The Gatekeepers

by Jen Lancaster

  “I heart your huge brain, Mallory,” he said.

  “Shut up,” I replied, and we both laughed and watched the sky for a few minutes.

  “Seriously, Mal? I wish I could see it your way,” he replied, his voice as wistful as I’d ever heard. “I don’t share your confidence about my place in the universe. I’ve got to wonder what I have to offer. I need to figure out how to come across as the single, all-important grain and not just one of the trillions across the Sahara, you know?”

  I rolled over onto my side, propped up on my elbow, concerned by the tenor of what he said. “Hey, what’s going on with you? Everything cool?” I asked, placing a hand on his chest, feeling his heartbeat quicken along with my own.

  He looked up at me for a long time, not saying anything in response, our faces closer than they’d ever been before. As I hovered over him, a hank of my hair slid out of my ponytail and spilled down, tangling in his thick eyelashes. For a couple of seconds, the whole universe was him and me. My defenses disappeared.

  Suddenly, being with Braden seemed the only logical choice and I knew he felt it, too.

  Maybe witnessing me soften proved too overwhelming, because the next thing he’d said was, “Shit, I got a grain of Mallory in my eye! Get it out!” and he brushed away my hair and then grabbed me, lifting me up and tossing me in the water. I started splashing him and we were so loud, we woke up my mother who sent Theo out after us. Then he jumped in, too.

  We never had another chance to continue the conversation that night, to recapture that moment. Just like that, exactly like the meteors above us, we’d burned brilliantly and profoundly, lighting up the heavens for a couple of glorious seconds before ultimately flaming out.

  In retrospect, I realize his whole good-humor, larger-than-life thing was a mask, a role he played, the way he hid his true self and his true intentions to the world.

  He was nothing but smiles for everyone until he decided he was done smiling.

  See? My job here gives me perspective. There I was feeling bad about the Liam situation and then I remembered Braden, remembered what could have been if I’d been brave. If I’d been able to relinquish control. I should have let Liam go long before I did. We’d have both been happier. Instead, I kept stringing him along out of self-interest.

  Thinking of Braden causes a physical ache. I don’t feel whole, like there’s a part of me missing. Braden’s a phantom limb. The pain of missing him overwhelms me. I carry my despair with me, like my movement is hindered, like I’m hauling around a fifty-pound pack on my back that I can never put down.

  Thoughts of Braden consume my dreams. And even when those dreams morph into nightmares, I’m still so glad to be in his presence that I don’t care if we’re somewhere scary, as long as we’re together.

  There’s a moment when my alarm goes off and I’m in the gray area between asleep and awake and I don’t yet remember that Braden’s gone. As I come to my senses, I recall the loss and everything comes rushing back and I feel like I’m pinned to the bed, so weighted down with grief that I can’t move.

  I’m not the only one who’s struggling.

  Theo’s having just as much trouble, so I’m making the effort to be there for him. Lately, he and I have taken to sitting on the sectional in the media room for hours, looking at pictures of Braden on the iPad. We have a million stories between us. In remembering him fondly, we feel like a tiny part of him remains alive.

  Theo still clings to the belief that Braden was killed by accident, despite Owen bearing witness. He argues that because there was no note, his death was unintentional.

  Considering how quiet Braden kept his problems, would he have committed his final thoughts to the page? That’s why I’m so desperate to get into his email.

  Also, what if the impulse to end everything had truly been spur of the moment, completely unplanned? The train was running late that day due to a switching problem down the line. Normally, he’d have already been across the tracks and on campus by the time the Metra was due at the North Shore stop. What if the late train was too attractive a nuisance to ignore, a permanent solution to a fleeting thought?

  But I don’t say any of this to Theo; he’s not ready to hear it.

  Sometimes I wonder which of us is more heartsick. I figured one day the three of us would all be grown-ups together, with the nonsense and hierarchies of high school behind us, and then Braden and I might finally happen. We’d be older then, and Theo would be less likely to resent our getting together. I mean, maybe. Regardless of what might or might not eventually happen with him and me, I assumed Braden would be someone who was in my life permanently.

