The Gatekeepers

by Jen Lancaster

  “What do you mean by façade?” I ask.

  She answers, “Seems like most North Shore parents want to believe their kid is a star, you know? What’s that quote about not everyone being able to march in the parade, because someone’s gotta sit on the sidewalk and watch it pass by? The problem is, everyone up here expects their kids to be in the parade, like there’s no honor in being a spectator. Parents do their kids a disservice when they perpetrate the narrative.”

  “Can you explain why you mean by ‘the narrative’?”

  Elise is supposed to be talking to the camera, but instead, she’s speaking directly to me, like we’re having a real conversation. “The narrative of our fairy-tale lives, where everything looks perfect, where appearances are more important than reality. On top of that, we’re, like, wreathed in commendations from a young age, celebrated and congratulated for everything. That’s not the real world. I mean, our bosses won’t give us trophies for showing up to our jobs someday. That’s a baseline expectation.”

  I stop the interview. “You sound like Mallory’s brother Holden.”

  She smiles. “I love Holden. I’ll take that as a high compliment.”

  “Good. That’s how I meant it.”

  Her cheeks flush pink and I start filming again.

  She tells me, “Seems like nobody strays from the prescribed text to deliver the real story. That’s why we have problems. When everything’s not perfect in our lives, we assume we’re defective, that there’s something wrong with us. But that’s bullshit. Life is inherently imperfect. We’re imperfect. We should embrace that. The messy parts are what make it interesting.”

  Why have I never hung out with this girl?

  “Bottom line?” she says. “People around here like to put on this big front that nothing goes wrong in North Shore, but they do go wrong, terribly wrong. Again and again. Until everyone’s ready to talk about what it’s really like here for us, until people are willing to shine a light on the problems, not just on the drinking and the drug use, but the parents who give things, not time, then it won’t change. In fact, everything’s gonna get worse if nothing changes. And, I don’t know about you, but I’m done burying my friends.”

  “Amen, sister.”

  Before I can figure out if this is a conversation or a conversation, Mallory and Kent come bursting out the hospital’s sliding glass doors.

  “He’s awake!” Mallory cries, while wrapping her arms around Elise and jumping up and down. “He’s awake and alert and he sounds like himself.”

  “Wait, how do you know? Were you allowed to see him?” I ask. Elise is already blinking away tears.

  The news makes me feel like I’m a helium balloon, ready to fly up into the sky the second someone lets go of my string.

  “No, not yet,” Kent says. “But it’s what he said that makes us think Jasper’s back.”

  “What’d he say?” Elise insists.

  “First, he wanted a mirror to check his hair. Then, he asked for some gel. And then...” Mallory is giggling, her hand over her mouth. “Then he asked his ‘Mama Llama’ for ‘a dirty martini and a clean blonde.’”

  “Definitely a miracle,” Kent confirms.

  Elise looks thoughtful. “You know, Albert Einstein said that there are two ways to go through life. The first way is as though nothing’s a miracle and the other is as though everything is.”

  I think we all know the way I go.

  41

  KENT

  Miracles make you do stupid things.

  If I hadn’t gotten another text from Stephen’s mom right after we learned that Jasper would be okay, I’d have never agreed to meet up with her.

  But it did, so here I am.

  Shit.

  I so don’t want to be here. I’ve been standing at the Cho’s front door for the past ten minutes, motionless, like I’m rooted to the spot. This is the same place I’ve stood in a million times, the same door that I’ve banged on a million times. Yet I can’t seem to bring myself to knock for the million-and-first time.

  I don’t want to step inside. I haven’t been in this house since before Stephen died. His family didn’t have a reception or anything after the funeral service. The service was just over and we left.

  The great irony is that Stephen would have loved his own funeral—everyone showed up. Everyone. He never wanted to have a party, joint or on his own, because he worried no one would come. The turnout would have thrilled him. If he’d been there, he’d have made me talk about it for days afterward, too. So even the cute red-haired girl from New Trier’s Physics Olympics team was there, can you believe it? he’d have crowed. How would you assess her tear flow? Would you say she bawled (a) hard, (b) the Kim Kardashian why-would-you-say-that Vine degree of hard, or (c) Crying Guy from A & E’s Intervention hard?

