“You used to do what?” Owen prompts.
“Nah, it’s dumb.”
“I doubt that, but you do you.”
We sit in silence for a minute before it occurs to me that the best way to memorialize Stephen is to verbalize why he was my brother.
“In junior high, we used to spend hours coming up with ‘yo mama’ jokes. They were sorta stupid but we’d crack ourselves up. Stephen’s were always hilarious. My favorite one was, ‘Yo mama so mean that Taylor Swift wrote a song about her.’”
Owen laughs appreciatively. “That’s awesome.”
“You know what sucks? I came up with one he’d have loved when my mom was following me around, stressing about what I should wear to his funeral.”
When I got dressed that morning, I noticed the drycleaner had shrunk my suit pants. They were a good two inches too short, so I wanted to wear khakis and a sports coat, but my mother wasn’t having it. She made me put on the suit anyway because she said I couldn’t show up to the service all Casual Friday.
I’m reliving every emotion from that day. I was furious at my mom, but angrier at myself, for worrying about trivial stuff like my outfit. More than anything, I was afraid. Afraid to go to the service because I wasn’t sure I could handle it.
“There I was, getting ready so we could go bury my best friend and all I could think of was ‘Yo mama so stupid that when I told her pi-r-squared, she replied, no, they’re round.’ Kept thinking, the only person who’d love this is gone.”
“I’m real sorry for your loss. Stephen was pretty fly.”
I nod and swallow hard, keeping myself from busting out the waterworks. Again. Swear to God, it’s like I’ve turned into a Very Special episode of Keeping Up with the Kardashians lately.
Owen suggests, “How ’bout I make you a deal? How ’bout the next time you come up with a joke, text it to me. That’ll be, like, your mini-tribute to him, letting your tradition live on.”
“Thank you.”
“De nada mi amigo, sería un honor.”
“Wait, you took Spanish?” I ask. “Weren’t you in my Mandarin class?”
Owen shrugs. “Taught myself. Figured I’m more likely to bartend in Costa Rica than Beijing.”
“The fact that you’re doing stuff like making movies and teaching yourself languages tells me that your future entails more than just opening cervezas for people.”
When he nods, the beads on the end of his hair bang together. “You make a good point.”
We’re both quiet for a minute, but it’s a comfortable silence.
“Hey, Owen?”
“Yo.”
“I’m ready to do my interview.”
“Cool...except I never actually stopped filming. Digital, bro. Got a ton of footage already.”
“Oh,” I say. “Can you still ask me a question, though?”
“You got it. How ’bout...how are you?”
I reply, “That seems like too easy a question.”
“Is it? You could always answer, ‘fine,’ or ‘good,’ and then we could move on to something else. Or you could let it sit for a minute, let it marinate, and then tell me if that’s how you really are. Take your time, it’s digital. ‘It does not matter how slowly you go as long as you do not stop.’ That’s Confucius, by the way.”
I sit quietly, pondering the question. “Okay... How am I? Um...you know what? Not fine. I keep telling everyone I’m fine but that’s a lie,” I reply.
“What makes it a lie?”
I can’t look at the camera. Instead I concentrate on the hangnail on my thumb. Isn’t this how dogs behave when they’re caught doing something bad, like napping on the bed or digging up the yard? They don’t make eye contact with their masters because if they do, that makes the situation real?
This enormous pressure builds and builds in my chest. I’m afraid if I don’t let some of it out, I’ll puff up like that purple girl in Willy Wonka and Owen will be forced to roll me back home.
Finally, I say, “Mostly, it’s a lie because I’m conflicted. Stephen was my best friend but that’s not the whole story. He also made me furious sometimes. And I’m a horrible person because I was trying to find a way to not room with him next year. I blamed him for dragging me down. I felt like he held me back and I was not about having that follow me to college. I hate myself for feeling this. I’m sad and mad and full-up on self-loathing. I am anything but fine.”
