But part of me already knew.
History always repeats itself.
Still, the idea of an accident has been easier to swallow. An ill-timed crossing, a devastating mistake, a mathematical miscalculation spurred on by the arrogance of youthful invincibility. There’s a certain solace in that which is unintended, involuntary, a cruel sleight-of-hand.
Deep down, do I buy that we lost Braden to a terrible twist of fate?
No.
Yet the theory gives Theo a modicum of comfort, so I encourage him. And I try to make myself believe this fiction until it finally feels like fact.
* * *
We’ve just learned there was a witness who saw everything.
Owen Fucking Foley-Feinstein.
Braden’s death was not an accident.
I just...can’t.
Simone
3:30 PM
are u okay?
5:12 PM
can I see u?
7:14 PM
do u want 2 talk?
8:03 PM
may I come over?
9:22 PM
is there anything I can do?
3:45 PM
hey owen i came around & knocked but no1 answered
3:46 PM
thought i saw u in window
5:56 PM
u there?
7:01 PM
please, so worried bout u
10:53 PM
hello?
7:23 AM
miss u
12:48 PM
looked for u @ lunch
3:21 PM
hello??
4:01 PM
how about i just text hi until u respond?
6:35 PM
hi
9:28 PM
hi
7:34 AM
hi
3:22 PM
hi
5:45 PM
hi
8:08 PM
hi
12:02 AM
hi
6:45 AM
hi
11:32 AM
hi
3:17 PM
hi
7:08 PM
hi
11:38 PM
hi
16
OWEN
I can’t.
I can’t.
I can’t.
I can’t.
I can’t.
I can’t.
I can’t.
I can’t.
I can’t.
I can’t.
I can’t.
I can’t.
I can’t.
I can’t.
I can’t.
I can’t.
I can’t.
I can’t.
Simone
4:51 PM
hi
9:48 PM
hi
7:44 AM
hi
3:42 PM
hi
5:55 PM
hi
10: 03 PM
hi
6:56 AM
hi
7:50 AM
hi
12: 14 PM
hi
3:32 PM
hi
5:57 PM
hi
9:11 PM
hi
Owen
9:16 PM
Pls Lose My #
17
SIMONE
“What are you in for?”
“Pardon?” I glance up from my Financial Management textbook. I’ve thrown myself into my studies for lack of knowing what else to do. Sometimes the easiest thing is to get lost in a book, regardless of the subject matter. Words are always a source of comfort, a true north.
Currently, I’m discovering the nuances of investment strategies, which is both fascinating and terrifying. Thus far, I’ve learned what not to do and why not to do it. I’m suddenly very grateful for Mr. Hochberg’s firm hand. Suspect he’s wholly responsible for the fact that we’re not homeless.
But I’m not the only one who’s circumspect right now. In fact, the whole campus is mired in a proverbial fog. Everyone here is so sad, so quiet.
But no one is more of all these things than Owen.
Owen witnessed what happened to Braden. He saw it. Was standing right there. I can’t even imagine what he’s going through...largely because he won’t talk to me. He has utterly and completely withdrawn from everyone, particularly me. He ignores my texts and calls and emails, refuses to come to the door when I knock. He’s barely attending school and when he’s here, he just looks past everyone, even his closest friends, like we’re invisible.
“Mum, what can I do for him?” I asked last week after my millionth ignored text. “I want to reach him, I want to see if he’s okay. I want him to know I’m here. Do I just camp out in front of his place? Do I bring a pizza? Do I make him talk to me?”
“Grief is a tricky creature, Sims.”
“I’m desperate to help! He doesn’t have to be my boyfriend, I would never put that kind of pressure on him right now, but I’d at least like to be his friend. What else can I do?”
“Simba, you’ve been very clear about extending your hand. Understand Owen’s not obligated to take it, regardless of your fine intentions. It’s possible he’s one of those who heals more quickly on his own. Some people rush to others for solace—people like you,” she said with a small, sad smile as she brushed my hair out of my eyes. “For others, they need time and privacy. Space. They need to process inside their own heads, without any external input. Your efforts might be driving him farther away. At this point, you have to respect the boundaries he’s erected.”
“I just feel so useless, so rejected.”
Mum took a deep breath. “Sim, precious girl, this is not about you, even if you feel like it is. Let him go for now. Give Owen a month or two, he may find his way back to you.”
“What if he doesn’t?” I asked, my lip quivering.
