The Gatekeepers Page 10

  I didn’t have a meeting; I was just avoiding the conversation. I mean, what does he even want to talk about?

  I’m sure I don’t want to know.

  Or maybe I do.

  Shit.

  Why is my relationship with Braden so confusing? I consider him my third brother, so why don’t I have the same kind of fraternal vibe toward him like I do with Holden and Theo? Feeling like this, if he were my actual brother, I would need all the therapy, you know?

  I’ve been avoiding him ever since our conversation last week, not because he was wrong, but because I fear he was right. He’d invited himself into my room that night, sitting down at the end of my bed, taking off his hoodie and getting all comfy. One of the cats immediately hopped on his lap and curled up there. This was sort of funny because Liam is so desperate to win over the cats and they sort of hate him for making the effort. They think he’s a try-hard.

  “You’re not happy,” Braden said.

  “If you mean I’m not happy you’re bothering me, then you’re right,” I replied, but I said it with a smile. I swatted him with my notebook for emphasis.

  He swallowed hard and I noticed his jaw was clenched, like he was biting down really hard. “No, Mal, I’m serious. Things aren’t right with you and Liam. You guys fight every time I see you lately and then Theo tells me you do nothing but complain about him when you’re apart. That’s not healthy. You’re miserable. Be with someone who lifts you up, not brings you down. Don’t waste your time on someone who makes you miserable. It’s bad for you and it’s hard on everyone around you.”

  “What are you talking about?” I replied. My voice came out at a higher pitch than usual, making me sound screechy. Not cool. I cleared my throat and tried again. “What do you mean? I’m super content. I’m exultant. Jubilant. Blissful. In fact, I’m every SAT word for happy. And I promise you, no one around us is miserable.”

  Except maybe...the crowd at the lunch table (mostly named Jasper) who wince when I get on Liam about running the stairs, or when he complains that my salad is basically water and human beings need more protein than rabbits do. And then there was the time he didn’t defend me when the JasHole’s skank du jour coughed “Pro-ana” into her napkin. That was shitty.

  So maybe I’ve nagged him a little too much about working on his Common Application and then he tells me to stop being so bitchy and I get super frosty, saying I’m not a bitch and he’s all, I didn’t say you were a bitch, I said you were being bitchy, and the whole thing dissolves into an argument about semantics.

  And maybe that’s happened more than once.

  Or he tells me not to be so curt when randoms try to talk to me and I counter that he could maybe try being less friendly when his fangirls get all handsy whenever they find an excuse to be next to him.

  Fine, we might have our moments, but misery-inducing?

  No.

  Braden gave me this look that made something stir in my stomach, but I tried to chalk it up to having only ingested two Vanilla Almond Quest bars all day. (Guess what Liam? Forty-two grams of protein, which is just shy of the RDA of forty-six for someone my age/size. Boom. How ya like me now?)

  “You trying to convince me or yourself?” Braden said.

  Through gritted teeth, I said, “I don’t need to convince anyone. If you can’t see that we’re perfect for each other, then that’s your problem, not mine.”

  He placed a palm on my knee, which somehow made me think of the perfection of a pat of golden butter melting into a warm muffin. Maybe I was hungrier than I’d admit?

  He said, “Just because you look right for each other doesn’t mean you are. Life’s too short to stay with someone for the sake of appearances. Don’t do that. I feel like you’d be better off apart.”

  I bristled. “And you are inserting yourself into my business why exactly?”

  “Because this has been on my mind for a while and I couldn’t not say it to you. Honestly, it all goes back to Macey. I’ve been thinking about her a lot.”

  I felt a pang of jealousy, quickly followed by self-loathing. What kind of person does that?

  Braden explained, “She let Weston walk all over her. They were so unhappy together. She and I went way back. We were friends ever since our peewee soccer team, but I didn’t say anything to her because Weston’s my boy. Bro Code. Now I wish I had. Wish I’d interfered. Wish I’d told her, you deserve more. I’d rather have both of them furious with me, but both of them here, you know? Macey’s...”

