The Gatekeepers

by Jen Lancaster

  More blinking.

  “Did you know that Asian American kids Stephen’s age are the most at risk? Because I know it now. They have the highest rates of suicidal thoughts, of intent, and of attempts. Did you know that the suicide rate at MIT—the college Stephen wanted to attend—has quadruple the national average of suicides for Asian American students? I read that between 1996 and 2006, a Cornell task force found that thirteen out of twenty-one campus suicides involved Asian American students. Thirteen out of twenty-one. Did you know they’re more likely than any other peer group to report anxiety or depression, but they’re the least likely to seek help? What in the actual fuck? These are documented facts! What are they always saying in Econ class? ‘If you can’t measure it, you can’t manage it. If you can’t manage it, you can’t improve it.’ We have the stats! We can measure it! SO WHY ISN’T ANYONE AROUND HERE MANAGING AND IMPROVING?”

  I pace back and forth in front of his desk, my sneakers squeaking furiously each time I spin on my heels.

  “So I’m mad. I’m mad at myself, but I’m madder at the circumstances that drove poor Stephen to that decision. I’m mad about the impossible standards here, the atmosphere that’s been created, that made him think that he could never be good enough, that he may as well end the game, take his ball and go home. Why are we so all-or-nothing here? Why are we all about black-and-white with no shades of gray? Although, I guess I should be happy about all the news coverage on Stephen because, traditionally, the media’s more likely to profile white students. At least there’s a modicum of awareness. Hashtag smallblessing.”

  Mr. Gorton looks like he wants to say something and he parts his lips as if to speak, but something gets the better of him. His teeth clack together as he shuts his mouth.

  “Personally, I’ve been living in mortal fear about not being accepted anywhere but the University of Iowa, when, in all actuality? Iowa’s a damn good school. Tennessee Williams went to the University of Iowa. Cat on a Hot Tin Roof? A Streetcar Named Desire? What kind of messed up value system do I have to look at Tennessee Williams’ alma mater like it’s some kind of votech, a third-tier community college, like being a Hawkeye is a fate worse than death? Guess what? Seen death now. Not a fan. And Iowa City? It’s Utopia in comparison.”

  Mr. Gorton has closed his eyes at this point, as though he can’t even bear to look at me. Like he’s pained.

  The truth fucking hurts.

  “You know how many kids I’ve been working with this week in peer counseling? All of them. They are lined up out the door and down the hall. The other peer counselors and I can’t keep pace. What happens to the kids who can’t get in with us? The grief therapists are gone, so we’re the only line of defense. These suicides are all anyone wants to talk about and we’re not even supposed to get in-depth. You want us to give them pamphlets and refer them back to you. I’m here on the front lines. And to be clear? I am a seventeen-year-old girl who is afraid of bread. I can’t be the only thing potentially standing between life and death for our classmates! I can’t do this alone. We need to look out for each other. We need a system. We need a failsafe.”

  “We need a gatekeeper.”

  “We need a—wait,” I say, having forgotten that Mr. Gorton’s even capable of speech. “What’d you say?”

  He straightens up in his seat. “You’re right, Mallory. I’m saying you’re one hundred percent right. What we need is a gatekeeper.”

  “Like the song?” I ask, remembering that piece by Meg Hutchinson that I’d stumbled across.

  He tells me, “The song is based on a real man.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  How did I not know this?

  “Yeah, ‘Gatekeeper’ is about this California Highway cop named Kevin Briggs who worked the Golden Gate Bridge for years. He was a former army officer, trained in crisis negotiation. In the course of his day, he’d patrol the bridge—called it ‘walking the rail’—looking for people who seemed to be contemplating suicide. I guess he did it long enough and could recognize the signs. He’d stop the potential jumpers by talking to them, posing a couple of questions.”

  “You mean the lines about how they were feeling and what their plans were for tomorrow?”

  “Right.”

