“Yo, check it out, our girlfriends are at the coffee cart together,” Stephen says, poking me in the ribcage.
“Wait, what?” I reply.
“Cheers!” Simone calls from across the quad. That’s when I notice that she’s in line next to Mallory.
My Mallory.
My stomach clenches in fear and anticipation before the caveman portion of my brain takes over. Then I stand as straight as I can, chest up, shoulders back, chin down, wishing desperately I’d done a set of pushups this morning to get my swole on. Granted, I’d have to do “girl” pushups, which is a total misnomer, considering I’ve seen Mallory do the full military press kind in gym class. Would not be surprised if she could even go one-handed.
(Mental note: start doing pushups.)
My current unimpressive stature isn’t going to capture my future girlfriend’s attention, so I decide to aim for charisma. We make a beeline over to them. I will never be the biggest or the baddest or the best player on the field, but I can be clever. I can be delightfully idiosyncratic. Hell, Stephen Hawking can land ladies—they’ve even made movies about it.
This is not an insurmountable challenge.
And as soon as Mallory stops terrifying me?
I’m golden.
“Oy, guv’nah!” I reply, with my best terrible English accent. “Top o’ the mornin’ to ya.”
Mallory winces.
Yeah, might have overshot the charming mark.
“Pip, pip, cheerio.” Stephen follows my lead, pretending to doff an imaginary top hat. His black, spiky hair doesn’t move when he bows.
(Mental note: he and I need to have a conversation about his rampant gel abuse.)
“That stopped being funny, like, three days ago,” Simone says with a big grin. Stephen is vibrating with excitement, just being in her presence.
I like what she brings out in him. I’ll say it again—she’s good for us.
“What’s that all about?” Mallory asks Simone, as though we’re not standing here. How rude is that? I would hate her if I weren’t desperately in love/profoundly afraid of her. She narrows her eyes. “And why don’t you sound more British? I only hear it here and there.”
Simone smiles at all of us, making it clear that she considers this is a four-way conversation. “Because I was born in the US and we’ve lived all over. Plus, my mom’s an American and she never really picked up the accent.”
Mallory waves a slim hand at us. “Then what’s their problem?”
Acknowledged!
Yeah, I realize that as someone who scored a perfect 36 on the ACTs, I should be smarter than this, I should expect more for myself, I should not consider terror analogous to erogenous. And yet when she raises her arm to wave it dismissively at us, her field hockey uniform reveals a sliver of golden side-boob, so you can see my dilemma.
Simone says, “They’re mocking me because of my expressions.” Mallory looks confused, so Simone clarifies. “I use a lot of British idioms and those two crack up over them. They keep accusing me of secretly being Mary Poppins.”
Mallory rolls her eyes. “They’re such nerds.”
“They’re standing right here,” Stephen says with great indignity, shooting me an incredulous look, like, Can you believe this bitch?
It’s awkward.
Yet I maintain this interchange is less awkward than when we first talked to Simone on Wheelie Bin Day. Plus, that turned out well, especially after we met her parents. Her dad’s kind of a trip—he tried to give us beer! Her mom was all, “Let’s not ply minors with alcohol, Angus.”
I didn’t even want one, but was psyched that someone finally, finally put the beer option on the table.
Simone insisted on giving us a tour of her place, which wasn’t new to us. I remembered everything about the house—from the two-story Christmas tree in the entry hall every December to the powder room where Mrs. Barat perpetually burned cinnamon candles to the screening room in the basement where we’d watch the movie Cars again and again. As I looked around, I noticed not a single thing had changed, not even the paint colors. So I mentioned that we’d been in her house before, but I didn’t explain the context. Figured that was the easiest thing to do.
Once we went upstairs, I was glad to see she’d picked Anna’s room and not Paulie’s, because that would have been too weird for us. I wouldn’t know how to tell her that once upon a time, we’d logged a million hours lying on the floor of her new room, playing “PaRappa the Rapper” on our PSPs with our old friend. So I was glad we could avoid that conversation.
