The Gatekeepers

by Jen Lancaster

  “So, now that you’re together, why don’t you follow me?” she says with a smile and a swish of her shiny hair. I like how her pale pink lipstick contrasts with her dark skin and the deep brown of her shoulder-length bob. She’s giving off Gabrielle Union–realness. (Dwayne Wade is the luckiest man on earth. Fact.)

  I wonder if this lady distracts Mr. Gamble when he’s trying to, like, jurisprudence or whatever. Do they race boats together? Was she the woman in the picture? Pretty sure she was.

  I plod along behind her while she glances back at me to see if I’m still with her, scrunching up her eyes each time, all friendly. This lady’s making me feel better and I truly appreciate that. I bet she’s an awesome assistant. If Kent were here, he’d be all, Yeah, baby, Mr. Gamble does want you to take a letter.

  You know what? I probably owe Kent an apology. Suspect he was being helpful and cool in trying to set me up with Spencer.

  We head down a long hall and finally arrive at the door of a large, glassed-in office in the corner of the building. The leather rolling chair in front of the formidable oak desk is presently unoccupied. She enters while I stand in the doorway, waiting for my interviewer to arrive.

  “Wow, I’m glad I didn’t screw up like that in front of Mr. Gamble, right? Whew.” I sweep a hand over my brow.

  “Um...” Her smile falters and she clears her throat. “Actually it’s Ms.”

  I don’t follow.

  I say, “I’m sorry, it’s mis-what?” I figure she’s nice enough that I can be honest. “I didn’t catch the end of what you said.”

  She sits at the desk and points to her engraved nameplate. “Gamble. Ms. Alexandra Gamble. Hi, Stephen, I apologize for not properly introducing myself back there, I thought you knew. Please, have a seat.” She gestures to the open chair.

  Fuck. My. Life.

  * * *

  I’ve crashed.

  I’ve burned.

  I’ve blown this interview in a way that interviews have never been blown before. I’ve invented entirely new ways to fail. Someday people are going to describe disasters as “That was a total Cho-show,” instead of inserting the words Hindenburg or Titanic or Chernobyl.

  Loser.

  Coward.

  Reject.

  How am I gonna face my family after this? How will I say that I messed it up again, like always, despite their best efforts? That I lost everything I’ve been trying to achieve my whole life in less than an hour?

  I feel like I’m drowning, like this glass office has turned into an aquarium and my mouth, my stupid mouth that keeps betraying me, is a set of weighted lead boots. The water’s rising all around me and I can’t fight, I can’t swim, I can’t pull myself to the surface no matter how hard I kick.

  Do I even want to kick? I am a tsunami of suck. Maybe I deserve to sink. Maybe it’s better if I don’t try to save myself.

  Clearly this Ms. Gamble is a sadist, making me sit here and answer her questions, like I still have a shot, like I don’t appall her, like she’s not going to stamp my interview form with the word NO, NO, NO, NO over and over in red ink.

  Loser.

  Coward.

  Reject.

  First I lost my chance at valedictorian and now this. When I saw the names on that damn sailing photo, I was too distracted by the tank top to notice which person was actually Alex. How do I always do this, how do I always miss the whole fucking point of everything?

  Useless.

  Useless.

  USELESS.

  I can’t recover from this. There’s no coming back.

  For a minute, I thought I’d dodged the black cloud that perpetually follows me, the all-encompassing darkness that threatens to pull me under. Why have I been fighting it when it would be easier, so much easier, to just give in?

  I told myself that things would improve once high school was over, that I could be a new me at college, a different me, a better me, but that’s bullshit.

  I want to make it stop hurting.

  I want to quiet the voices inside my head.

  I want to feel nothing.

  I want the pain of being me, of being a loser, a coward, a reject, to go away.

  “So, Stephen, tell me...” she begins, leaning across her desk, pretending like she’s not disgusted with me, like she cares about my response. “How do you want to be remembered after high school?”

  I give her my original honest answer, only in a more succinct form.

  I say, “I don’t want to be remembered.”