  I miss him.

  I miss my best friend, my wingman, my cheerleader. At this point, I can’t even recall what annoyed me about him, because I miss him annoying me. I miss him getting under my skin. I miss him challenging me. I miss him being difficult. I miss him giving me shit.

  “Do...do we knock or do we just live out here now?” Mallory asks, shivering in her thick Canada Down jacket, its coyote hood tied tight around her face. “Do we just camp out in this portico forever? If so, we should have brought snacks.”

  When I told her I’d agreed to talk to Stephen’s mom, she insisted on coming with me. Said I shouldn’t have to do this on my own. Guess she thought I needed gatekeeping.

  So I knock. Mrs. Cho answers the door.

  There’s something different about her today and it takes me a minute to figure out what it is. She’s a mess. I’ve never seen her with a hair out of place or unglossed lips. But now she looks like she just crawled out of a can of potato chips. I’m used to seeing her in coordinated yoga gear when she’s not in her dressy showing-houses outfits, all starched blouses and trim skirts. I’ve definitely never known her to wear sloppy sweatpants and...Stephen’s All Eyez on Me Tupac T-shirt?

  She glances down at herself with a shrug. “Laundry day. Come on in.”

  “I hope you don’t mind that I brought my friend, Mallory,” I say.

  “Not at all.” Previously, Mrs. Cho would have grilled everyone for ten minutes on what we were doing with Mallory. Then she’d have been all over Mal about her GPA, afraid she might somehow be a threat. But today she simply says, “Tell your mom I’m sorry I haven’t joined her at Pilates in a while.”

  She invites us in and we follow her through the house and back to the kitchen. While everything in here is the same, it’s all different, too, like we’re seeing the Bizzaro World version. The air, which always smelled fresh, like lavender and cut herbs, is heavy and stale. The normally pristine hardwood floors are streaked and overrun with dust bunnies. A profusion of fingerprints dot the stainless steel fridge. Mrs. Cho used to be so anal about keeping that door spotless that Stephen and I would wrap dishtowels around our hands when we wanted to grab juice boxes.

  We get to the farmhouse table in the breakfast room and Mrs. Cho has to shoo a cat—a cat!—off my seat so that I can sit. “Kent, Mallory, thanks for coming by.”

  I nod, unsure of what to say, but Mallory jumps right in. “How are you, Mrs. Cho? Mom says she misses you.”

  “Oh, I’m good, I’m fine,” she replies, even though she’s clearly neither. For some reason, this causes Mallory to poke me under the table, and she catches me right between the ribs with her pointy digit.

  “That’s great,” I say. My face feels strained as I try to arrange it from a grimace into a smile.

  This is awkward.

  This is awkward and terrible, and I keep straining to hear Stephen’s feet pounding down the staircase. My body physically anticipates jumping up when he arrives, giving him the half-hug-bro-slap that we us
ed to do.

  I’ve never been here without Stephen. The house feels so big without him, so empty, so familiar and yet so unfamiliar.

  “You look different, Kent,” she says.

  “Stress,” I reply. “Rough semester.”

  “No, not that,” she replies. “Older, maybe. More mature.”

  “Again, stress,” I tell her. Pretty sure I look haggard after these past few weeks, like I’m suddenly smoking two packs a day and slugging down pints of Jim Beam instead of cans of Coke.

  “Where are my manners?” she asks. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  Mal and I glance into the kitchen, which is overrun with dirty dishes.

  “Nothing for me,” I say.

  “I just had a mocha,” Mallory tells her. “I’m good for now.”

  “Okay.”

  So awkward.

  I can hear myself swallow. When I shift in the chair, the cushion makes a farting noise.

  So very awkward.