  My pace in front of the desk begins to slow. “Nothing else? That’s it? He’d know intentions by how they answered his questions?”

  “Yes and no. You see, Briggs wasn’t seeking specific answers. Instead, he wanted to break people out of their tunnel vision. He was dealing with people who saw death as the only way out. A lot of times those thoughts are temporary, fleeting.”

  I think about Braden that day, walking by the tracks, the delayed train rumbling along behind him. Was he a victim of his own tunnel vision? A temporary impulse? I feel sick about not being more cognizant. He needed a gatekeeper. What truly breaks my heart is that I now see the times he tried to gatekeep me.

  Mr. Gorton continues. “What’s deadly is when people have them at the wrong time in an expedient place. The officer being there shook them out of the fog. Because of what he did and how he did it, he earned the nickname the Gatekeeper. That’s what we need here. A gatekeeper. Rather, we need to become gatekeepers. All of us.”

  I wasn’t there to save Braden, but I could be there for others.

  I finally sit down in the chair across from him and I pull up a blank to-do list on my phone.

  I say, “Great. Let’s get started.”

  NORTH SHORE HIGH SCHOOL

  We breed excellence.

  Home | About | NSHS Academics | Student Services | Student Life | Parent Organizations

  STUDENT BULLETIN

  Students, please join us for the initial meeting of the Gatekeepers, a suicide awareness and prevention organization. First meeting is this Monday in the Liberal Arts Activity Center, 3:05 PM.

  32

  OWEN

  “We should consider modeling ourselves after Palo Alto’s Project Safety Net.”

  Mr. Gorton is leading the Gatekeepers’ first official meeting and I’m here because our family therapist thought it’d be a good idea. If there’s anything I can do to fight what’s been going on, I’m all over it. Dr. Kincaid said being a part of the Gatekeepers would help me heal. I don’t even care about me now; I’m just real motivated to keep other people safe.

  Mr. Gorton says we should roll out strategies to help safeguard classmates. ’Bout damn time. Looks like a lot of the peer counselors are here. The organization’s open to the whole student body, though. For us seniors, there’s only so much my class can do in the six months before graduation. Glad to see some freshmen in the mix because help for four years? Major impact.

  Kent and Simone are here, and she brought Liam with her. I should be jelly, but I’m actually real glad about that. People follow him. If he’s into a program, everyone’ll follow suit. Even Jasper showed up because of Liam. If he misses me as a customer, he hasn’t said anything. Maybe he’s getting out of the game.

  Hope so.

  Mallory and Theo are sitting with me in the front row. He and I have matching casts on our right hands. When he asked me about mine, I told him that my only regret is hitting a screen and not O’Leary’s actual smug face.

  Mr. Gorton tells us, “Project Safety Net is a suicide prevention and youth well-being collaboration and they’ve done great work so far because they’ve garnered community support. Theirs is a multifaceted approach. They focus on a few different areas, such as decreasing the stigma around mental illness and improving mental health, reducing academic pressure, limiting access to means of self-harm, like rallying around efforts to fence in the Caltrain, all in conjunction with working to improve communication. It’s my opinion we model ourselves after them. But what do you think?”

  Everyone nods and I raise my good hand. “We gotta focu
s on drinking and drug use, too. I mean, that’s a thing.” I notice Jasper start to study his pants. Red-and-green plaid today, exceptionally festive. “My therapist was telling me about this study they did at Yale. He says that the number of kids who drink and take drugs and smoke and stuff at rich-kid schools is a lot higher than in poor ones. He says we also have higher rates of anxiety and depression.”

  “Do you have any idea why that might be? Would you like to elaborate?” Mr. Gorton probes. I get the feeling he already knows the answer, but wants us to come up with it.

  “Maybe our houses are too big?” I suggest.

  I like that Mr. Gorton doesn’t laugh at me. Instead, he gives my idea consideration. He says, “Tell me more about that.”