  Kent

  11:56 AM

  YOU SLAY!

  Stephen

  Read 12:11 PM

  Simone.

  12:13 PM

  be brilliant!

  Stephen.

  READ 12:14 PM

  27

  KENT

  Fine, don’t text me back.

  To myself, I’m all, this is not how a friend acts. He should be happy, not just for me, but for both of us. This thing with Noell is the culmination of everything either of us ever wanted and now there’s potential for him, too.

  After she and I got together at the Homecoming game (thank you, Fireball Cinnamon Whiskey), he was like, “What about Mallory?” While I didn’t say it, I was thinking, sure, Noell’s no Mallory, but she’s also not my right hand and that counts for a lot.

  So much. The difference between virtual reality and actual reality? No comparison.

  Does he not understand that Noell’s friend Spencer is a real girl, who’s right here, right now? Sure, he and I had plans to fabricate a female robot, but it was gonna take years to create a fully functioning prototype. While I still totally see the upside of a sex robot, there’s much to be said about having a flesh-and-blood girlfriend right-freaking-now.

  (With our luck, we’d program our robot with the kind of artificial intelligence that would eventually want to destroy mankind, anyway.)

  That’s why I went over to his house last night—to talk to him about Spencer. Mrs. Cho had a fit because she was running interview questions with him at the dining room table, but I told her we had to discuss a school project and she gave him a quick break. Seemed like he needed it, too, dude was wiped out, eyes all dark-circled and skin sallow. Even his perma-spiked hair was lethargic, practically flattened to his skull.

  We headed upstairs to his room, which is kind of a carbon copy of mine, except I don’t have a signed photo of Steve Jobs. Lucky bastard.

  “Before I forget,” I said, reaching into my backpack, “here’s your shirt. I ironed it and everything. Sorry it took so long to get it back to you. I used those little beads in the wash that make your stuff smell extragood to say sorry for the delay. Check it out, April-fresh!”

  “Keep it,” he said, waving the shirt away.

  “Dude, this is, like, your favorite.”

  He said, “Nah, my mom shrunk it. I don’t want it. You’re small, you have it.”

  Typical Stephen, giving with one hand and taking away with the other.

  What’s ironic is the shirt did feel kind of small on me; I’d hoped it was because I’d grown. I feel slightly taller, but maybe that’s just because Noell digs me and that makes me stand up straighter.

  (Bonus points to me for not saying anything about “erect.” Heh.)

  I refused to let him bait me, though, so I said, “Imma pretend you didn’t insult me and just enjoy my badass new shirt.”

  Stephen flopped onto his bed, belly-side down, and lay there all splayed out like a starfish.

  “Yo, little tired there, bro?” I laughed.

  “You have no idea,” he replied, dragging out each word, like even the idea of saying he was exhausted was too exhausting.

  “Well, I won’t keep you, I just wante
d to give you the 411 about Spencer.”

  He didn’t reply so I continued.

  “Spencer? Hot girl who hangs out with Noell? Field hockey player? Wears skirts so short you can see the crease where her ass meets her thigh when she bends over?” Shameful story, but once last year he and I dropped a handful of dollar bills on the ground by Spencer so we could watch her pick them up. Basically was all our lunch money that day, but being hungry was worth the show. “I know you know who I mean.”

  Listlessly, he replied, “Uh-huh.”

  Why did I go out of my way for him when this was how he reacted to my outstanding news?

  “ANYWAY, Jasper was hooking up with Spencer but he dumped her and now she’s on a major rebound. She agreed to do a double date.” I waited for him to rally, but again, nothing. “Clarification, a double date with me and you.”

  Nada.

  I said, “So, lemme sum this up for you, ’cause clearly you’re not processing this. Smokeshow Spencer wants to hang with you. You familiar with the concept of low-hanging fruit? What’s the downside here?”

  He shrugged. “I’d just screw it up, like always. Pass.”