  I don’t know why I’m here today, what we possibly have to cover. Everything about being in this room is confusing and foreign, even though I’ve been seated at this table for hundreds of breakfasts, lunches, and dinners. For thousands of study sessions and Physics Olympics preps and class projects. For dozens of platters of chocolate chip pancakes and freshly squeezed orange juice, served in those short glasses adorned with red cherries.

  Every visit to this table has been some version of the same, with Mrs. Cho steamrolling over us about one thing or another. Nipping at us like she was a sheepdog and we were the little lambs who kept trying to escape the pasture. We could set our clocks to Mrs. Cho’s monologues. Stephen and I would smile and nod while we’d kick each other under the table and roll our eyes.

  But today? This feels like the first time I’ve ever been here.

  Largely because I have no clue as to what’s going to happen next.

  Mrs. Cho finally says, “I got a letter. Well, no. Stephen got a letter. He was admitted.” She unfolds a dog-eared envelope emblazoned with the MIT crest. She passes it to me, gesturing for me to see the letter inside. The heavy paper stock has been softened by frequent handling. The edges are smudged.

  I take and scan his acceptance letter, unsure of what to do.

  I don’t know how to respond.

  No, that’s a lie. I feel like I want to ball up the letter. Like I want to throw it. Like I want to stand on this table and shout, What a waste, what a fucking waste! I feel rage, my blood hot and angry, making my face burn. I feel like I want to throw open the cabinets and find those stupid cherry-print juice glasses, smash them against the wall, tell her no, terrible things actually wouldn’t happen if we ever drank OJ from concentrate.

  Before I can open my mouth, I feel Mallory wrap her fingers firmly around my wrist. I imagine this is her way of restraining me, of keeping me from springing up. Instead of channeling my pain and loss at Mrs. Cho, I concentrate on the warmth of Mallory’s palm. I like her hands better when she’s not using them to poke me with her bony fingers.

  “Kent is glad you emailed,” Mallory says, ever the politician. “He’s really been missing Stephen. He talks about him so much. I wish I’d known him better.”

  She’s trying to prompt Mrs. Cho to talk, to move this thing along, and I couldn’t be more grateful.

  Mrs. Cho wraps her arms around herself and rocks back and forth. Dude...who is this person wearing a Mrs. Cho suit? This woman that’s all calm and nice and gentle? And where was she for eighteen years? What happened to the Tiger Mom who had an opinion about anything and everything, up to and including what’s an appropriate amount of toilet paper to use?

  “I just wanted him to be safe,” she says, more to herself than us.

  Mallory squeezes my wrist.

  Mrs. Cho’s voice goes soft. “That’s all I wanted. Him to be safe. That’s why we moved here from Los Angeles. We thought, ‘We should raise our family in this wonderful place. This is where our children will be safe.’ And I kept him safe from every element. Every element but himself.”

  I start to say something but Mallory gives my wrist a yank. I glance at her and she shakes her head, almost imperceptibly. “Shh,” she says, too quiet for Mrs. Cho to hear.

  “You’ve heard about the LA riots. I don’t know if Stephen ever told you, but I was there.”

  Mallory raises an eyebrow as if to verify with me. I nod my head to indicate yes.

  Stephen always speculated that his mom’s family was targeted because they were immigrants. He thought that this experience was why his parents had essentially rejected all the Asian parts of themselves, why there were so few nods to anything South Korean in his life. Being different made them stand out and standing out was dangerous.

  She explains, “Los Angeles was a powder keg, primed for a spark back then. Relations were terrible between Koreans and African Americans after shopkeeper Soon Ja Du received no jail time for killing a fifteen-year-old girl named Latasha Harlins. Soon Ja Du thought the girl was stealing orange juice, but video showed she had money, wanted to pay.”

  Mallory and I glance at each other, puzzled as to why she’s telling us this.

  “My parents owned a small grocery store. I worked for them, helped them keep their books. Rioting began in our neighborhood when white police officers were found not guilty for beating a man, even though everyone had seen the videotape.”