Sometimes it’s easier to gloss over what’s happened around here.
Anyway, Simone was way proud of her jewelry-making setup, and, really, she should have been. She owns more tools than either of us and we build robots! She explained, “I have this habit of imagining jewelry designs for people when I meet them.”
“Yeah? What do you see for us?” Stephen prompted.
Personally, I’m not a jewelry guy, but I was so thrilled that he was being himself that I wanted to let out a goddamned cheer. I’d assumed that Paulie’s house would throw him off his (practically nonexistent) game. I’d gladly go the full Liberace if it meant Happy Stephen and not Crappy Stephen.
She grabbed a pad and a pencil and with a few graceful strokes, sketched out a design. “Here. Look at this. I envision you in silver Tuareg crosses, looped with a leather tie.” She gestured toward a couple of wide circles with arrow points on the end. “You see? They’re quite masculine. The Tuareg tribesmen believed these amulets possessed magical powers and wore them as talismans.”
While we were looking at her design, this blur of tan-and-white muscle came bursting into the room, underbite on full display. Took me a second to figure out what was even happening.
“Hold up, you have a pit bull? In North Shore?” I couldn’t help it, I started laughing all over again, even though I’d never met a pit bull before and I was worried he would eat my face before I ever had a chance to grow a beard, which would suck.
“No, he’s a Staffordshire Terrier,” she replied. “Do you not have them here? They’re everywhere in the UK.”
Her puppy Warhol bounded from person to person, unsure which one of us to lick first. He was so friendly! I appreciated that when he wagged his tail, his whole body got involved, from the top of his square head to the tip of his fat butt. He seemed too cute to maul me.
“They’re the same breed, basically. Staffys are actually pit bulls and they’re everywhere here, too,” I said, trying—and failing—to avoid being French-kissed by Warhol. (How sad is it that that was the most action I’d seen all summer?) “Just not in North Shore. People here have fancy dogs with AKC-registered papers, like Labs and poodles and springer spaniels. Not us, because both our moms think any pets are filthy, but everyone else.”
Stephen ran a palm over his crunchy hair and said, “I’m sorry in advance when my mom gives you shit. Not only is she the self-appointed neighborhood watchperson, she’s a Realtor. That means she’s, like, obsessed with property values in our hood. Goes full-on, banana-sandwich anytime anything poses a threat to them. Remember when the Bernardis wouldn’t re-blacktop their driveway? We thought she was gonna send some guys. She’s gonna be furious to see a pit bull.”
“Staffy,” she corrected.
“Again, same difference,” Stephen said.
I added, “She’s especially gonna hate him because she’s convinced any dog that weighs over twelve pounds is dangerous. Let’s just say she’s not a fan of danger.”
We glanced at Warhol, who had since left my side to chew on one of Simone’s clogs.
“Warhol, release,” Simone said, snapping her fingers.
The dog not only immediately let go of the shoe, but also rolled over on his back. I suspect if he had thumbs and the ability to spell,
he’d have written a heartfelt apology note. I rubbed my new BFF’s belly while he squirmed in my lap, his tail thumping so hard, it would likely leave a mark. “Who’s a neighborhood terror, huh? Who’s a big, scary brute?”
Anyway, how is it that I can be fearless upon making out with a strange pit bull but I don’t have the balls to defend myself when Mallory’s just insulted me?
Especially when I know that showing courage and confidence is absolutely attractive to the opposite sex?
I swear I’m as bad as Stephen sometimes. Maybe worse. He’s had his act together lately.
(Mental note: work on confidence/courage.)
“Mallory, have you been properly introduced to my good friends Kent and Stephen?” Simone asks.
Before Mallory can say anything, her phone pings, so she steps away to answer a text without even looking at us.
“Imma take that as a no,” Stephen snorts.
Stephen and I keep Simone company as she places her order. “Mallory... Um, she seems like a very busy person,” Simone says.
