope you don’t mind me dropping by. Ran into Kent at the game and he gave me your address. Wanted to wish you luck for tomorrow.”

  “Ah,” I say, because any other words escape me. I’m afraid if I open my mouth to say too much, the butterflies in my gut will flutter out and then that would be terribly awkward.

  “Don’t you need to hit the sack soon. Simba?” my dad asks. His voice has an edge and he makes no motions to indicate he’ll afford us any privacy. Mum stands next to him, arms crossed, lips downturned, appearing equally stern.

  Um, did I stumble into a bizarre alternative universe here? Did I fall asleep and wake up in The Twilight Zone? Who are these strangers? I can’t believe Liam hasn’t had a cup of tea thrust at him at a minimum. My God, Dad sent both the delivery men away with a couple of his original watercolors! (Ooh, Mr. Hochberg had a right fit over that.)

  Mum can’t be thrown by the fact that there’s a boy calling for me. I mean, she put me on birth control when I confessed my crush on David Bowie. I was all, “Wouldn’t that be terribly illegal?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” she’d said. Claimed she wanted me to be safe and ready for my “sexual awakening.” I replied that, again, didn’t need to be on the pill, but wouldn’t mind an iTunes gift cert if she was looking to throw around a bit of cash. So why are they both being so inhospitable right now? I’m not even sure they aren’t some ill-programmed clones swapped out for the real thing.

  Wait, are they scowling? I swear they’re scowling. Something is amiss here. I’ve never had a set bedtime or a curfew or any of the parental rules and conventions that drove all my friends so mad. Cordy would always cry, “My mum’s so strict!” and I’d listen and sympathize, but truly could not empathize. In fact, I couldn’t even imagine.

  But, now? Now I have an inkling.

  I feel the need to move the party away from these two. “Liam and I are going to go chat in the TV room, unless you have an objection?” I say. I can’t decipher the look that passes between them.

  “Fifteen minutes max, Sim,” my mum says, tapping the face of her watch. “You have an early morning and a big day.” Such is their consternation that Warhol, who’s taken a shine to Liam, doesn’t even frolic.

  While I’d like to get to the root of their reactions, I
’m far more interested in discovering why Luscious Liam is here.

  “We’ll have a word and be up in two shakes,” I say as I lead him to our finished basement. We lived here three days before any of us realized that this part of the house was more than just a grotty old cellar that housed the mechanicals. There’s a whole bar setup and a posh extra kitchen, as well as a state-of-the-art screening room with built-in movie theater seats and a popcorn machine. Dad couldn’t stop exclaiming when we discovered this portion, crowing about how he has dreams where he discovers new rooms and never knew it could be a reality.

  “Nice place,” Liam remarks.

  “Thanks,” I reply, even though what I want to say is WHY ON EARTH ARE YOU HERE AND DO YOU FANCY ME BECAUSE I LIKE YOU SOOOOOOO MUCH.

  I manage to hold myself together, though, as I ease onto the couch.

  “You want some popped corn?” I ask, gesturing toward the machine. “I can make it just like the theater does.”

  “I’m good,” he says. He settles in the seat next to me. I tuck my legs under myself and angle so that we’re facing each other. My bare knees show through my jeans. Did I shave them? Please tell me I remembered to shave them. Stubble will not do. “I wanted to talk to you, Moon Girl.”

  “Uh-huh, of course.” I try to sound cool, but I’m so nervous right now that I can’t catch a full breath. I suck in little gulps of air here and there. Is it possible to drown on dry land? I pray I don’t find out.

  “I broke up with Mallory.”

  “I’m sorry,” I reply automatically, even though I’m actually thinking YES, YES, YES, PRAISES TO YOU, CHRIST AND YOUR BIKE!

  I find myself suddenly designing the kind of commitment ring that Brazilian men give their intended before proposing marriage. I picture braided platinum, with an inset moonstone.

  Stop that, self, you’re being too ridiculous. Also, we’re not in Brazil.

  And we’re still minors.

  “Don’t be, it was a long time coming. We just weren’t right together anymore. Everything had become so complicated and heavy and just...wrong. The minute I ended it, I felt euphoric, like I was free. That’s when I realized the only thing I wanted was to see you. Being with you is easy.”

  “I’m terribly easy,” I agree. Then I snort and clamp a hand over my face. “That’s not what I meant.”

  He grins and my innards arrange themselves into a Gordian knot. “What I’m trying to say is that I want to be around you. I feel like I can be me, no expectations, no demands. I can’t...” He searches for the words.

  “Feel your face? Particularly when you’re with me?” I say, paraphrasing what I already consider our song.

  He smiles, activating his dimple. (Would it be bad manners to place my tongue in that divot?)

  He says, “I’ve been gravitating toward you and now I don’t need to fight those feelings.”

  I nod. Saying nothing is probably the better strategy. I’m having to remind myself to breathe. This is so surreal, having a boy I fantasize about just materialize at my house to confess his hidden feelings about me. Maybe my dad dreams about undiscovered rooms, but this is how my dreams unfurl.

  Wait, did I pass out while reviewing my prep work? Is this all a product of my imagination, brought on by too much maths? Am I actually face-first on an open Kaplan book right now, a slight trickle of drool leaking onto the pages?

  Liam reaches over and threads his fingers through the back of my hair. Oh, that’s nice. My topknot comes undone, but I don’t mind. He says, “All I could think of doing was this.” With that, he pulls me close to him. Our foreheads are pressed together. The heat generated from where skin touches skin gives me goose bumps. He gazes deep into my eyes for what feels like a lifetime before he begins to kiss me.

