I swear her obsessive overprotection is why I was never able to take the leap off the big diving board. I’d get to the edge and then I’d hear her in my head, talking about how she didn’t want to have to feed me through a tube, then I’d wuss out.
I’m sure my trajectory, my social standing, my whole damn life would be different if I’d have been allowed to play soccer. I spent the summer before seventh grade practicing on my own because I’d never been permitted to join a peewee league and I was tired of feeling left out. Plus, my sixth grade gym teacher had noticed my potential as a foreword and he’d encouraged me to try, even though starting in junior high is pretty late when you consider that a lot of kids had been playing AYSO since pre-K.
I memorized the rules and then I spent endless hours drilling, doing ball work like toe taps and inside-to-outside touches. Plus I worked on my sprinting skills.
I was respectable.
Maybe I wasn’t great, but I was skillful and quick and determined. I understood angles and trajectory and velocity so I could always get the ball to exactly where it needed to go. More than anything, I was motivated. Kent was always right there, helping me. I don’t know which of us was more jazzed when I was chosen for the team.
I made it through two practices before my mom found out and yanked me—literally yanked me—off the pitch. I was so humiliated. Such is my shame remembering that day, I still turn my head when we drive past the middle school soccer fields. Every single kid out there was laughing at me, except for Macey Lund. She was the only one who had any compassion. I’ll never forget her mouthing I’m so sorry as my mother frog-marched me to her waiting SUV.
Figures that now I’ll never have the opportunity to thank the one person who was cool to me back then.
Anyway, my mom said if I was so desperate to play sports, she’d pick one for me.
Now I bowl. I’m a frigging bowler.
Turns out, I’m a great bowler because the geometric portion of this game also comes easy to me. Aces. Owen was a star on the lacrosse team until he quit because he didn’t feel like playing anymore. He just threw away an opportunity I would die for. Such bullshit.
As for me, I participate in a sport where you can be fat, where you can drink, smoke, and eat pizza in the middle of a game. I excel at a sport where the median player age is, what, fifty?
How do I even have to wonder why Simone isn’t into me?
How could she like me?
I don’t like me.
I mean, I try to give myself positive self-talk, try to display a confidence I don’t feel. Like, if I say I’ll be successful, then I’ll manifest it into being, all Tony Robbins–like. I work to psych myself up by doing stuff like boasting about all my wins, calling my shot like Babe Ruth used to when he’d come up to bat and point at where his homerun was headed. I visualize. I storyboard out the exact outcome I want.
But every time I do, I feel like I’m destining myself to fail.
Then when I inevitably screw up, it feels worse than the time before and it’s harder to bounce back. The cloud of failure and desperation just gets bigger and blacker, thicker and more all-encompassing.
Am I ever going to get anything right? Then, if by some miracle I were to succeed, would what I accomplished be good enough for my family?
Probably not.
Sometimes I wonder why I even bother trying.
Simone
3:31 PM
My father is driving a lawnmower with a ginormous American flag strapped to the back. So we’re *those* people now.
Cordy
3:32 PM
your father is a national treasure
10
SIMONE
“Mum, I’m here.”
My satchel lands with a thud on the granite island in the center of the kitchen. I rub my right shoulder, which bears the brunt of my bag’s weight. Owen says everyone orders a second set of books so that they don’t have to lug theirs back and forth.
I’m going to be a hunchback if I don’t take care of that soon.
Even with an extra set of books, I still don’t know how I’m supposed to complete the five to six hours of nightly homework. Who has that kind of time? When does everyone else hang out with their families or play fetch with their dogs or just take a nap? I simply can’t focus that much. My strategy is to prioritize whatever assignments seem most urgent, and whatever doesn’t get done? Oh, well.
Has worked so far.
My courses feel like I’m at uni already, except there’s no beer or casual sex for distraction. Haven’t tried the latter, but my best friend, Cordelia, enthusiastically recommends both, and in large quantities. Cordy’s at University of Leeds, in the Institute for Medieval Studies. No idea what she might do with that professionally, but for now, she likes the idea of banging around old castles. (Tremendous fan of banging in all respects, then.)