  He stopped and took an uneven breath. He didn’t seem like he could say the word suicide. “Macey’s passing hit me pretty hard.”

  I couldn’t look him in the eye, instead fixing my gaze downward to where his giant paw rested on my knee. The weight of his hand on my leg felt like the only thing keeping me tethered to the earth; without it I might just fly off into the stratosphere.

  “It hit us all hard,” I replied, more to myself than him. Macey was so full of life, so quick to make everyone feel comfortable, so eager to please. We hung out a lot in chorus in junior high. While we didn’t have any classes together at NSHS, we remained friendly. She’d crack me up, the way she’d run around in her overall-shorts, paired with her endless supply of ridiculously patterned socks, perpetually showing off her Irish Dance moves.

  Despite his size, something about our conversation made Braden seem smaller, almost fragile somehow. “Something about her being with Weston, like, diminished her spark. They weren’t better together. They were wrong as a couple. I know now she was struggling with depression and her choices weren’t Weston’s fault, but still. They were bad together and I didn’t intervene. If I’d said or done something, maybe we’d have a different outcome. That’s why I’m here, right now, telling you I’m seeing the same kind of thing with you and Liam. You guys need to go your separate ways. Please. I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to you.”

  For some reason, I couldn’t acknowledge any kernel of truth in his observation. I could tell he wanted me to open up, but instead I shut down, retorting with, “You know nothing, Jon Snow.” Then I put on my headphones and ignored him until he finally took his hand off my knee and quietly left my room.

  I’ve hated myself for how I handled our conversation, to the point that it’s impacting my studies and my state of mind and my workout. That wasn’t fair.

  Liam and I will be okay.

  Mostly.

  Eventually.

  We can even be perfect if we just work a little harder at it.

  I shake my head, pushing away thoughts of Braden, particularly the part where his hand on my knee felt so profoundly right, like a second skin, like coming home.

  Head back in the game, Mallory, I say to myself. Keep moving forward.

  I flex my legs and get ready to run the stairs again.

  Wait, what number was I on?

  You know what?

  Screw it.

  I’ll just start over.

  One. Two. Three.

  Mallory

  7:45 AM

  sorry 4 last night, been thinking abt what u said, u may be right

  Liam

  7:46 AM

  what r u talking abt?

  Mallory

  7:46 AM

  shit-meant 4 braden

  Liam

  7:47 AM

  right, bc why ever bother to apologize to me?

  13

  KENT

  “You’re shitting me.”

  Stephen stops in the street, too overcome with incredulity to take another step. I’m totally there with him, save for I’m still actually moving.

  “I shit you not, Stephen,” Simone replies.

  I’m clutching my head in disbelief, elbows jutting out on either side, shocked. How can this be?


  I say, “Simone please, explain a scenario in which that’s even a vague possibility.”

  “You act like we’re somehow opposed or trying to avoid it,” Simone says. “We’re not. Far from it. In fact, living close to Chicago was a huge selling point of the whole book project.”

  “Boggled.” I point to myself. “Do you see this handsome face? This is the face of a man who is boggled.”

  Sometimes it’s easy to forget I’m a man, even though I’m eighteen. Because I look so much younger, I make it a point to remind myself and those around me. I’m old enough to vote, to die in some far-flung war, or to pick up a pack of Camels at the gas station, yet waitresses often still hand me the kiddie menu. I let that one slide, though.

  (You heard me, Denny’s, Imma enjoy your chicken fingers and grilled cheeses at the discounted price, TYVM.)

  People probably peg me for twelve when they don’t know me. Hell, I don’t even need to shave yet. (Still do, though, in case it helps.) I claim to be cool that this baby-face gets me cheaper tickets at the movies and keeps my Physics Olympics competitors from realizing I’m a serious contender until it’s too late, but that’s not entirely true. Guess it’s kind of like baggage that I’ve learned to navigate. No, I don’t love looking like a preteen, but I don’t let it define me.