  “Yeah, I guess I should explain what I mean ’cause that sounds dumb, but hear me out. So, we live in these huge homes, right?” Everyone nods. “All of the, like, physical space is kind of a barrier to families spending time together. Live in an apartment house with one bathroom, you’re gonna run into each other, you know? But kids here, on these estates and stuff, some of them have their own wings of the house. Whole days can go by where they don’t see their parents.”

  I know of a couple of families in town who’ve built entire separate buildings for the teenagers, so they don’t mess up the parts of the home where the parents entertain.

  Mallory and Theo look at each other, like they’re both just realizing something important.

  “At Casa Foley-Feinstein? Both my parents work, all the time. We never had dinner together, didn’t hang out and watch TV or anything. There was no, like, family suppers or group outings. Everyone had their own shit to do on the weekends. That’s how it was for us. Real detached. ’Course, after Braden, everything changed for us.”

  Saying Braden’s name makes Mallory catch her breath. She’s on my right. Theo’s on her other side. I notice his left hand clenching into a fist and Mallory wraps her arm around him.

  I say, “For the first time, I feel like my folks are there for me. I’m not gonna lie, in the beginning, I was in a real dark place. I wasn’t sure what was gonna happen and I pushed everyone away. I guess that was a wake-up call for my folks. Now, one of them always leaves the office early so I’m not alone. We’re having meals as a family. Usually it’s just something from Seamless, but that’s, like, whatever. No one’s gotta make a roast, it’s just kinda nice to have a conversation over a box of breadsticks, you know? But the way it was for me before is still how it is for most kids. We were...disconnected. Not anchored.”

  “You were there,” Theo says, his voice catching. “With Braden.”

  I nod. “That day changed my life. I live it over and over in my head.”

  “Can you tell us what happened?” Theo asks, in barely more than a whisper.

  “Yeah, but I gotta tell you the whole story, that’s what my therapist says. I can’t keep pushing it down. But I gotta start at the very beginning, for context.”

  Mr. Gorton clears his throat. “Hold on. This story could be a trigger, so why don’t we have those who weren’t friends with him clear the room for a few minutes? Maybe get a soda, use the washroom?”

  Almost everyone scatters, save for Mallory, Theo, Kent, and Jasper. I don’t blame the others for leaving. Wish I could run from this story.

  I look over at Theo before I start. “You cool?”

  He nods and swallows real hard.

  “I’d, um, just picked up some Chronic and wait... Is this, like, a safe space? Can I say stuff without being all incriminatory?”

  “Absolutely,” Mr. Gorton confirms. “Please. Go on.”

  “I’m chillin’ in the little valley under the railroad trestle just down the street from the school.”

  I don’t mention that I was meeting Jasper there—none of this is his fault.

  “I figure, it’s secluded and no one’s gonna see me. I pack my bowl and I have a couple of hits. And sheee-it, the Chronic is intense. Like, my lungs are on fire, but with pleasure. The white trichomes are—Wait, you know what? Not important. Anyway, I’m down there and I’m rocked.” I notice Mr. Gorton’s expression so I add, “I mean, I’m not trying to make this sound so great, because I haven’t touched anything since that day, not even a cough drop, and I never will again. You guys gotta learn to say no.”

  Jasper nods and that surprises me.

  “Point is, I’m not in my right mind and my reactions aren’t what they shoulda been. I’m having a hard time living with myself for being baked when everything went down. Like I wonder if there wasn’t something I could have done, had circumstances been different. These doubts, these questions? I feel like they’re gonna be with me for the rest of my life.”

  I watch Theo’s jaw clench and unclench. To most people, he looks like a tough guy trying to keep his temper in check. But I know this is what he does when he’s trying not to cry. He reacted the same way when his family had to put down Monster, their ancient golden doodle. He was an awesome dog, always catching tennis balls in the deep end of their pool. Monster was Theo’s best friend until he met Braden.

  I take a deep breath. “This is hard, but I think if I share what happened next with you guys, we can take something from it, we can maybe figure out some fixes. I don’t want anyone else to go through this again, not someone like me, and definitely not someone like Braden. He was a good Joe.”