  How could I know that permanence was so ephemeral, that forever could end at seventeen?

  My fingers itch to pick up my phone, to look at his email log-in, but I have only a single chance left. One more password and that’s it. I don’t want to sever the possible connection between us, to eliminate the ability to ever find an answer as to why.

  If I think about all that, I’ll lose it, so I’ll concentrate on being ready for my appointment instead.

  As I wait, I reposition myself so I’m sitting like a lady in this stupid beanbag chair, but that’s near impossible. Super glad I didn’t opt for a skirt today. No matter how I plant, whoever sits across from me would have had a straight shot all the way to Panty City. Mr. Gorton should change the manual to include my suggestion that counselors wear leggings. I volunteered to do it for him, but he said the binder was fine like it was.

  Thus says the man who’s never had his thong ogled.

  For a school like NSHS, you’d think they’d have a couple of bucks to pretty up the peer counseling room, but nope. The sum total of our resources includes said rules binder, a few beanbag chairs, handfuls of pamphlets, a macramé plant holder that’s surely a castoff from some art project, circa 1972 and containing one dusty plastic fern, and a Hang In There Kitty poster that absolutely predates the invention of the LOL Cat phenomenon. How is it the alumni saw fit to fund a seven hundred and fifty thousand dollar Jumbotron for the football stadium, and I can’t even counsel kids in a seat with legs?

  Mental health merits real furniture, is all I’m saying.

  I hear a soft tap on the door and I invite in my peer counselee.

  “Hi, are you ready for me?” says a soft-spoken, heavy-set girl with amazing brows and ridiculously gorgeous chestnut brown hair. I’m serious, she’s got the full Lovato going on up there. Like a thoroughbred’s mane, or maybe Kate Middleton. Really, it’s fabulous.

  “I’m Farrah.” Instead of shaking my hand, she gives me a meek little wave with her fingertips. She’s holding a steamy cup of something that smells like a mocha. I can feel my mouth begin to water, so I swallow hard and smile.

  “Hi, Farrah, I’m Mallory, come on in and have a seat.” I gesture toward the empty beanbag. “Sorry we don’t have real furniture.”

  Farrah offers a quick, shy grin, but doesn’t look me in the eye. “That’s okay, anything’s got to be better than those awful chairs in the hallway. It’s like they’re trying to make you uncomfortable or something.”

  “Right? Here, lemme hold your drink while you settle in.” I take a surreptitious sniff. Yep, definitely a mocha. Liam used to be all over me for trying to smell everyone’s food, said it was weird and I should just eat if I were hungry.

  Won’t miss that.

  Besides, if I were to consume everything I wanted, (a) they’d have to roll me onto campus every day, and (b) I’d be disowned. So ironic because I’ve seen pics of mom at my age. She easily wore a twelve, if not a fourteen. Back then, the styles were all baggy sweatshirts and billowy T-shirts tucked into Bermuda shorts, so I guess size didn’t matter so much. (Except for everyone’s hair, which, GIGANTOR.) Of course, thanks to Dr. Baylor, my mom can cram herself into my skinnies now, but there’s no way she’d ha
ve carried them off back then.

  After Farrah’s seated, I return her cup. She’s forced to place it on the floor. Seriously, no one will throw us a couple of bucks so we can spring for a coffee table? I lean forward in my beanbag and say, “Welcome to peer counseling! Is there anything specific you’d like for us to cover? Or would you be more comfortable if we chatted a bit and saw where that took us?”

  She looks down at her feet. “I don’t know. I’ve never done this before.”

  I’m quick to reassure her. “That’s totally cool, let’s just get acquainted. What grade are you in, Farrah?”

  “I’m a freshman.”

  “Ah, a freshman! I’m so old! I swear, my freshman year feels like it happened decades ago! I was SO overwhelmed when I got here,” I say, trying to give her something to agree with or latch on to so that I know how to proceed.

  She doesn’t reply. Mostly she just looks at her feet.