Anyway, when I’m not prepared for class, no one notices. My teachers don’t seek me out, what with all the hands thrust in the air. Most students are begging to be called upon, desperate to show off every nuance they memorized about Julius Caesar’s fatal flaws in my Ancient Roman History class. Personally, I don’t need a textbook to tell me who Caesar was. Standing in the ruins of the Roman Forum, imagining every surface covered in shining white marble, I could easily envision the conflict between his genius and hubris.
My mother enters from her darkroom off the kitchen, converted from a walk-in pantry. As always, Warhol’s at her heels. Even though her hair’s held in place by about six pencils haphazardly stuck in her bun and her skin’s bare, she’s as gorgeous now as she was when she prowled the catwalks with Cindy, Linda, Naomi, and all the other first-name-only supermodels two decades ago.
Everyone used to know who Fi was, no surname required. The few who couldn’t place her name recognized that curtain of black hair from her Indian father and her unique eyes, inherited from my Norwegian grandmother. They’re liquid gold, reminiscent of a wolf, or a sexy vampire from a terrible young adult novel. With her every feature ideally placed and perfectly symmetrical, we’re told that lots of ladies still take her photo to plastic surgeons, saying, “This. Make me this.”
Figures I’d inherit most of my dad’s features, so even though I have mum’s hair, I’m short with pasty English skin and constellations of freckles. On the bright side, at least I have a chance of growing some boobs. Not a secret—he’s always bitching “My tits are bigger than Mum’s.”
“Hello, Simba.” No one in the family uses my proper name. Threw me off here for the first couple of days to hear “Simone”—I kept tensing up, assuming I was being scolded.
“Did you see what Dad’s doing out there?” I ask.
She claps her palms over her eyes and shakes her head. “Yes, the stubborn arsehole,” she says, but without contempt. “He won’t listen to me so I called Mr. Hochberg and I’m waiting to hear back. He’s going to invalidate the insurance rider! Did you see him touching the blade with his bare hands? Claims he didn’t but he’s a bloody liar.”
I nod. “Yes, and I have witnesses, too.”
I’m referring to Kent and Stephen. We walk home together on Tuesdays because it’s the only day they don’t stay late on campus. They’re both student tutors and members of the Robotics Club, as well as delegates in the Model UN. Presently, they’re ramping up for competitions with the Physics Olympics. Poor Stephen’s been particularly stressed because he’s the team’s leader. For the two of them, their ultimate goal, other than winning the gold, is early admission to MIT. But on Tuesdays, their intramural bowling matches don’t start until early evening so we get to hang out a bit, which is always good for a laugh.
The lack of free time is what’s so bizarre about this school, beyond the blatant displays of wealth. I know loads of rich kids back in the UK, even some in line for the
throne, but none of them live as large as my current classmates. The student parking lot is basically a Mercedes dealership. And the size of the homes up here? My God! Some of my mates have country estates, but those places are all cold and damp and threadbare, shot through with mice and quietly decaying. You have to sleep with a hot water bottle because nothing is properly heated. Plus, those castles have been in the family for hundreds of years—no one’s forking over a five-figure monthly mortgage on one that’s brand new and ready-made with a proper HVAC system.
Even more than the wealth, I’m dismayed by how little time there is to be idle, to just kick back. Most of the fun’s orchestrated and school-sanctioned, for the sole purpose of shining on a college application. Behind the scenes, I suspect there’s a fair amount of alcohol and drug use. No judgment, though—who wouldn’t want an escape from the unrelenting pressure of being conveyed from activity to activity 24/7? When do people sleep? I’m exhausted every day and I’ve yet to tackle more than half of my homework.
Anyway, the three of us were coming home when we spotted a man on a fancy riding lawnmower in front of my house.
“Someone’s clipping our grass!” I exclaimed.