  I was exasperated. “Hold up, ‘Pass’? Pass, like she’s a bread basket in a restaurant and you’re gluten-free? What in the actual fuck? Do you even get what I went through to make this happen? I had to go for a pedicure with Noell. I don’t mean driving her to the nail salon, no, I mean getting a pedicure with her. And I’m not talking just soaking my feet and having them scrape off the rough skin and massage them and shit. Although, no lie, bro, I enjoyed that part. The deal is, Noell agreed to the fix-up, but only if I had my toenails polished because she thought that’d be hilarious. I have ten hot pink little piggies for you. There’s a fuckin’ daisy painted on my big toe.” I pointed to my foot. “I got your friendship right here.”

  Into his covers, Stephen said, “Sorry to be such a burden. Maybe your life would be better if I weren’t in it.”

  I said, “Brother, please. I cannot fucking wait until your interview’s over tomorrow. Gotta tell you, you’re being a total pill right now. Are you even excited for that? This is the last hurdle between you and a one-way ticket to Boston.”

  He let out a slow, steady stream of breath, which sounded like a balloon deflating. “I’m sure it’s hopeless. Why would MIT want me?”

  Okay, that was it.

  I’d had my fill of his nonsense.

  I was not about to talk him through everything he had going for him, listing off every achievement, particularly when I knew that if MIT could only choose one of us from NSHS, it’d be him over me a million times. He could show up to that interview in his freaking boxer shorts and they’d still toss scholarships at him, begging him to be part of their freshman class. Hell, no one had even confirmed my alum interview yet.

  I told him, “Word of advice? Don’t take this bullshit attitude into your interview tomorrow.”

  And then I went home, because I was done.

  I didn’t see him this morning; he left for school without us. Simone was a couple minutes late getting to my house, so we were running behind when we knocked on the Chos’ door. In his typical fashion, he’d already gone stomping off without us instead of waiting five minutes. We don’t have any AM classes together and his mom was coming to get him before lunch so I didn’t have a chance to see him before he left.

  I felt bad about how we left it last night, even though I technically didn’t do anything wrong. I’ve been pinging him all day about stuff to take his mind off being nervous, trying to get him fired up, trying to ignite that spark in him. He hasn’t responded. Truth is, it’s starting to hurt my feelings.

  I glance at the clock on my phone. Okay, his interview has to be over by now. I try him again, this time not sugar-coating anything.

  I finally text what in the actual fuck, dude?

  My phone chimes and I glance down to see Stephen’s message i’m so sorry. u were right, kent.

  Okay, Cho, that’s more like it.

  28

  MALLORY

  I need to get out of my own head.

  I figured helping other kids with their probs will take my mind off mine. So, I signed up for an extra peer counseling shift because I could use some perspective.

  With the whole Liam thing, I can’t figure out if I’m sad or worried or just plain pissed off because he’s already so tight with Simone.

  I’m all, her? Really? And that’s not rumor, either; it’s fact. First, Elise saw them riding to school together the Monday after Homecoming a couple of weeks ago. I started hearing about LiMone (their couple portmanteau) a few days after that.

  Please. LiMone sounds like a Walmart-brand soda.

  I hear they’ve gotten very close, very fast, but I was so wrapped up in ending the field hockey season that I didn’t pay attention until after we took the state title. (Told you so.) Didn’t see for myself until I walked past them making out by his locker yesterday. Witnessed them with my own two eyes.

  Tongue! School tongue!

  Who does that?

  When classmates asked about our breakup, and, of course, they did ask, I told them an abbreviated version of reality—that we’d grown apart, that senior year was too much of a grind. I didn’t mention our (unrequited) love triangle, that there was a third person in the relationship who kept me from being present for Liam. To explain the full truth would be a complex answer to what should be a simple question.

  Most people hate to hear about unwarranted emotional complications. They don’t like messy. They want succinct, breezy, something that makes sense so they can move on. For example, look at the question, “How are you?” In casual conversation, folks expect us to reply with a “fine” or “good.”

  No one wants a dissertation on how my mom is a total bitch who plays favorites and how the two of us are locked in a power struggle that’s only escalated since Braden died.

