“Are you in Concepts of Fitness?” I ask.
She nods.
“I bet you’d adore the strength training class.”
“A couple of my friends take that and they kind of love it,” she admits.
“If you were to sign up for that, you’d get in more activity and you’d get to be with your squad more. Hashtag workoutbuddies. Plus, you’d feel great from all the endorphins. That’s what’s called a positive fulfillment loop. The more you do it, the better you feel and the more you want to do it.”
I believe my job here, especially with the underclassmen, is to make other kids as resilient and confident as possible because once their junior and senior years roll around, the pressure is going to be almost unbearable. If they don’t go in strong, well, we’ve seen what can happen.
“Would you be into helping me figure out a way to be healthier? Like, go over my choices with me? Guide me in the right direction?”
“Totally. Figuring it all out with a friend makes it more fun.”
“The buddy system, I like that.” She sits there for a minute and finally shrugs. “I don’t really have a lot more to tell you right now.”
“We can always hang out again in another session. Let me give you my number so you can text me with a question between appointments.” I hand her a card with my deets and digits on it.
“That would be great.” Farrah takes the card and tucks it in her shirt pocket and then extricates herself from the beanbag. I rise, too, to walk her to the door. She scoops up her half-full cup and deposits it in the trashcan next to the door.
“Um, Mallory?”
“Yeah?”
She begins to fidget with her cuff. “I... I might owe you an apology. I thought you were one thing coming in here today, but it turns out, you’re totally another. I think I heart you.”
I look over my shoulder and press a finger to my lips. “Shh. Keep that to yourself. I have an image to uphold.”
Quick like a ninja, she grabs me for a hug. I watch her head down the hall and I feel like my heart is smiling. I’d like to think I helped Farrah. I hope I did. She left the office with an awful lot more spring in her step than when she came in.
I’m rooting for her, but that doesn’t matter because I believe she’s rooting for her.
She turns around once before she exits and makes a heart symbol with her hands.
I laugh. “I heart you, too, Farrah.”
While I wait for my next counselee, I find myself staring at Braden’s email log-in again. I have to stop this constant obsessing, it’s consuming my life.
What would I tell someone who came in here with this problem?
Hmm.
I’d probably suggest they do one more log-in attempt and if it’s wrong, that’s the universe telling them to stop, to move on, to let go.
Then again, I’m not one to take my own good advice.
I glance at the time. Huh. I thought I had a three thirty. He or she should be out here waiting. I peek into the hallway, wondering if I maybe missed a knock, but all the chairs are empty.
When no one’s here by three forty-five, I collect my stuff. I’m about to walk out the door when I realize I should let Mr. Gorton know I’m cruising early due to my no-show.
I pop my head into his office, expecting to see him lining up his paperclips or straightening his Post-Its with a T square. (He’s a little anal-retentive, is what I’m saying.)
Instead, he’s weeping into handkerchief. His body is racked by deep, guttural sobs. He doesn’t notice me in the doorway. I mean to back away quickly, before I’m noticed, because this is a private moment, then I realize he’s not alone.
The other guidance counselors are inside as well. A couple of them are holding each other up while the third lets out a string of profanity not meant for my ears. Principal Gottfried is pale and silent and gripping her cell phone, fist pressed against her mouth as she nods.
I don’t have to ask what’s going on; I know what it looks like when we lose another of our own.
This is two kids in two months.
Two.
For a total of four since this summer.
That’s it.
I’m done.
Cordy
3:33 PM
is 2day the day? want details... NAO!
Simone
3:40 PM
29
SIMONE
Is it wrong to be this happy?
Does this euphoria come from rebelling?
Is that why every teenager in the world eventually sneaks around behind his or her parents’ backs?
I never disregarded Mum and Dad’s wishes before this. But their opinion of Liam was ridiculous and they refused to listen to reason. No matter what I said, they were convinced he’s a “user” and forbade me to see him. I told Liam what they thought and he laughed. He was all, “So anti-inflammatories are the new heroin?”
Too stupid for words, right?
Liam said his prescription made him tired and dopey at first, but now he’s got plenty of energy, so they’re absolutely improving his health. Now that soccer season’s over, his knee should stop bothering him without the daily grind of training. Another week or so of rest and he’ll be right as rain and done with the pills. However, instead of arguing any of this, I told Mum and Dad, “I won’t see him, if that’s what you want.”
What I meant was, you won’t see me see him. Worked like a charm for the past few weeks, too.
Liam and I have lots of time to spend together, due to my “pressing schedule at the newspaper” and “all the studying I’m doing with Stephen and Kent.” Technically, I am studying with Liam...most of the time. The best part is they won’t verify my whereabouts. Seventeen years of being as trustworthy/dependable as a prized hunting spaniel has given me some wiggle room.
Actually, I would spend more time with the boys, but Stephen’s being impossible and Kent managed to charm Noell somehow at the Homecoming dance. Suspect there was schnapps involved. They’re an actual couple now, which is beyond adorable. (They’re called KeNo, which seems gamble-y; not a fan of the handle.) We sit with them at lunch sometimes. Stephen rarely joins us, says he feels like a fifth wheel, which is ludicrous.
