“Um...everything sounds fab?” This comes out more as a question than a statement.
“Awesome. So, do you have any questions so far?”
“Um...yes,” I say, thinking about the one big question mark I keep encountering since moving here. “Why’s everyone so uptight when I mention we bought the Barats’ house?”
Her face clouds over. “Long story.”
I glance at the clock on my phone. “I have time.”
“I don’t,” she replies, shutting me down yet again. She appears to take a moment to center herself.
Once righted, she tosses her braid. “Anyway, we’re going to hit the athletic fields and then the math campus, followed by the activities hall, and then I’ll get you to your Good and Evil in Literature first-period class. If we hustle, we can grab an espresso at the coffee cart in the quad before then.”
She smiles at me expectantly.
Maybe she is expecting a tip. Mum says Americans tip more than Europeans and I should be prepared, so I’m keeping dollar bills in my pocket at all times. When Kent and Stephen saw my wad of cash, they laughed, asking me if I was planning to hit up a strip club.
Still, a tip can’t be appropriate here... Can it?
While I internally try to calculate how much 15 percent of a campus tour is worth, I reply, “Thanks for such a thorough introduction. I appreciate it.” Yet what I’d like to say is that I’ve been at this school for only half an hour and already I’m exhausted.
At first glance, Mallory seems the sort to have it all. Lovely and bright and tons of energy. Girls defer to her in the halls as though she’s important, like she owns the place, and boys eye her pretty hair and lean, tan legs. Teachers nod at her in a way that makes me suspect she’s a worthy adversary. But given her reaction to a simple question about the Barats, I wonder if there isn’t something going on beneath the surface.
Also?
If she’s spent twelve years running at this frenzied pace, then I’m so very glad to not be her.
6
MALLORY
Okay, a few more stops and this stupid tour will be over.
Have I mentioned how much I loathe being the campus cruise director?
Nothing personal with Simone. She seems nice enough, albeit seriously clueless. At one point, I thought she was going to tip me. (Who does that?) My issue is that now I’m going to be responsible for her, which is the last thing I want. That’s what they don’t tell you about this club. Novus Orsa isn’t just about giving tours; it’s about taking new students under your wing for however long they need guidance.
Ain’t nobody got time for that.
When I told Liam that I was appointed as the leader of Novus Orsa, he didn’t ask why. One of the reasons we get along is that he recognizes a command performance when he sees it. Hell, he lives it, too.
“Step it up, Mallory,” my mother had said last spring, giving me the side-eye over her nth glass of wine. To myself, I was all, Glad you don’t let the daylight stop you from getting your drink on.
I stood there in the kitchen, bracing myself for another one of her Your Brother Theo Is Perfect and You, Mallory, Are Sadly Lacking lectures. (At least she never compares me to our older brother, Holden, anymore.) So I stood and waited for her to describe what unspeakable crime had I committed this time.
In what way was I not reflecting proper glory on her now?
She sat there in the breakfast solarium, posing on the padded bench like it was her throne. I knew that she’d jump all over my shit about posture if I didn’t hold my chin up and keep my shoulder blades pressed together, so I stood extra tall. Stop curling up like a shrimp in a sauté pan, she’d hiss when I was kid, until standing up straight became as second-nature as breathing. I stiffened even more under her penetrating gaze.
She took a long pull from her glass and then said, “Your father tells me you were asked to lead Novus Orsa and you declined.”
“I did.”
Dad agreed with my decision when we spoke about Novus Orsa. Said he worried I was spreading myself too thin—ironic coming from the guy who puts in seventy-plus hours a week at his law firm. But maybe his schedule feels like he’s slacking—before he made partner, it was more like one hundred hours per week. For a couple of years during elementary school, weeks would pass without my seeing him, even though we lived under the same roof.