  “Rodney King?” Mallory asks.

  Mrs. Cho nods. “Our store was burned to the ground. Stephen knew that. I almost never spoke of the experience, so there are details he never knew. Important details. I was waiting until he was old enough to understand.” She squeezes her eyes shut for a moment. “I waited too long.”

  Then she begins to fold and unfold Stephen’s letter, likely for something to do with her hands. The new cat jumps up on the table and settles in next to her, but she doesn’t notice.

  “Sixty-two people died during the riots. My brother Seutibeun was one of them.”

  Mallory and I exchange glances. She has no idea that this is new information to me.

  “My brother wanted to be called by the American version of his name—Stephen. He loved this country and everyone in it. He was friends with our customers, went to school with them, played basketball with them, listened to their music. The African Americans in the community hated us, though. They thought we Koreans were colluding against them, thought we were exploiting their communities. In turn, my parents distrusted the locals, assumed they were all gang members. Believed they were always trying to steal from us. Stephen wasn’t swayed. He was the common ground between the two worlds. He’d explain himself by saying he liked who he liked and every color was the same to him. After the riots started, we all had to protect our businesses. Owners stood on the roof with rifles to prevent looters. Stephen was furious, said no matter what happened, we could rebuild. Said inventory wasn’t more valuable than life.”

  Mrs. Cho stops to dab at her eyes with the sleeve of her son Stephen’s T-shirt.

  “The gangs left us alone at first because Stephen treated them with respect. But on the third night of the riots, he was speaking to a friend out front. Another shopkeeper thought he was a looter because he wore American clothes—he dressed just like everyone in the neighborhood. He and his friend were gunned down right there on the sidewalk. Our store was blamed for his friend’s death. We were targeted and that’s when the looters retaliated.”

  “Did Stephen know any of this?” I ask. I can’t imagine that he did.

  She shakes her head. “I kept it from him. I didn’t want him to know how ugly the world could be. I wanted him to be safe.”

  In this context, all of Mrs. Cho’s actions as a mother make sense—all the micromanagement, her hypervigilance, every bit of pressure and guidance that we’d interpreted as bossines
s.

  The one thing she never did was to explain why, and that might have been the one thing that changed the outcome.

  Yet I don’t offer Mrs. Cho this opinion because it’s just speculation on my part. It’s possible Stephen would have been even more anxious, knowing that he was someone’s namesake, that it was on him to honor the other Stephen who never got to grow up.

  There are no easy answers because Stephen was complicated. Likely the other Stephen was, too.

  All I can do, all any of us can do, is to be here for his mom now.

  I’m compelled to give her some measure of solace.

  “Stephen was exceptional,” I say. “Better than everyone else because you cared so much for him. That’s why he got in to MIT and I didn’t.”

  I actually have no idea whether or not I’ve been admitted.

  Yet I tell her this lie because it suddenly feels like it should be truth.

  Mallory

  3:11 PM

  im in-OMFG, i got in!

  Kent

  3:12 PM

  all the cool kids were already accepted J

  Mallory

  3:13 PM

  is it...okay for me to be excited?

  Kent

  3:13 PM

  id b mad if u weren’t

  42

  MALLORY

  “That was intense.”

  Kent gives me the oddest look from his seat on the passenger’s side. “Ya think?”

  “Wait, you didn’t find that whole scene with Mrs. Cho intense?” I ask.

  “Ring, ring, ring. Hello? Oh, okay, hang on,” Kent says. He holds out a pretend phone. “Captain Obvious is calling for you.”

  “Shut up.”

  “How were you never on the debate team with snappy rejoinders like that in your arsenal?” he asks.

  “Okay,” I say, coming to a stop. “This is your house. Get out of my car, now, bye.”

  His smile fades as he becomes more serious. “Sorry, Mallory. That was...hard. I don’t know that I could have gotten through the whole conversation without you. Thank you for being there.”