The three of us were supposed to celebrate Stephen’s birthday a couple of weeks back but Stephen bailed at the last minute due to a sore throat. His hat turned out brilliantly, and I so want him to have the amulet, but I’ve neither the time nor motivation to chase him as he’s been beyond crabby.
While Kent and I have tried to cheer him up, Stephen perpetually shoots us down. He’s been a bit of a vapor trail lately, never responding to texts. Is this another instance where we stop trying?
Every time we express our concern to Stephen, he rolls his eyes or mutters about how we’ve changed. That’s not pleasant for any of us. Kent and I speculate if maybe we ignore him, he’ll come around, the way a cat will cozy up as soon as you turn your back on it.
So maybe things aren’t entirely perfect, but I fly out of bed every morning, excited to meet the day.
Walking the halls as LiMone is surreal—Liam’s North Shore’s own personal Ryan Gosling. Everyone wants to stop and chat with him. They’re always soliciting his opinion or trying to garner his approval, all, “Liam, Liam—can you give us a quote for the Round Table about your winning season?” or “Heard Duke’s dying to recruit you—badass!”
For example, right now, all we’re trying to do is get to his Jeep in the student parking lot and it’s taking us forever. On our way, he’s been stopped by two teachers, three guys on the JV soccer team, and a handful of underclassmen. I’m surprised no one’s begged for an autograph. Ironic that his only detractors are my parents, the two people I desperately wish would like him.
“You need Se
cret Service agents,” I say, after Liam’s extricated himself from yet another admirer, having said goodbye with a complicated set of hand slaps and a half bro-hug. “Someone has to deflect all this love off you.”
He ducks his head like he’s embarrassed. “You’re exaggerating.”
“Not really. I thought that freshman was going to have you autograph her chest.”
He laughs. “Didn’t take you for the jealous type.”
I squeeze his hand. “I’m just glad to be part of your fan club.”
He spins around to look at me in the eye. “Come on, Simone, I don’t have a fan club. I’ve just grown up in this town, so I kinda know everyone. No one’s shouting about how they love me or anything. I’m not, like, I don’t know, Zayn Malik.”
A carload of cheerleaders passes us. One of them rolls down her window and shouts, “We love you, Liam! Wooo!”
“You were saying?”
While I suspect Liam’s always been popular, his leading the soccer team to win the Division I state title brought his local celebrity to a whole new level. He’d been hurting badly and benched himself partway through the game and that’s when the other team came from behind. In the final two minutes, he insisted on finishing out the game. He scored the winning goal with less than a second left on the clock, causing the crowd to lose their collective minds. Too bad he’s not interested in playing in college because he could go anywhere after that.
Although Princeton doesn’t give athletic scholarships, his prowess on the pitch would give him a distinct advantage in admissions. Still, lots of other schools do grant scholarships. Last year, Duke University brought him down for a weekend and treated him like a rock star, as did Wake Forest and Georgetown. University of Florida told him he could write his own ticket and he has a guaranteed full ride waiting.
Unfortunately, Liam’s dad has his sights set on Princeton for him, period, which is going to be an issue.
“I am done living by my father’s dictates,” he told me after he picked me up from my ACTs the day after Homecoming. The test took only three hours, but my parents assumed I’d be tied up all day. That’s why I had no problem taking off with him for the afternoon in my premiere act of defiance. I felt guilty but ten seconds in his presence and I was game for anything. Drive to Mexico? Rob a convenience store? I was in.
“What does that mean, exactly?” I asked. “What does being ‘done’ look like?” I kept taking little glances to my left to admire his profile as he drove us down to the lakefront. He’d packed a couple of blankets so we could wrap up and he’d bought two huge mochas. So thoughtful!
“Means I’m not going to Princeton. Period. That’s my early decision.”
While I admired his conviction, I wondered if he’d still feel that way once admitted. Why reject that kind of opportunity? “What happens when you’re accepted? How do you walk away from the Ivy League?”
The longer I’m in North Shore, the more I understand the draw of a “good school.” I mean, what if making jewelry isn’t my path? I don’t want to limit my options so I’ve stepped up my studies. Now I devote four to five hours a night to homework. I don’t love all the work and there’s a million things I’d enjoy more, but I’d be remiss to squander the prospect.
He gave me a sly look as he navigated down the steep, winding drive that divided the heavily wooded bluffs. The trees on either side were so dense that they blocked out the sky. Felt like we were traveling through a tunnel.
He pulled into the empty parking area, a small expanse of blacktop that overlooked a rocky shoreline. The water was gray and tipped with whitecaps, beating against the sand. Had he told me we were looking at the Channel coast in England and not this lake, I’d have believed him.
He said, “I figure the one sure way to not be admitted is to not apply. Life’s too short to do what you hate.”
“Do your folks believe you’re still applying?” I asked.
“Yes. My dad keeps asking how the process is going and I tell him it’s going exactly as planned, which technically isn’t a lie.”
He put the car into Park and turned off the ignition.