“Why’s that?” She said this more to her glass than to me, as though I weren’t even worthwhile enough to demand her full attention while being addressed. Wouldn’t it be something if she ever looked at me with the kind of affection she happily bestows upon Theo—especially when his team is winning—or bottles of Sauvignon Blanc or her Facebook timeline?
“I’m already slammed,” I explained. “I’ve got peer counseling, the Social Service Board, the Italian club, and Student Alliance.” I spun through my mental checklist. There was so much, I felt woozy even thinking about it all. But I was missing something... What else? “Oh, yeah, there’s my a cappella singing group, and next fall I’m captain of the field hockey team. There’s literally no more room on my plate.”
Whenever I list everything I have going on like that, I feel spent, like I can’t be on my feet another second, so I sank into one of the big wrought-iron chairs bordering the breakfast bar. No slouching, though. We don’t do that in the Goodman house.
What I couldn’t understand is why she’d be so invested in whether I took on one more extracurricular. Like she could be bothered to attend my games or performances. She didn’t need to be there to be able to brag about my wins on the field.
Anyway, I was suspicious of her concern and had a good idea where this conversation was headed. She perpetually has ulterior motives; I just wish she were more adept at disguising them.
My mother got up and dug into her bottle-green suede Chloé purse on the counter, pulling out a set of keys before returning to the bench. “Give up peer counseling. That’s the one activity that won’t get you anywhere.”
Right. Peer counseling’s the one activity I like.
I decided to appeal to her sense of reason. “I feel like I do nothing but walk back and forth to school fifteen times a day.”
“You can use the exercise.”
So reason was out. And only in my mother’s world was a size two fat.
“All the walking is cutting into my study time.” That’d get her attention, tapping into her FUDs—Fear, Uncertainty, and Dread. If my grades were to slip so that I didn’t get into Princeton on early decision, she could never show her face at The Daily Om again.
“Easily fixed. Here, take Holden’s Land Rover.” She bought this vehicle as a bribe to induce him into coming home. As her plan had yet to work, she’d sometimes drive it herself when her purchases wouldn’t fit in the Jag’s trunk.
She slid the LR4’s key fob across the table to me the way TV bartenders send shots of whiskey to regular patrons. I didn’t stop the keys as they flew past me. We both watched as the set dropped to the floor with a metallic clang. Any other kid would be overjoyed at the prospect of a free luxury vehicle, but the whole conversation made me mad. “I don’t want my own car, I want more than four hours of sleep a night,” I argued.
She sat back on the padded bench and folded her arms across her surgically enhanced chest. A full C, never a D, Mallory, unless you’re looking to work the pole, AKA the sum total of wisdom she’s ever imparted.
“Car’s yours, that’s nonnegotiable. But you will need to lead the newcomer’s club. Can’t take much time—I mean, how often does anyone your age move here?”
Actually...she was probably right; I wouldn’t have to do much. If anyone relocates to North Shore with children, they’re in elementary school, or early junior high. By the time high school rolls around, newcomers are a rarity. Generally, if someone winds up at NS
HS, they grew up here and have enrolled only after being kicked out of boarding school. (That happens quite a bit.)
“The activity would look great on my college applications,” I conceded, too tired to continue the debate, ready to cut my losses. Here’s the thing—I always argue and I never win; you’d think I’d be smart enough to not start.
She sipped her wine and nodded, victorious.
Like that wasn’t a given.
Then, almost as an afterthought she said, “Did you know that Kimberlee’s daughter Elise tried to join Novus Orsa and she wasn’t accepted? Guess she’s not what the school wants to offer by way of first impression.”
Ah, there it is, I thought, mentally snapping my fingers. Like she’d ever suggest something that was truly in my best interests. You see, Kimberlee is my mother’s frenemy. They’ve been pitting Elise and me against each other since we were in diapers, in a never-ending competition of who could walk and talk and use the potty like a big girl first.