“That’s probably the nicest thing anyone’s ever said about her,” Stephen replies. “By the way, our boy here’s in love with her.”
“Really?” Simone says. “You’re into...frenetic?”
I shrug and try to play off my embarrassment at this private crush being made public. “Don’t hate the player, hate the game.”
(Mental note: kick Stephen’s weenie-ass later.)
(Again, metaphorically.)
Before I even realize what he’s doing, Stephen treats us both to my favorite coffee cart offering—triple shot cappuccinos with extra Splenda and a side of almond croissants. Then I feel bad about ragging on him.
He and I tear into our pastries, leaving a trail of powdered sugar and stray slivers of nuts as we move over to the open bench next to the cart. I had a massive plate of bacon and eggs and half a cantaloupe at home less than an hour ago, but somehow I’m still famished. My mom says this is because I have a growth spurt coming on. God, I hope so. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life being barred from the big rollercoasters because I’m not as tall as the frigging alligator at the entrance.
Simone sips her coffee thoughtfully. “Mallory’s tour was exceptionally thorough. Yet I’m surprised to have held her attention for so long. Suspect she’d benefit from some mindfulness.”
Stephen laughs, which sends little flakes flying. “Mindful, please, this is ’Murrica. Bitch needs ADHD meds.”
Mallory returns and Simone hands her a cup and a brown paper bag. “Here you go.”
“What’s this?” Mallory asks.
“A tip,” Simone replies.
“What?”
“Kidding, sort of. This is a white chocolate mocha and a banana nut muffin to say thanks for your time.”
Mallory waves her off. “Totally unnecessary. Keep them.”
Simone gently presses the cup and bag into Mallory’s hands. “Come on, I can’t manage two mochas and two muffins, and the boys have already eaten. Please enjoy them. Cheers and thanks again!”
Mallory stalks off without a word—so rude, yet so hot—and Simone returns her attention to us.
“Have a great first day of class, Mallory!” Stephen says, his voice oozing with sarcasm. He hates Mallory. Which would prove awkward if we got married and he was my best man. We have time to figure that out, though.
Simone says, “Explain this to me—is initial gift refusal another American thing?”
“I don’t follow,” I say, brushing thousands of tiny crumbs off my shirt. Croissants don’t crumble; they detonate.
She replies, “What is and isn’t culturally appropriate here? I truly don’t want to offend. What I mean is, every country has its small proclivities. Like when we visit Mum’s extended family in India, we don’t wave ‘hello’ because to them, the gesture means ‘no’ or ‘go away.’ So I didn’t know if here you say no to a gift before you say yes.”
“Like how you’re not supposed to write in red ink in Korea because it’s considered a bad omen?” I ask.
“My mother always throws away my red pens. I have to hide them, like they’re part of a porn stash or something,” Stephen says. “Otherwise, we have, like, zero ties to our culture. We’re the least Asian people you’ll meet in North Shore. The only time she ever pulls the South Korean card is with my stupid school supplies.”
“Yeah, the pen thing is not weird at all,” I say. Every time I think my mother is a challenge with her relentless nagging and endless micromanagement, I remember Mrs. Cho and I feel better. For all her opinions, at least my mom keeps her paws off my writing utensils. Fortunately, my dad’s pretty normal. But, like all the other fathers in the consulting business up here, he’s away on assignment all week, every week, so he’s not here to be the day-to-day buffer. Stephen’s in the same boat as his dad’s a road warrior, too.
“That’s really sad,” Simone says.
“Eh, it’s just pens.” Stephen shrugs.
“No, that you guys don’t connect with your Korean heritage. I mean, I’m only a quarter Indian and I can’t get enough. I love every aspect, from wearing saris to cooking chapattis, and, my God, an Indian wedding? You’ve never seen anything like it.”
After she tells us the story of some distant cousin’s wedding in Mumbai—with elephants and everything!—the first bell rings.
“Do we go now?” she asks.