  I take a swig from my soda, clear my throat, and continue. The only sound in the room is that of warm air being pushed through the heating vents.

  “So I see someone walking up and at first I panic, thinking whoever it is will bust me. As he gets closer, I realize it’s Braden and he’s cool. I knew he didn’t partake, but he also didn’t judge. I wave and say something like, ‘S’up, stargazer?’ ’cause we went to the same astronomy camp. But it was like he couldn’t see or hear me and we’re maybe twenty feet away. He looked exhausted, like he hadn’t slept the night before.”

  “He’d been having insomnia,” Theo said.

  “There’s a strong link between chronic insomnia and suicide,” Mr. Gorton adds.

  “I didn’t know that,” I said. “He was usually so, like, up, you know? Supercharged. Remember the thing with the forks?”

  “Manic behavior’s another red flag,” Mr. Gorton says.

  “Whoa,” I say. “Maybe we all need to get better at spotting the signs?”

  Everyone nods.

  “Anyway, I thought that was weird he didn’t say hey, but maybe he wanted to give me privacy, you know? Then, um, the tracks start to rumble a little bit because the train’s on the way.”

  I stop and rest my face in my good hand. I hate reliving this. “I just wish I’d been more clearheaded. I wrestle with this a hundred times a day, no lie. We’re working on it in my sessions, so now I’m down from thinking about it a thousand times a day. I’m trying to move on, but sometimes I find myself going back to the spot. Not just in my head, in real life. I do drills—I time myself running up the hill, to see if I’d been focusing, if I could have gotten to him before... I wonder if I’d have been better off learning how to recognize warning signs?”

  I feel something warm and wet hit my arm and I realize that Mallory’s crying. Didn’t know she was capable of tears.

  “Are you sure you want to hear this?” Mr. Gorton says, addressing her and Theo. They both nod.

  “Go on,” she says. “Please.”

  “I should have known what was going to happen when he put down his backpack. I should have and I didn’t. I picture that goddamned backpack all day long, too—it was black and it had a couple of yellow eyes sewn on, like when you walked behind him, this evil bug would be staring back at you.”

  “The bag looked like a roach’s face,” Theo says in a choked voice.

  I nod. “He was always doing stuff like that. Remember his Hello Kit
ty hat?”

  Mallory smiles through her tears, just for a second, and wraps her big hoodie tighter around herself.

  “He puts his backpack on the ground, and I guess I thought he was gonna pull something out of it? But he doesn’t, he just sits it down all neatly and careful-like. Then the tracks start really humming because the train’s close. The spot we’re in isn’t close enough to the station to slow down yet, so it’s rolling right along, probably forty-five miles an hour. The conductor obviously sees Braden, so he begins to pull the horn. The sound is just, like, overwhelming. I can feel it in my bones and the pit of my stomach, it’s that intense. I try to climb the hill, but it’s real wet and I’m slipping all over the place and my reaction time is for shit. The engineer guy’s just honking and honking and honking and the wail of the air horn’s getting more and more desperate and Braden’s standing there, right next to the tracks. I start yelling, ‘Train! Train!’ but he’s in a daze, like, mesmerized by the sound of the wheels on the track. Then, calm as anyone doing something they do every day, like climbing into the shower or walking out the door, he takes a big step and stands in front of the train. At the last minute, he raises his arms in front of his chest, like he’s suddenly trying to protect himself. And, honest to God, I think I’m hallucinating, I think this can’t be real. But it was.”

  Mallory is openly weeping now and Mr. Gorton dabs at his eyes with a handkerchief. Kent is curled up with his feet on the chair, clutching his knees and quietly sobbing into his jeans. Jasper has his arm around him, trying to give him some comfort. Poor Kent’s gotta be thinking Stephen’s last moments were probably like this, too. Theo begins to quake, but makes no sound.