  I press on. “I was lost here for, what? The whole first month? I’m seriously lucky that my older brother, Holden, is an alum, so I had the lay of the land, you know?”

  Holden lives in Costa Rica now, where he teaches English to village children. He started with the Peace Corps after graduating summa cum laude from Brown a couple of years ago. (Ask me how happy our mother was about that decision.) He’s in the middle of a twenty-seven-month stint and has yet to come home. He says he can’t get away, but it’s more like he doesn’t want to. The Peace Corps isn’t prison camp, you know? They can’t hold him there against his will. Truth is, he hates North Shore and couldn’t wait to leave. I wouldn’t be surprised if he never comes back.

  I ask, “Do you have any brothers or sisters who came here?”

  “Only child.”

  “Bummer,” I say. “Holden was super helpful, telling me which clubs to join and which teachers were his favorites. He urged me to take a class with Mr. Conroy in the music department. I remember walking into the class and seeing this frumpy old guy who looked like he stepped out of a Harry Potter book, and I thought, ‘’Bout to get our Vivaldi on.’ But Holden was right and Mr. Conroy knew everything about music from Chuck Berry to Macklemore. No lie, Kendrick Lamar thanked Mr. Conroy at some award ceremony last year. How random is that, right? Anyway, Mr. Conroy’s History of Rock and Roll is amazing. Keep it in mind if you need an elective.”

  Farrah bobs her head in lieu of responding. She’s pretty closed off, isn’t she? I need to get her to talk, which means I should ask something she can’t answer with a yes, no, or nod.

  “Tell me, Farrah, how do you like NSHS so far?”

  “’S’okay.” Again, she says this more to her shoes than to me. Girlfriend is committed to those one-word answers. I try to read her expression, but it’s hard as I’m mostly seeing her part and not her eyes. Wow, though, her hair is seriously bouncy. Glossy, too. I really want to ask her what shampoo she uses, but that would be unprofessional, at least at this juncture.

  “Only okay for you? Are you having trouble in any of your classes? They’re tough, but they’ll totally prep us for college. Our classes are why everyone gets into a top college here. Like, this school is so good that it’s sent real estate prices through the roof. Still, if you start feeling like you can’t keep your head above water, I can arrange tutors. The Peer Tutors have actual desks in their room. Whiteboards and computers, too.” I try to keep the envy out of my voice. I hear they even have access to office supplies.

  She glances up. “No, I’m doing really well there. I aced my midterms.”

  “Awesome!”

  I’m trying to assess her by what might appear to be random questions. But I know where I’m trying to go and so far, I’ve learned that academics aren’t a problem.

  “Yeah... I guess it’s awesome,” she mumbles, head down again.

  Okay, social aspect, go. I ask, “Are you making new friends?”

  “Definitely. I’ve met lots of cool kids in my classes. Our squad gets together to do homework. Everyone’s really nice.”

  If she were being bullied, she’d lead off with who wasn’t nice.

  “Have you joined any clubs or activities?”

  “Um... I’m in the web design and coding club, the gamers club, and I do Quiz Bowl, too. That’s so fun!”

  “The Quiz Bowl team’s killing it this year, right?” I don’t know this for sure, but it’s an educated guess.

  Her face lights up. “We’re undefeated—we’ve crushed everyone.”

  “Up here!” I say, holding up my hand for a high-five. We smack our palms together. I add another check to my mental list. Home life, go.

  “And your parents? Do they, say, come to your competitions?”

  This evokes an actual laugh. “Ohmigod, yes, and it’s sooooo embarrassing! My mom and dad sit in the front row. They make banners and everything! They cheer louder than anyone. I sort of wish I had a sibling so they could spread out their enthusiasm and not just concentrate it all on me.”

  “Ever wish they wouldn’t come?”

  She shakes her head, which showcases her glorious mane. “No, totally not. I feel...safe with them there. Like, if I mess up, it doesn’t matter, they love me regardless.”