“Oh, thank God,” Stephen said, letting out a mass expanse of breath. As we walked earlier, I noticed he’d been clutching his backpack with both fists. Very tense, that one. “My mother’s been sending angry emails to the neighborhood association every day, trying to call an emergency board meeting.”
“I’m so sorry, I had no idea,” I admitted.
Kent added, “Yeah, and if Mrs. Cho ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.”
I expected to see Stephen’s trademark grin at Kent’s quip, or perhaps hear something equally cutting in response. They both have challenging, tiger-type mums who henpeck them to oblivion, inspiring their epic sessions telling “yo mama” jokes. But instead of smiling, Stephen nodded in grim agreement.
Stephen wasn’t playing today.
Huh.
As for the lawn situation, it had truly gotten out of control and absolutely was our own fault. In our defense, we’d never owned a suburban home before, just city flats. We planned to be in North Shore only for the year or so it’ll take Mum to photograph and write her book, so we planned to rent a condo, but Mr. Hochberg insisted we not “set money on fire.” Then this house came on the market, mostly furnished, and it seemed like kismet.
So, now we have this place where the sheer amount of space feels almost absurd after all the eighty-square-meter rabbit hutches we’ve lived in across Europe. My father spent the whole first week ignoring his studio and walking around the joint, peeking in walk-in closets and exclaiming about how marvelously beige everything was, how delightfully bland, like a cup of milky tea.
We didn’t know what to do with the grass, so we did...nothing. Then last night we temporarily lost Warhol in the jungle that had become the backyard. He bayed mournfully until we hunted him down (heartbreaking!) and that’s when it dawned on us that we should address the lawn.
Mum and I assumed Dad would hire someone to do the job.
Never assume.
Now he’s out there, cutting the grass himself on the lavish tractor mower just delivered from Home Depot, singing along badly to Johnny Cash, chuffed to bits about the whole enterprise. He offered to take us on rides around the yard. (We declined.)
As for him reaching under the chassis and clearing the blade? Well, that’s plain ludicrous. His hands are so valuable that they’re insured by Lloyd’s of London. Trust me, the first time Mr. Hochberg hears about Dad’s Great Landscape Adventure will be the last time.
“How are the boys?” Mum asks.
“Good.” I stop myself, thinking about Stephen’s taciturn presence. “No, scratch that. Stephen’s out of sorts. Kent says he can be moody, but this is the first I’ve seen of it. He’s not himself. He has the best grin in the world and he’s not smiling. I’m worried.”
Mum knits her brow and places a finger to her lips while she ponders. Finally, she says, “It is September.”
“That’s significant?” I ask.
She nods and one of her pencils comes loose. She tucks it back in, along with a stray tendril of hair. “Can be. In September, the days shorten rather quickly and the nights get longer. That can trigger Seasonal Affective Disorder—SAD. People often become depressed due to the lack of sunlight. You know, he can counter this with one of those light boxes that replicate sunshine. Lots of people at home have them.”
“Do they work?”
“Dunno. Never needed one. Just know that the autumnal equinox can be tough.”
I nod.
She wraps her arm around my shoulder. “Simba, if you’re worried about him, talk to him.”
I shrug. “We’re not tight enough for me to ask him about his inner feelings. Plus, I’m half British and we’re terrible at that sort of thing.”
She smiles as she runs her hands through the unshorn portions of my hair. (I’ve dip-dyed my bangs an indigo blue this week; they’re amazing!) “You forget you’re technically half American. You’ll be fine.”
Without needing to ask if I want tea, Mum pulls out a package of Jammie Dodger biscuits and plugs in the kettle. Our house came with a boiling water tap, but Mum doesn’t trust it to heat the water properly. In some ways, she acts more British than my Dad, who’s embraced all things American since we’ve been here. Case in point, the size of the telly he bought—we could land a plane on its surface.