“Sounds like you’re still in the anger stage of grief. Spoiler alert—it’ll pass. But the shit that comes after is no great shakes, either. What was the big problem with you guys?”
“I was tired of being his cheerleader, tired of always trying to smooth things out for him, to talk him off ledges.”
“Tired of being his gatekeeper?”
“In a lot of ways, that’s exactly what I was, but I didn’t realize it. I’ll never stop wishing I’d taken the job more seriously. He’d have done the same for me, if I were depressed. He probably would have been great at it, too, because that kid loved to beat me at everything.” I let out a bitter laugh.
Owen nods, saying nothing.
I continue, “That’s the thing, I’m pretty sure he was suffering from depression, with manic phases thrown in. In retrospect, I see it now, all the signs, clear as a goddamned bell. The fatigue, the hopelessness, the way he withdrew, lost interest in everything? He may as well have painted a sign, you know? And on some level, I knew, I had to know, and I can’t forgive myself for not taking action.”
“What kind of action should you have taken?”
“Maybe I could have just put aside my frustration and really been there for him?”
“How do you know you weren’t? Stop blaming yourself, man. That won’t get you anywhere. Blame prevents healing.”
My eyes fixed to the ragged skin around my thumb, I say, “He used to frustrate me so much because he was all talk—he was the king of not following through on everything he’d fantasize about, from talking to girls to jumping off the high dive. What’s that expression, ‘all hat and no saddle’? I realize now he had suicidal ideation—he’d say stuff like the world would be better off without him and that no one would even miss him if he were gone.”
My chin begins to quiver and my eyes well. Before the Gatekeepers, I’d never let anyone see me cry. Now I don’t care. Good thing, because I’m like a fucking water fountain.
“I never took him seriously. I’m a dick because I never took him seriously. I figured, please, like he’d actually do anything. I dismissed so much because he was incapable of following through. I feel like this was my fault. I wake up with the guilt practically suffocating me every day because I didn’t understand what he was trying to tell me. I was wrapped up in my own world and I’m a shitty friend and because of that, he’s gone.”
“No. You did as much as you could with the tools and knowledge you had. You have to tell yourself that. I repeat these words to myself every day, like a mantra.”
I look long and hard at him. “When did you start to really believe these words?”
He gives me a tired shrug. “I’ll let you know when it happens.”
* * *
Two hours, and half a box of Kleenex later, we finish our interview. For the first time, I feel a tiny glimmer of hope, like I won’t be sad forever, like I have a future after Stephen.
Yeah, fine, about fifty times I wanted him to stop filming so that I could run away, but I felt like I owed it to Stephen to be brave and soldier on, so that’s what I did. I thought the easiest part would be sharing all the positive stuff about Stephen, all the good times, but it turns out, that was the hardest.
I will miss him every day for the rest of my life. But I also understand that I have to get on with my life, that living well is my obligation. It’s on me to fulfill his p
romise for both of us now.
(Mental note: Owen says I should continue work on the sex robot in his honor, whenever I get back in that headspace.)
“You did great, Kent. Thanks, bro. I hope this film helps people. I feel like the more we discuss the impact of suicide within the Gatekeepers, the more safeguards we put in place, the better we’ll be going forward,” Owen says.
I wonder what Stephen would think about Owen being the one to memorialize his life.
That he’d probably hate it brings a wry smile to my face.
“I’m glad we’ve reconnected. You grew up to be a really good guy.”
“Hey, man, thanks. You, too.” Owen begins to busy himself disassembling his camera rigging.
“Would it be weird to say that I wish you and Simone would have worked out?” I ask, gathering up the used tissues.
He shrugs. “Not weird. I really vibed with her and I thought she might feel the same, but then, I was a vapor trail. I don’t blame her, I was in a bad place. In terms of choosing between us, let’s see...fucked-up stoner or Mr. Class President? Hell, I’d pick him. Dude’s a catch.”