“No, that’s the initial warning. We have ten minutes,” Stephen says.
“Anyway, are you ready for today?” I ask Simone.
She knits her brow. “Hmm, well, I’m worried that my courses might be difficult. I mean, I have Forensic Science, 3D Animation, 9/11 and Its Impact on the Modern Middle East, just to name a few. Honestly, I didn’t know classes like this existed outside of university.”
“You don’t have to worry,” Stephen says, with great reassurance in his voice.
Simone brightens. “Because they won’t be terribly hard?”
Without a whit of sarcasm, he replies, “Oh, no, they’ll be hard as shit. Frigging killer. You’ll be doing homework six hours a night and you’ll barely keep your head above water. But now you know, so at least you don’t have to worry.”
I shake my head. Here I was thinking that I had zero game.
The five-minute bell rings, so Simone and Stephen head off toward the liberal arts building and I make my way over to the science hall.
Right before I open the heavy wooden door, I take one more look at Mallory on the other side of all that neatly clipped grass. She’s been standing there talking to Braden, who’s totally making sausage eyes at her. Her face is all relaxed and radiant, like he’s the sun shining down on her. She’s not blatantly flirting with him, but their chemistry’s obvious. I can practically smell their pheromones from here.
Great, him, too?
Like Perfect Mr. Soccer Star Liam isn’t already enough competition. Yeah, let’s definitely add the funniest, nicest, handsomest guy to her list of admirers. I can’t even legit hate on him, because he’s such a good dude.
They say a couple more things to each other and he takes off, but I notice he keeps glancing back at her until he’s swallowed up by the crowd going into the math and science building.
Now that she’s alone, she dives into the paper bag Simone gave her.
Mallory holds up the muffin and takes a deep whiff, burying her nose in its still-warm center. The bakery that stocks the coffee cart is here in town, so everything’s always right from the oven. She practically gets to second base with it before stuffing it back into the sack.
How pathetic is it that I’m jealous of a fucking carbohydrate right now?
She repeats the process with the mocha, removing the lid and taking in the milky steam from the chocolate brew. She leans in so c
lose to the surface of the cup when she inhales that a small dot of whipped cream ends up on the tip of her nose.
(To confirm—it’s inappropriate to run over there and lick it off her?)
As she wipes at the foam with the back of her hand, she smiles a quiet, private smile. The whole sniffing ritual seems oddly personal, like I’m witnessing something not meant for my eyes.
But she doesn’t eat anything.
No bites, no sips.
Instead, she glances over both of her shoulders before she dumps everything in the trash. Then she stands there and stares into the garbage can for a minute, all wistfully, almost like she’s about to cry.
It’s disconcerting.
Watching Mallory makes me wonder if maybe we’re all struggling with something around here, only some of us are better at hiding it than others.
8
OWEN
FOLEY-FEINSTEIN
Rise up...
I open one eye and consider my options: rise with the morning sun like Stephen Marley and Jason Bentley suggest or hit the snooze button?
Ha, like that’s even a consideration.
Seven minutes later, the “Three Little Birds” remix comes through loud and clear on my iPod clock/dock again. Their lyrics tell me I shouldn’t be stressed about anything, rationalizing that every little thing is gonna be just fine. I believe ’em, so I hit snooze again, and then again, and again.
At some point, I glance at the clock and realize if I were still playing lacrosse, I’d have been at morning practice for an hour at this point.
Pfft, enjoy your sunrise, suckers.
See, I used to play because lacrosse made me feel connected to the Native Americans who invented the sport. They’d totally get into it, prepping for the games like they were going to battle, putting on their war paint and decorating their sticks. These rituals were spiritual to them, like, real ceremonial. That’s why I was so pissed when Coach demanded I chop off my dreds. I feel like the Native Americans would have been, all, “Dreds? Those make you look like a badass—hell, yeah!” So I made a stand and I quit. Felt good about it, too.
The Gatekeepers Page 5