I had to laugh. “Is it just me, or is this lying business sort of hot?”
He pulled me to him. “So hot.”
Of course, now every day, his father is all, “Did you hear anything yet?” and Liam must say he hasn’t. At some point he’ll be found out and he anticipates a shitstorm. He told me his dad used to knock him around when he was younger, but that tapered off once Liam grew taller than him. While his dad’s still a tyrant, the physical abuse has been at bay, thanks to all of Liam’s achievements.
For now, he’s happily living in denial so we don’t discuss it much.
We arrive at his Jeep and he opens my door for me, like the well-raised gentleman he is. For everything everyone says about Brits being polite, I can’t recall a single boy showing me such respect back in London. Liam’s car has very tall wheels, and no spoilers for a foothold, so he always gives me a boost to get inside. Don’t need help, but I take it anyway.
See, Cordy? I’m developing some game.
“Where to?” he asks as he settles into the driver’s seat. “You hungry? You want some pizza or a burrito?”
The first few times we went out, Liam was amazed I’d consume actual calories on our dates. He was shocked when I asked for my own box of Milk Duds at the movies. I didn’t understand his reaction, so I offered to pay for them myself, which made him laugh. I suspect Mallory wasn’t the easiest girl to date. He’s never complained about her after that first night, but sometimes his reactions speak volumes.
“Hmm,” I say, acting like I’m thinking hard. “I’m...in the mood for something sweet.”
“Frozen yogurt? Dreamsicle cupcakes at Deerfield Bakery?”
I’ve been musing about the two of us a lot—so much, really, Liam is kind of all-consuming in my thoughts—and I’ve decided it’s time for us to take our relationship to the next level.
Yes. I mean that.
“You ready to shag him, eh?” Cordy asked, via our Skype session last night. I was prepping for bed and she was getting up for an early class.
Ha! Kidding!
She was actually rolling home from her night, having just completed the Walk of Shame, hair a mess, dress askew, bra in her backpack, and eyeliner smeared for days.
“Yes? Maybe? I think so?” I replied.
“So long as you’re sure.” In a more serious tone, she said, “Listen up, Moni, you can only lose it once. ’Course, you can tell guys every time it’s your first and they’ll believe you because they’re stupid and horny and naïve and that’s what they want to hear. By my counts I’ve lost my maidenhood six times this term. Still, it’s official just the once, so make it count with someone who’s kind and amenable. You love him?”
“We’ve only been together a couple of weeks. Can’t say that I’m ‘in love.’ But I could be easily and soon, though. I mean, I’m consumed with thoughts of him. Like, obsessed.”
Whether it’s first thing in the morning when he picks me up at the corner or when I randomly spy him in the halls, I feel like my heart’s going to burst wide open, spraying showers of confetti everywhere like on the X Factor finale. He makes my pulse quicken whenever I think about him.
I took a breath and continued. “One touch ignites a fire inside me that feels like it could heat the whole world for all of eternity. To me, Liam’s, like, a sip from a cool spring of water after a lifetime of thirst. Or like taking a leap off a blind cliff and soaring and then landing in a huge pile of marshmallow fluff. Is that love? I can’t say, but it’s certainly something.”
“Meh, sounds close enough. You should go for it.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely. But I’ve gotta warn you, babe, the real thing might not stand up against y
our fantasies. You probably believe you’ll feel the flap of angel wings against your tender nethers or the songs of a thousand voices singing a perfect C note together or some Shakespearian crap like that. Not accurate. First time, there’s grunting and rutting and sweating and pounding—actually, no, no pounding, you wish there were some pounding—for about thirty seconds and then it’s over. Honestly? Kind of a hot mess. Gets better, though. Has to. God, I’d join a nunnery if every time were as bad as my first.”
“You a nun?” I snorted. “You’re not even Catholic.”
She replied, “I’d convert if it were always so dreadful. Remember Niles the Night Terror from my first time two years ago? After we did it, he says to me, ‘Can I borrow a couple of pence?’ and I said, ‘What for?’ and he replied, ‘Want to buy a packet of Malteasers to get the taste of you out of my mouth.’”
Yikes. “Can’t see that happening with Liam, though.”
“Good, because you said you can’t find Malteasers anywhere. I’m tired of having to mail you decent tooth polish and proper chocolate. Bloody savage country.”
“I only wish...” I started.
She peered at me. “Finish your thought.”
“Wish I could talk to Mum about this. Seems almost criminal to hide this info from her,” I replied.
Cordy shook her head vehemently and raised her pointer finger at me on the other side of the screen. “No, no, no. Wrong. No one talks to their mum about sex. It’s not done because it’s twisted. After your parents are done changing your dirty nappies, they never want to think about your vag again, that’s a fact. Your relationship with them is not the norm. I’m glad you’re close and Fi and Angus are loads of fun, but, no. Hell to the no. Sex is not meant to be the topic of a family meal. You can’t say to them, ‘Please pass the jacket potatoes and PS, had my first orgasm, tremendous fan,’ because it defies the natural code. You have to trust me here.”
The Gatekeepers Page 25