  !

  !!

  !!!

  His kiss is like none I’ve experienced, hard, but a good hard, and not like all those other times where I worried about the guy’s braces catching the side of my mouth, or if he could smell the curry I ate at lunch, or if I was even doing it right.

  Liam’s kiss has rendered me weightless, transporting me to another dimension in time and space. I feel like I’m swimming underwater, arching and flexing in an endless, warm emerald pool. My limbs are liquid and free, like I’ve become one with the sea. I’ve lost all sense of equilibrium. I’m flying and floating, careening at a hundred miles an hour yet concurrently standing still.

  Or maybe that’s just the oxygen deprivation, because at some point, my lungs forgot to function.

  I pull away first and try not to gasp for air, a goldfish leapt from its bowl.

  Liam’s hand remains firmly on my neck, keeping my face tucked up close to his. He cups my cheek in his palm. We’re taking quick, shallow breaths in unison, our hearts beating with the same tempo. I feel his pulse racing alongside mine. I want to crawl inside this moment and live here for all eternity.

  “That?” he says with a smile that slowly plays across his lips. “Was everything.”

  His skin is flushed; I’m sure mine is, too. My lips tingle—I can still feel where he pressed against them. I’m gripping the lapels of his sport jacket, yet I don’t remember reaching for him. My body instinctively wants to pull him closer as it’s all I can do not to climb onto him.

  I suddenly understand why Kent wants to dish details now.

  Liam buries his head against my neck and begins to kiss me again and I’m almost overwhelmed as my pleasure morphs into desire. The notion of “going too far” wasn’t ever an issue with the boys I snogged...that is, until now.

  Oh, I could make very bad decisions with this one.

  I grab a handful of his hair and pull him closer. He pulls me right back.

  I didn’t realize that toe-curling was an actual thing, yet here we are. The ends of my feet are clenched into little bunches inside my shoes. I’m desperately tempted to kick them off, followed by everything else I’m wearing.

  “You smell incredible.”

  As I’m still me, I’m obligated to deflect and break our trance. Cordy’s right about my lack of game. I explain, “I’m wearing CB I Hate Perfume. Christopher, the guy who created it, is a family friend. He used to drive a cab and he hated how people reeked of the cheap stuff. He despised being accosted by all the commercial fragrances. Long story short, his bad experiences inspired him to whip up really unique scents.”

  Christopher should attempt to bottle the pheromones whizzing back and forth between the two of us. He’d make bank. As Liam gazes at me, I notice that his irises are different shades of amber and caramel and hazelnut, like a terribly sumptuous bar of Swiss chocolate. I used to think brown was boring, but suddenly it’s my favorite.

  Again, because I’m destined to ruin every romantic moment, I continue my CB infomercial. “I’m wearing Just Breathe, which was a limited edition. What you’re smelling is a mix of bamboo and, um, green tea and—”

  Liam saves me from myself by kissing me again. I’m swept away. His kiss is as sure and steady as the return of the tide and just as powerful. When his tongue touches my bottom lip, I respond in kind and we find ourselves woven together like a Brazilian commitment ring. Everything about his mouth on mine is right and formidable and all-encompassing, like I was put on this earth to live out this moment. I’m drawn out of my seat and onto his lap and he holds me harder, closer, as I grip his waist with my legs, his hands traveling from my hair down the length of my body, finding purchase on the bare stretch of my lower back where my shirt has ridden up.

  I never want him to stop.

  Still, my nature, my singular compulsion, is to wreck this moment. “And sandalwood and forest and a little bit of incense,” I finish once we’ve pulled apart.

  What is wrong with me?

  How is it that I’ve taken the most romantic/erotic moment of my life a
nd turned it into a Sephora advert? Cordy’s going to love hearing about this. Yet I can’t shut my fool mouth.

  “When Christopher asked me my favorite scent, I told him I wanted to recreate what I smelled when strolling the souk in Marrakesh, so this is what he picked.”

  HOLY CRAP, SELF, STUFF A SOCK IN IT.

  Instead of commenting on what a silly little fool I am or, perhaps, coming to his senses, Liam sweeps my bangs out of my eyes and tangles his hand in my hair again.

  “Can I see you tomorrow night?” he asks, tracing his finger down my jawline.

  Wait, he wasn’t thrown by my rattling off details like I was some sort of Marie Claire listicle come to life? My self-sabotage didn’t mar the moment? Is it possible that he cares for me not despite my own nature, but because of it?

  I take my first proper inhale in about ten minutes and reply once the oxygen returns to my brain. “Yes.”

  “All right then, off you go!” my dad bellows down the stairs. “Chop, chop, Simba!” He sounds like he means it, too.

  “That’s my cue,” Liam says. But before he gets up, he runs a thumb over my tender lower lip while his eyes search my face. Ripples of pleasure cascade down to my curled toes. “To be continued.”

  And what do I say in response? Which words do I pull out of my now-expansive lexicon to express exactly how on-board I am with his newly confessed sentiments?

  “Okeydokey, artichoke-y.”

  NO GAME. NONE.

  Cordy will die, and legitimately so.

  After I see him to the door, I’m giddy as I step into the kitchen to chat with my parents. (The trainer must have left while we were downstairs snogging. Again, WE WERE DOWNSTAIRS SNOGGING!)

  I want to recruit my folks into helping me send out a Twitter status, addressed to all of North America, exclaiming LIAM KISSED ME AND I KISSED HIM BACK. They’re going to be so glad for me! I can’t wait to tell Mum everything! Liam is LOADS more appropriate than David Bowie.