“Let me guess—Dad did nothing in his studio today?” Galleries perpetually scramble to book my father’s next installation, long before he even brings his ideas to light. As he has unlimited free time and ample workspace here, we thought he’d be prolific, but that’s yet to happen.
“Let’s just say one of us has been productive. Interested to see what I just developed?”
With my mouth crammed full, I reply, “Absolutely!” Bits of crumbled cookie fall onto the floor but Warhol makes quick work of cleanup.
She comes out of her darkroom with a stack of slightly damp, chemical-smelling eight-by-tens. The pungent, sour scent of the fresh photos is as familiar as her gardenia and neroli perfume. She prefers film to digital because she loves the element of surprise film affords, and the delayed gratification, really, the whole scientific process. She claims anyone can “spray and pray;” film separates artist from amateur.
I thumb through the black-and-white photos. There’s shot after shot of enormous sport utility vehicles, all queued up, one after another.
“Was the vice president in town?”
“Nope. Keep looking.”
The vehicles snake into what appears to be a never-ending line, each one dark and shiny and sober, so many, it’s like they’re tracing the curve of the earth.
“A military funeral?”
“Here’s a clue.”
She taps a photo. In this one, an SUV door is ajar and a set of tiny legs appears in the frame, clad in opaque tights, capped with a pair of shiny patent leather Mary Janes, festooned with matching tulle pom-poms.
“Was a royal family visiting?”
Mum laughs and tells me, “Nope. You won’t believe it. This is the drop-off line at the elementary school a few blocks over!”
“No!” I’m a bit astounded.
“Yes!” she laughs. “Ran across the scene while I was out with Warhol. So glad I had my camera bag with me. It’s insanity, right? These children were practically escorted by the Queen’s Guard. Who needs that much protection around one child? When you were little, your father would fly through the streets of Paris in a tiny Citroën. I held you on my lap and you were fine. Christ, why not just house the kids in Plexiglas?”
“This whole place is kind of surreal, right?” I ask.
Her saffron eyes wide, she nods. Everything about the suburbs is brand
new to her, too, as she was born the wealthy daughter of jet-set parents on the Upper East Side. That’s why she was so excited to work on this book. My grandfather was from Mumbai and my grandmother from Oslo. They met at the United Nations while serving in their respective countries’ diplomatic corps. It’s funny that, while my mother embraces all cultures, the only place that’s alien to her is her nation of origin.
Dad comes clattering into the kitchen from the garage, reeking of sweat and chlorophyll and gasoline. He offers a “cheers, ladies” as a greeting before he reaches into the giant stainless Sub-Zero and pulls out a Budweiser, then selects a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos. He washes his hands—thankfully no worse for the wear—before joining us at the island.
He takes a long draw on his beer before he picks up one of the photos. “Hmm,” he says, inspecting the shot. “Beautiful shot, Fi. Fine perspective. Economic use of negative space. I like how... Whoa, blimey, that’s a huge car. A beast! It’s massive! Ooh, I’d look right smart in a vehicle like that, wouldn’t I?”
11
OWEN
“Magic hour.”
I kick back and close my eyes, letting the sun shine on my face. Feels real good after being cooped up inside for so many hours. Sometimes the recirculated air blowing down on me is, like, so oppressive that I can’t catch my breath. That’s why I don’t use the underground tunnels that connect the whole campus, even during blizzards. There’s never enough outdoor time in my day; I’m always jonesing for more. Like Ralph Waldo Emerson said, “Live in the sunshine, swim in the sea, drink the wild air.” Transcendentalism for the win!
Simone’s beside me and we’re hanging out on the stadium bleachers. This is my favorite spot around school because it borders the woods. I like all the old oak trees, with their gnarly trunks, some of them real scarred and beat up, as though they’ve seen some shit in their time. The trees are out there, like, Son, we’ve been here for hundreds of years before you and we’ll be here for just as long after you. Bet they will, too. This town goes ballistic if you chop anything down without about a million village permits, so these bad boys aren’t going anywhere.
The Gatekeepers Page 7