  “How are you, Mallory?”

  “Good, thanks. And you?”

  That’s how I play it, every day.

  What’s satisfying about peer counseling is that I can get past the surface with my counselees. I’m not afraid of the messy. I welcome the emotionally complicated. I engage so that I can help resolve. I want kids to know it’s okay if they aren’t “fine” or “good,” that I’m here regardless.

  Mr. Gorton’s all, “I only want you to listen to them—what they’re looking for is a chance to be heard. Then you give them the appropriate literature and point them in the right direction.”

  We’re not supposed to, but I know I can do more than just emotional triage. I’m not just gonna hand out related pamphlets when I can offer solutions. He expects me to sit here and nod, like I’m a human bobblehead doll; that’s just not me.

  Would you not toss a drowning man a life preserver, especially if you have so many extras on your boat? Doesn’t make sense. I just wish I’d been better at it when it mattered most.

  Ultimately, people confide in me because I’m trustworthy. I’ve never once squealed about what anyone’s told me. Literally, I’ll take their secrets to the grave. I mean, I didn’t even blab when I heard how Jasper cries after sex. Seriously. Sobbing. I’m saying boo-hoo-like-a-baby-with-a-bowl-of-Spaghettios-on-his-head tears. Every time. And I’ve heard this from multiple sources because boyfriend gets around.

  How easy would it have been for me to be all, “What are you gonna do, JasHole, cry about it?” whenever he’d give me shit at the lunch table? I’m talking heroic self-restraint on my part. Yet I never have told. Never will, either.

  At least I’m not forced to sit with Jasper anymore. That’s a definite upside to the breakup.

  If my mom weren’t so relentless about my doing the whole Wall Street thing, I’d want to be a therapist. The one time I mentioned an interest, she sai
d, “No kid of mine is going to be one of those Prius-driving deadbeats, getting paid in Kleenex and going home to all the cats in her studio apartment.”

  Another argument I lost. Why do I even try?

  Maybe I wouldn’t have been good professionally. If being there for Braden was my first test of being a mental health professional, then I failed. Profoundly.

  I will always wish he’d said something to me, that I had a clue things had gotten so bad for him. If he’d opened up, if I’d truly let him in, could I have made a difference?

  Maybe he kept those parts of him hidden because we were so tentative about our feelings for each other, both too proud to make the first move. What if one of us had relented? Seemed like any time we would touch on something real, the other would make a joke or redirect the conversation. I can think of a million examples where he and I did this dance, but the last time is the most profound.

  It happened at my family’s lake house, in late summer. Braden was always coming up north with us. Said he liked not feeling like an only child.

  Anyway, Braden and I were outside that night, the only ones not yet asleep. We were lying down at the end of the dock, watching the meteor shower. The stars were whizzing across the clear Wisconsin sky, exploding like the fireworks grand finale on the Fourth of July. The beauty of it all left me breathless and I was glad he was there to witness it with me.

  As we watched, he said, “We’re seeing shrapnel from a supernova that exploded a billion years ago. This is that dying star’s last hurrah, burning up in our atmosphere after traveling so many light years. Doesn’t it make you feel small and insignificant, like nothing you do ultimately matters? Do you ever question why we’re even here if we’re so unimportant in the scheme of things?”

  “Well, no, because it’s all a matter of perspective,” I replied. “Who’s to say what’s small or insignificant? I mean, who’s the arbiter of that? Are we two tiny beings in an infinite universe? Sure, yeah. But when you look at what’s finite in our lives—our families, teams, friends, activities, that’s where we take on meaning. That’s where we’re significant. A grain of sand on a beach is nothing, an anonymous, infinitesimal portion of billions of grains that are all the same. They’re interchangeable. Take away one grain and no one would ever notice. Place the same grain of sand in someone’s eye? Then it’s a big deal. Until it’s out, that grain becomes that person’s entire focus, it’s all they can consider until it’s gone. Context is everything. Our meaning comes from our context.”