  My mom says the men in our family are late bloomers. She swears they all fill out by the time college rolls around and that my Uncle Dave grew eleven inches when he was a senior in high school. My Nana Swenson had to buy him new pants every month that year because they kept turning into floods on him. Hope this happens for me. I’m not about going through life in a booster seat, you know?

  “So no Field Museum? No Michigan Ave?” Stephen demands.

  “We’ve been down to Devon Avenue, does that count?” Simone asks. “We had to go to Patel Brothers to pick up specific Indian ingredients to make rava kasari for Janmashtami.”

  “Those are what now?” I ask.

  “Well, one’s a type of pistachio dessert and the other’s the holiday that celebrates Krishna, the eighth avatar of Vishnu.”

  “You guys are Hindu?” I ask.

  “Sort of. For mum and me, it’s like Hinduism is less about religion and more about cultural traditions. That’s why we also decorate a tree and load up on figgy pudding at Christmas.”

  “Best of all worlds, right?” I say.

  Stephen’s not even listening to us. He’s still too wound up about her visiting downtown proper. “Pfft, West Rogers Park is barely within Chicago limits. Doesn’t count. What about the Sears Tower? You have to have been there by now, right?”

  By simple association, Stephen reads younger, too. I’d put him at about fourteen when he’s with me...which is pretty much always.

  “Is that the Willis Tower?” she queries.

  “Bzzzt, no,” I chime in. “If you’re from Chicago, it will always be the Sears Tower, forever and ever, amen.”

  She tells us, “You act like we’ve avoided downtown. We just haven’t gotten there yet. We’ve lived here a little over a month and we spent the first couple of weeks settling in. Plus, we have Warhol and we couldn’t leave him for that long at first. He’s only now become crate-trained.”

  “No Art Institute? No Museum of Contemporary Art? Hasn’t your dad had his stuff on display there?”

  Stephen is about ten paces behind us, still rooted in the same spot, utterly dismayed that anyone would overlook the gift that is Chicago proper. Truth? I’m pleased to see Stephen appalled right now. Psyched, actually. Glad to see him feeling anything. I like witnessing some genuine passion.

  Sure beats the dull funk he was mired in last week.

  I knew there was something wrong when I said that Tupac’s song “Dear Mama” was trite. (I admit it; I was trying to bait him, that’s how we do.) Instead of firing back with any number of facts, like how Rolling Stone placed it at Number 18 on its 50 Greatest Hip-Hop Songs of All Time list, or that it was nominated for a Grammy as a Best Rap Solo Performance, Stephen just offered a pitiful shrug and said, “You’re probably right.”

  God, his sulking can be too much. I swear his moods are like emotional ransom notes sometimes, like Crappy Stephen has abducted Happy Stephen and won’t let him free ’til I offer up my pound of flesh.

  Gets old.

  Gets real old.

  I’m glad Simone rolls with us now; she’s great about helping bring him back up, doesn’t look at it as a chore, either. I’m not always as generous with him as I should be, but JFC, I’m dealing with my own shit. You’re not the only one under stress, bro. I mean, he’s never had a basketball player rest an elbow on his head, telling him he’d be a great end table.

  Yeah, ha, ha.

  Real fucking funny.

  Stephen’s rallying today because MIT confirmed his alumni interview and he says he finally feels like the end is in sight, like all his efforts will have been worth it. No one could be more ready to move across the country/away from his Tiger Mom. Fact. The downside is, he’s been talking about how we should room together out in Boston. This is a bad idea. I’m telling you, we’re still buds right now precisely because I can go back to my own home at the end of the day when I’ve reached my limit. Hot and cold running Cho 24/7 is a recipe for disaster. But I don’t know how to say no, so for now, I smile and nod whenever he brings up the dorms.