“You’re selling yourself short,” I say. “Plus, I’m starting to get a weird feeling about Liam.”
“Yeah? How’s that?”
“Eh, can’t put my finger on it. I mean, he’s nice and all, but there’s something off. Like in an old Japanese horror movie where the dialogue doesn’t quite line up with how the actor moves his mouth?” I say.
“You talkin’ Mothra vs. Godzilla?” Owen asks.
“Or Godzilla vs. Mechagodzilla.”
“Which, in my opinion was the best of the Godzillas,” Owen says.
“Right?” I exclaim. “I forgot you were a fan. Jesus, it’s been too long. Have you ever seen Terror of Mechagodzilla?”
“Seen it? I got a download of it right here,” he says, pointing to his laptop. “I am super into Japanese horror movies right now, particularly the directors. Tell me you’ve seen Shimizu’s The Grudge.”
“Yeah, only about ten times.”
We smack our palms together in a high five. After the gut-wrenching dialogue over the past two hours, it’s a little surreal to suddenly shift into being two regular bros hanging out, talking about old monster flicks.
While it’s not yet getting better, per se, Owen’s right, I can see the very beginning of it getting different.
For now, that’ll do.
35
SIMONE
“He said what?”
“It’s madness, right?” I say, after recounting the whole Jasper conversation with Liam.
“You think you know who your friends are and then they pull something like this? With your girlfriend? That’s such bullshit. You’ve been through enough with Stephen, Jasper shooting off his mouth is the last thing you need.”
How can I be so sure that Liam is fine, despite what I hear from the naysayers?
Because he was an absolute angel when he found out about Stephen. He snuck over and scaled the wall to my room that night. Then he held me while I cried my heart out. The next day, he cut class with me and drove me down to the city so I could place Stephen’s North Shore hat at the base of the Bean in memoriam. Liam could not have been more loving or attentive or thoughtful, none of which would have been possible if he were all, I don’t know, tripped out or whatever.
Right now, Liam’s particularly agitated and has yet to sit down. He paces around his bedroom while we talk. I keep gesturing for him to come sit beside me, but he’s too keyed up.
“Could Jasper be any more of a hypocrite?” he says.
“I made that exact point,” I reply. I feel like a coach watching a boxing match, anxious to towel and water Liam, to patch up his cuts the second the round is over. I pat the spot on the bed next to me, encouraging him to join me. He ignores my invitation.
“This kid was sneaking 40s into the movies when we were in junior high! He was drinking in eighth grade! He’s, like, a waste of a human being. He’s a garbage person.”
“That’s a bit harsh,” I say, shifting positions. I don’t want to defend Jasper but don’t want to excoriate him in that manner, either. Had he not invited me to his party back in October, I might have never connected with Liam. And for both of us, that night was a game-changer.
“Pfft, if you knew half the stunts that kid’s pulled, you wouldn’t be saying anything nice,” he replies. “Case in point? Baby Jesus. Each year, he thinks it’s hilarious to swipe every single Christ child out of every single manger on display at the holidays. They talk about him on the news—they call him the Grinch. He has hundreds of them in his closet. Hundreds. You know, he vandalized the stop signs, too.”
About a month ago, every sign within a two-mile radius had been altered in the night. Some read Don’t Stop, Can’t Stop; some Stop, Collaborate, and Listen. There were a few Don’t Stop Believin’s, a handful of Stop, Hammer-Times, and the one that made me laugh out loud was Stop Defacing Signs. My dad went mad; he made me ride around with him to find all of them, like a vandalism Easter egg hunt. Said they were the best thing he’d seen in this country so far.
“Those were funny,” I admit.
“Seriously?” Liam says, looking a tad disgusted.
“What? Clever is clever. Dad got a huge kick out of them.” Then I clarify, “Still, yes, he’s a juvenile delinquent, which makes his accusations even more vile.”
“Thank you,” he replies, mollified. I reach out for him and he takes my hand, finally allowing himself a seat. I lean into him but he doesn’t lean back.