“Then he doesn’t,” she said, but not harshly. Then she hugged me to her and I started to cry.
I hate losses. I can’t stand to give up. But from what Mum said, it sounds like my being stubborn isn’t helping anything. So that’s it with Owen, even though the idea of leaving him alone makes my heart twist up like an origami swan.
Still, I’ll respect his wishes. I won’t be one more complication in his life, but I will be here if he changes his mind. I hope desperately that he does.
The boy next to me, Liam, I believe, repeats his question.
“I said, what are you in for?” He shifts in his seat, attempting to get comfortable in one of the rigid wooden chairs outside the guidance offices, but they’re designed in such a way that this is impossible. Not by coincidence, I’d imagine. He keeps stretching and repositioning his long legs, but can’t seem to find a situation that’s suitable.
I reply, “I’m so sorry, I don’t understand the question.”
Liam grins at me. I notice that one of his incisors is a teeny bit more prominent than the other, and he suddenly reminds me of my first crush. At the time, Cordy was mad for the boys in One Direction—she wasn’t picky, didn’t have a fave—but not me. I was all about David Bowie. My parents found that hilarious, because he was Mum’s first crush, too.
I’m glad to see a person here with a genuine smile. To be honest, this may be the first one I’ve seen from the student body since Braden died. Kent says that life gets back to normal within a week or two, or at least that’s what’s happened every other time.
How incredibly sad is it that “every other time” is a thing.
Liam says, “You clearly do not watch enough shows about the American penal system. That’s what you’re supposed to say to a fellow inmate to find out what crime they’ve committed.”
“Huh. I did not know that. Not sure I’ve heard anyone ask that on Orange Is the New Black,” I reply. “But then I’ve only seen one season. Question—am I supposed to like Piper? Because she whines quite a bit and it’s off-putting. I’m rooting for her to be shanked in the shower. Is that awful? I prefer everyone else, particularly Taystee.”
“Ah, so you’re avoiding the question. You must have done something serious.” He cocks an eyebrow as he leans in and I notice that he smells clean and fresh, like lemon soap and pine trees. I’m grateful that waves of Axe Body Spray don’t waft off him like so many of the boys in the halls. Whoever invented that stuff should be imprisoned with Piper.
When Liam speaks again, he’s assumed a (terrible) German accent. “Ve haf vays of making you talk.”
My bottom’s gone numb in this punishing chair. I’ve been here only a few minutes, yet this furniture is crippling. I tell him, “Five more seconds in this cruel seat and I’ll sing like a canary.”
“Funf, vier, drei, zwei, eins...” he counts.
Liam is a friendly sort, isn’t he? I’ve heard that about him. People keep saying he’s a shoo-in for Homecoming King, which is essentially a popularity contest. Well, if the most popular person is someone who’s very nice and a bit cute with his small dimple, then he has my vote.
I divert my attention back to my book. I’m washed in a wave of self-loathing about noticing if Liam might be cute.
What is wrong with me?
I feel as though I should be in mourning for what might have been with Owen. Yet I know Owen’s devastated. How could he not be? I so want to support him so he can be less devastated, but that’s the wrong call, says Mum. Still, how can he not want caring people around him? He told me his parents are never there, so I just imagine him rattling around that big house, all by himself, and it makes me want to sob. I would be so devastated to deal with something like this on my own.
Wait, that’s not fair. I’ve never experienced anything even a fraction as tragic as what he witnessed, so I can’t say how I’d feel, can’t promise I wouldn’t close up, circle the emotional wagons. Perhaps I’d shut down, too. Perhaps he’s not allowing anyone in because it’s all too raw.
The message I tried to offer again and again to no avail was I’m his friend and I want to be there for him, but he has to let me.
In so doing, I suspect I’ve made it all worse.
Am I doing it all wrong here, I wonder? Should I be more guarded around people? Do I give off the wrong idea? Do I perpetrate the fiction that I’m interested in more than I intend? Cordy says I’m a terrible flirt, but I don’t see it, especially as that’s rarely my intention. Plus, I don’t have the confidence to consciously flirt. Rather, I’m genuinely interested in people and maybe that comes across as something else, something I don’t mean. I’m a tactile person, always touching—do I invade other people’s personal space too much?