In my mother’s head, Elise is my sworn rival. IRL, we’re totally cool. We text all the time. We hate being used as pawns in our mothers’ twisted quests for social media dominance. Elise is braver than me, though. She dyed her hair black, pierced her nose, and gained thirty pounds. I thought her acts of defiance would make life easier on me, but that’s not the case. Now my mother’s even more vigilant about what I eat, hoping to keep up the disparity in our waistlines.
Which, again, exhausting.
Before I could say anything else, my brother Theo clattered in with Braden, two bulls in the proverbial china shop. Although the kitchen’s something like five hundred square feet and opens into the solarium and massive great room, the whole space feels cramped when the boys enter. They’re both built like brick shithouses. While Theo’s pretty big, Braden dwarfs him. He’s a younger version of The Rock, with all his muscles and toothy, white smile, but minus the shaved head.
“Hey, Ma, these your keys on the floor?” Theo scoops up the Tiffany key ring and tries to hand it to her.
“Nope, those are your sister’s now. I gave her the LR4.”
“Badass!” Theo exclaimed, holding up his hand for a high-five I did not return. “Will you start driving to school in the fall? Can you give me rides? I’m over this bike business. It’s bullshit that only seniors can park on campus.”
Were I to swear in front of our mother, she’d go apoplectic. But Theo cursing? Doesn’t register. For that matter, Holden could sacrifice a virgin on the wooden butcher block part of the kitchen island and she wouldn’t even blink.
“You know what?” she said. “It’s unfair that Mallory gets a car and you don’t, Theo. Let’s fix that. We can go to the dealership this afternoon and you pick out whatever you’d like.”
Hopefully Theo drives, I thought, eyeing the empty bottle of wine.
“Fuckin’ A! Can I get a convertible Beetle?” he asked.
“Sure, if that’s what you want,” she replied, glancing at me with an indulgent smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Bro, you can’t get a little VW, you’ll look like bear driving one of those Shriner’s cars,” Braden said. “Think truck or jeep or something more manly. Can’t be cruising around in a Barbie car.”
I noticed my mother rolling her eyes. She’s not a huge fan of Braden, thinks he’s a useless, good-time party guy, even though he does well in his classes and has been nothing but amazing to Theo. She’s always telling me how much better Liam is compared to Braden, more focused, more disciplined, more destined for success, like she somehow needs to sell me on my boyfriend’s finer points. She acts like she’s worried I’m trying to choose between them, which is so untrue.
Theo nodded. “That does make sense, now that you mention it. Hey, Ma, let’s go into Dad’s office and look at vehicle pics on the big iMac,” he suggested.
They exited, leaving Braden and me alone in the kitchen. He turned to me and said, “Now make sure you clean all the ashes out of that fireplace, Cinderella.”
“Right?” I replied. “Like I need my bird and squirrel friends to help me, too.”
I sighed and slumped in my seat. I felt all my bones turn to jelly as soon as she left the room. Staying upright was sapping me of my remaining energy, so I propped my elbow on the counter and rested my head in my hand.
Why was I so overwhelmingly tired?
“You understand she’s a bitch like that because she’s jealous of you, right?” Braden said.
Maybe that’s why she’s never liked Braden; he sees right through her.
Liam isn’t snowed by her either, but he’s a lot better at hiding it. Liam’s perpetually polite, deferential, even pretends to flirt with her, which she completely eats up. In a lot of ways, Liam’s like my dad, defaulting to smiling and gritting his teeth when it comes to dealing with her because that’s the path of least resistance.
No wonder Dad puts in fourteen-hour days.
Braden, on the other hand, has no interest in trying to charm her.
I looked over at him and we locked glances. Were his eyes always flecked with bits of gold leaf? Seems like I’d have noticed that before.
“Why would she be jealous of me?” I asked.
He shrugged and then hopped onto the chair closest to me. I felt heat radiating from him, warming up this room that’s perpetually chilly due to all the glass in the solarium.