I muse, “What did he mean by saying the conversation wasn’t over?”
Liam pushes his fingers through his hair. “Who knows with that one? Given his track record, probably nothing. He’s all talk.”
* * *
Jasper is not all talk.
He spoke with Liam’s parents. Squealed on him is more like it. Suffice it to say, the conversation did not go well...for Liam.
Thanks to Jasper’s interfering, Liam’s lost his car, cell phone, and computer privileges. He’s essentially under house arrest, permitted to leave for school and student government meetings, where his mother picks him up and drops him off. The only time I can see him is at school.
The whole thing is so awful.
If these Draconian measures weren’t bad enough, I’m in a world of trouble, too.
We’d just sat down to dinner—wings again, Dad’s become a tremendous fan of buffalo chicken wings, largely because he can’t get enough of anything served with ranch dressing—when there was a knock at our front door.
The sound was less of a knock and more the noise of someone trying to break the damn thing down with bare hands. Warhol immediately hid, hero that he’s not, but Dad marched into the foyer, armed with a broomstick and false bravado.
“What are you planning to do, Angus? Housekeep them into submission?” my mum asked, chasing behind him.
“Stay back, Fi,” he warned. Without a peek through the spyhole, he swung the door open, expecting to come face to face with some variety of criminal, but instead found a bony woman in equestrian gear and a man who looked less like a thug and more like the president of a real estate investment trust.
Liam’s parents.
“We need to talk about your daughter,” said Liam’s dad, forcing his way past my father and into our foyer. His dad is built like a former college athlete who’s now stuck riding a desk all day long, so he brushed past my dad without any difficulty.
Everything about Liam’s dad is the antithesis of mine—where Mr. Avery’s hair is short and neatly barbered, my dad’s is chin-length and perpetually swept up in a man-bun. Mr. Avery is tall and solidly muscular, while my dad trends pasty with an odd confluence of flabby pectorals and skinny limbs. Where Mr. Avery se
ems to live in a blue pinstripe business suit, forever looking like he’s just stepped out of a board meeting, my dad favors long jumpers, paint-splattered track pants, and flip-flops, perhaps more like the man who might ask Mr. Avery for a quarter on the street outside his office in the Loop.
Mr. Avery was pleasant the couple of times I’ve been around him, but I realized that was for appearance’s sake. The real measure of a man is how he treats others when no one’s looking. He’s been perpetually cruel to Liam, physically, when he was younger, and now, verbally. In eighth grade, Liam had to fib and say he’d fallen to explain the wrist his father broke when Liam accidentally smashed his mother’s Waterford vase while roughhousing with Jasper. Jasper’s folks sent over five new ones to replace the one that broke, but it didn’t matter.
I suspect that Liam has had a harder time dealing with the mental aspect—with physical, the wounds heal eventually. If Liam brings home an A, his dad will grill him on why it wasn’t an A+. When Liam made the varsity team as a sophomore, his dad was all over him about why he wasn’t a starting player. No matter how good Liam is and has been, it’s never enough for his father.
Our two dads stood there for a moment, sizing one another up. Liam’s father looked like a rogue bull elephant, ready to begin stomping at any moment. Dad had his chest all puffed up, trying to be tough, but ultimately failing and defaulting to being British instead.
“Name’s Angus Chastain, and you are?” Dad asked. He reached out to shake Mr. Avery’s hand, but he was still holding the broomstick. Mr. Avery wasn’t interested in taking the eventually empty hand Dad proffered.
“We’re Liam’s parents. We’re here to talk about her.” Mr. Avery glowered at me, his emphasis on the word her, like the word was particularly bitter in his mouth.
“Her name is Simone. What about Simone?” Mum said with a preternatural calm. She positioned me behind her, a lioness shielding her cub.
“She’s had a terrible influence on our Liam,” Mr. Avery replied. “And now he’s in the shitter, which is clearly her doing.”
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