  I keep my face neutral when I say, “You’re lucky to have that.” I don’t explain how my situation differs, because this session is not about me.

  Uh-oh, we’re back to staring at feet again.

  “I know and I feel kinda bad. I have friends on the team and their folks can’t even be bothered to show up.”

  Been there.

  I tab through my mental checklist—academics aren’t a problem, nor is involvement/friends, and she has a supportive family. I have a feeling about where this is going, but I need her to tell me so that I can help her. If I bring it up, she’ll feel attacked.

  “Sounds like you have a lot going for you,” I say.

  She nods, but doesn’t seem convinced. Time to switch tactics.

  “Okay,” I say, “I have to know something and this is totally off script and I’m sure Mr. Gorton would be mad, so please don’t tell him I asked.” I can see Farrah’s shoulders tense. I’m about to lob a softball directly into her waiting glove, but she doesn’t realize it. “Your hair is freaking gorge—what do you use on it?”

  Again, another genuine smile. “Moroccan oil and Frederic Fekkai products. It’s dumb, but I started buying his stuff because I’m Farrah Fakhoury and I liked the double Fs.”

  “Um, no, that’s the opposite of dumb. That’s a perfectly legit reason and look at your results! I’d die for your hair, I really would. Like, I just want to pet it, you know? You’ve got the whole My Pretty Pony thing going on and those? Favorite toy ever. I would brush their hair for hours. They were the best.”

  She presses her lips together and seems to be struggling over what she’s about to say. After a pause, she tells me, “You could have my hair, if that meant I could wear your jeans.”

  Bingo. Problem, meet solution.

  Totally conversationally, I say, “You know, when I was in seventh grade, I had to shop in the women’s section with my mom, because none of the teen sizes fit me.”

  Farrah glances up at me through a lush fringe of bangs. “Really? You didn’t always look like this?”

  “Nope. I was a skinny kid, but I didn’t realize that my metabolism had changed from when I was a little kid and I was eating too much. In fact,” I say, “in junior high, my mom used to call me ‘Calorie Mallory.’”

  She gasps. “That’s awful!”

  I wave her off. “She meant well.”

  No, she didn’t.

  I continue, “I realized I didn’t like having to buy mom-jeans, you know? I wanted to wear what everyone else had on. So I made changes. Took up field hockey, which is a ton of running. Also, I recorded everything I ate on an app so I�
��d be more accountable to myself. I could not believe how much hidden fat was in my favorite stuff. For example, I used to get mochas all the time and then I learned they’re five hundred calories apiece! That’s, like, a third of my daily allowance.”

  Two thirds.

  Farrah glances at her cup in horror. “Holy crap, I drink three of those a day. What did you do?”

  I shrug. “I decided to make them a treat instead, a once-in-a-while thing so they’re more special now.”

  I don’t mention that I eventually became obsessive, and, let’s be honest, a tad exercise bulimic as I’m not in the Pro-ana business. I wouldn’t wish how I feel on anyone. No one should be thin-spired by me. I preach moderation, even if I can’t seem to practice it.

  “Here’s the thing,” I say, offering up advice I wish I could take myself. “What you weigh is not who you are. Listen, you’ve got so much going for you—you’re smart, you have phenomenal hair, you have nice friends, your parents rock. You are already awesome, just as you are. Don’t let anyone tell you differently. If they do, you tell me, okay? However, if your pants size bugs you, if you feel like that’s a burden you can’t bear, make small changes, if you feel like it and only if you feel like it. I want you to go out into the world feeling like you’re your best you, whatever size that entails.”

  Farrah is now sitting upright in her beanbag, looking me in the eye, with her shoulders squared. “It’s that easy?”

  “At first, maybe it won’t feel like it, but the truth is, it can be simple if you want it to be.”

  “Should I pick a different track in gym class?”

  Illinois has a mandatory physical education element, so no one’s exempt from taking gym. However, NSHS tracks the levels of classes, so some people go super easy and pick sports like golf or Concepts in Fitness, which is basically for kids who would rather study about exercise than participate in it.