  Simone is explaining, “Of course we plan to go downtown and of course we will. But right now my father is still having way too much fun hitting warehouse stores.”

  “Do you guys not have Costco in England?” I ask.

  “Yes, but we didn’t have the space to buy in bulk so we never went. He’s making up for lost time. We own a lot of paper towels now. A lot. My father’s made it his personal quest to fill all our empty closets with home supplies bought in family-sized packs. Did you know Windex came in gallon jugs? I didn’t.”

  “Speak of the devil,” I say.

  We watch as her dad pulls up in an SUV roughly the size of the starship Enterprise. Simone says he’s a total spendthrift and that some accountant keeps a tight lock on all the family’s cash, but her dad slipped the purchase past their guy when he was out of the office for Rosh Hashanah.

  “Anyone fancy a lift to school, huh? Bet your mates have never seen a ride like this, eh, Simba?” He twirls the pine tree air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror as he nods with pride.

  “No, my mom had the exact same model,” I say. “Ours was light gray.”

  “Mine has one now,” Stephen says. “Hers is tan.”

  “I bought a ladies’ car then?” her dad asks, shoulders slumping. Poor guy. He looks so flattened behind the wheel. Even his puffy man-bun is deflated.

  “SUVs are pretty much unisex,” I quickly offer, as I’m so accustomed to trying to bring people up that it’s second nature. “Plus, you can use this one to haul a boat. That’s why we bought ours.”

  “Glad the Jewish holidays are over, lest there be watercraft in my family’s future,” Simone says. I can’t tell if she’s joking or not because she’s super deadpan. (I think it’s the whole semi-British thing.)

  Mr. Chastain seems to brighten, though. “Well, all right then. Off to Costco! Lots of bargains to be found! Have a good day of class!”

  Her dad’s posture vastly improves before he begins to pull away.

  Simone tells us, “I’m sure once he loads up his cart with sixteen cases of tuna and a few hundred triple-A batteries, he’ll be right as rain again. Hope his fascination with shopping in bulk ends soon—he’s yet to tackle a single creative endeavor since we’ve arrived and my mum’s worried.”

  Mr. Chastain roars off and the SUV bottoms out as he crosses over the train tracks. He’s got to drive a few miles west to get to the big box stores. North Shore doesn’t allow such retail establis
hments in this town. They don’t permit billboards, either. I’ve lived here so long that now it’s weird when I’m someplace that has them.

  “The NRA bumper sticker is a nice touch,” I observe.

  She explains, “Came with the truck. The dealer offered to remove it, but my dad thought it looked menacing in an appealing way. He’s profoundly anti-gun, but apparently pro-gun sticker.”

  I laugh. “Who isn’t?”

  Stephen sprints to catch up with us. “So you haven’t been to Navy Pier. You haven’t seen the Bean.”

  Simone says, “Stephen, what part of ‘we haven’t made it downtown yet’ are you not understanding? And what is the Bean?”

  “It’s a giant, reflective silver bean-shaped piece of art in Millennium Park,” I say.

  “You mean Cloud Gate, the Anish Kapoor piece? My parents know the sculptor. He lives in London,” Simone says.

  “Except no one in Chicago calls it Cloud Gate,” I explain.

  “Okay, then. Does the Bean do anything?” she asks. “Any functionality?”

  Incensed, Stephen stops again and puts his hands on his hips. “Does it do anything? Are you seriously asking that? Didn’t your dad recently exhibit a stadium full of garbage? I saw it on the news, with all the old train cars with computer monitors and calculators and stuff spilling out. Reminded me of the roomful of old shoes we saw at the Holocaust Museum on the DC class trip. Friggin’ creepy.”

  “Hey, chill.” I step between the two of them, like a referee at a boxing match. This makes Simone chuckle all over again.

  “No worries, Kent, I’m a lover, not a fighter. Stephen’s right, that’s what Dad was aiming for with the exhibit,” she tells us.

  “Wait, what are you guys talking about?” I ask.