“’Cause you’re awesome,” he told me. The corners of my mouth began to tug upward. “’Cause you’ll always be younger and hotter and smarter than her. ’Cause she’ll feel better about herself if she’s able to make you feel small. Take your pick.” That made me think of the time Braden warned me to never accept an apple from my mother—said she gave him Evil Queen from Snow White flashbacks.
He put his arm around me and brought me in for a side hug, and I was enveloped by the scent of clean cotton and ocean breezes and the wintergreen Tic Tacs he perpetually chews. (His running joke is that he has a two-pack-a-day habit.)
This gesture—or maybe it was his words—made my insides twist. I had this overwhelming urge to bury my face into his neck and inhale. Something about Braden always made me want to melt into him, to seek him out like a sheltered harbor in a tempestuous sea.
But I stopped myself because that seemed wrong.
I felt like sharing this moment of intimacy or discussing my problems made me somehow unfaithful to Liam. I know it sounds weird, but Liam’s supposed to be the one I talk to about my issues with Mom. He’s my ride or die, not Braden. Plus, I worry that Theo would be upset if he saw Braden and me this close. We’re all great friends but if I were to inadvertently cross a line, Theo would be upset.
I jumped up and out of Braden’s grasp.
“Gotta go,” I said.
Braden looked hurt and his fallen expression weighed on my heart, which only served to confuse me more.
“I do something wrong, Mal?”
I’m always surprised at how easily Braden can express himself. He perpetually cuts right to the chase and isn’t afraid to say what he feels. He’s probably the sweetest person I’ve ever met; I’m astounded that he doesn’t have a serious girlfriend.
“What? No. No, not at all,” I stammered, trying to tamp down the butterflies in my perpetually empty stomach. “I remembered I have to give Mr. Gorton a call. I’ll be heading up Novus Orsa next fall and I need to get on that.”
“A’ight,” he said, lapsing into the bro-speak he normally reserves for conversations with teammates. “That sounds like it could be tight.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, while lying my ass off. “So tight.”
I collected my things and skittered away but when I got to the doorway leading to the back staircase, I glanced at Braden over my shoulder.
He was watching me walk away from him.
Like I always do.
Like I always fucking do.
Yo Mama
7:56 AM
Stephen, I’m reminding you to practice your oboe tonight for AT LEAST an hour. This slacking’s out of hand.
7:58 AM
When can I review your practice admission essays? Did you leave them out? I don’t see them.
8:01 AM
Who’s teaching Macroeconomics? Mrs. Bachman or Mr. Ellicott? If you get Ellicott, ask to change to Bachman. Ellicott’s too easy.
8:02 AM
Hello? Are you even getting these?
7
KENT
“We’re gonna be us, only a better version.”
“Uh-huh,” I reply with zero enthusiasm.
Stephen insists, “No, Kent and Stephen, 2.0. I mean it, man. This is it. This is our year.”
The whole walk to school, Stephen’s been sharing his plan for World Domination. I’ve smiled and nodded, but I’m not putting much stock in his words.
I hear this speech every first day of school, like clockwork.
While Stephen actually believes himself, he perpetually forgets that the second something goes the tiniest bit awry—like we have to play dodgeball in gym class or the cafeteria runs out of Sloppy Joes or he gets an A—instead of an A+—that’s it, game over. His whole demeanor changes and he slips into a funk that’s so not commensurate with whatever tiny disappointment it is he’s suffered.
Don’t get me wrong; I’d love for this to be our year. I’m all about World Domination and I would rock Kent and Stephen 2.0. But I can’t be Mr. Hells, Yeah, Bro! because I have to straddle a fine line between supporting him and managing his expectations. If I’m too enthusiastic, then I’m the one who deals with the inevitable fallout when situations don’t turn out exactly like he’d built up in his fantasies.
Maybe having Simone in the mix will help. At least I won’t be solely responsible for keeping him on an even keel.
The Gatekeepers Page 4