Perhaps I misjudged Owen’s signals. Perhaps everything was one-sided and I misinterpreted the situation. Would not be the first time. Last night on Skype, Cordy reminded me of the Alastair business a few years back. I thought he and I had been Facebook Official for weeks, always running about together...until he introduced me to his boyfriend, James. I truly thought Cody would hemorrhage from laughing so hard back then. She says I’m too naïve for my own good.
I think the problem is me. I sigh with frustration.
“See?” Liam says, responding to my exhale. He’s still working the German accent. Christ, I’d forgotten he was next to me. “Knew you vere in for somethink bad. You vill speak or not?”
I explain, “I’ve a committed a number of crimes, apparently. First, I haven’t taken my ACTs—”
“Whoa, you haven’t taken your ACTs?” he exclaims, accent abandoned, eyes flying wide open. Brown. Huh. Funny, I’d have pegged him for having something in the blue or green category with all the golden hair and tawny skin. He seems the sporty type. He strikes me as very California, if that’s an apt way to describe someone who lives in the center of the country.
Who does he remind me of? Someone...familiar. Ah, of course. I snort inadvertently.
“You must date Mallory because you sound exactly like her.”
His lips flatten into a thin line before he rearranges them into another smile. “Sorry. Natural reaction. I’m just surprised is all. We started doing practice ACTs in eighth grade, and the real thing in ninth, so meeting someone who hasn’t taken one? That’s like running across a unicorn or someone who doesn’t have a driver’s license.”
I shrug. “Afraid I don’t have one of those, either.”
At home, I mostly take the Tube when I need to get somewhere, or I ride my bike. I rarely drive my parents’ car because traffic in London is ridic. Granted, there’s loads of free parking in North Shore and the traffic in town is kind of nonexistent, but I can walk anywhere I need and the whole wrong side of the road business makes me nervous. I need a few driving-here lessons to be comfortable. Owen was going to help me.
Sigh.
Still, getting a license is on my list. In fact, I’ve started a list of all the American Must Do things. There’s already so much on the page that it’s daunting.
Liam looks me up and down, incredulous. “What? No license? Are you from the moon or something?”
I close my book and slip it back into my satchel. “Yes. Exactly there. You’ve nailed it. Did my accent give me away? So hard to shake that Lunar Lisp.”
“What’s your name, Moon Girl?”
Pity that this one has a girlfriend as blond and lovely and focused as Mallory, because he’s a delight. While he’s not flirting with me, he is talking to me like I’m the only person in the world. He’s not glancing at his phone or looking around to see who might walk in next. He’s all honed in on what I’m about to say and that’s a lovely trait, extraordinarily polite, deeply mindful, which I appreciate.
“I’m Simone Chastain. Pleased to meet you.”
“Liam Avery.” He seems amused when I extend my hand, but he gives it a solid shake, lingering for just a second before letting it go. His palms are neither too sweaty nor too limp. While a bit rough and calloused, they’re also firm and warm, exactly the kind you’d want to hold while, say, watching a scary film or killing time wandering around a park on a chilly day. He maintains eye contact the whole time, too, which feels oddly intimate. For a second, I feel more like we’re navigating a first date and less like we’re queued up to chat with our guidance counselors.
And that is very wrong.
I quickly pull my hand away.
“Yes, Liam Avery, I’ve seen your posters,” I say. “I particularly like Liam Avery: The Man Your Man Could Smell Like, especially with that picture of you on the boat and the caption ‘I’m on a boat!’ A dated reference, but not irrelevant. Or the one where you’re on the soccer field, superimposed over the Apple logo with Beauty Outside, Beast Inside?”
Shit, is this the accidental flirting Cordy says I do? Not my intention, particularly not now.
The tips of his ears turn red. “My mom used to run an ad agency and lives for this kind of stuff. She and Mallory came up with the posters. I was their unwilling accomplice.”
“Personally, I pity the competition. Who’s going to vote Weston 4 King or Josh [who] Is ’N It 2 Win It when they can Keep Calm and Liam On? No contest.”
A guidance secretary enters the waiting area. “Miss Chastain? Mr. Gorton is ready for you.”
“That’s me.” I rise and grab my heavy bag, hooking it over my shoulder with a small oof. Liam gets up, too, eve
n though he’s not yet been called. Bonus points for being polite.
“Good luck in there, Moon Girl. Hope you’re granted time off for good behavior.” He shoots me with pretend finger guns before he sits down again.
I find myself smiling when I enter Mr. Gorton’s office.
“Good day, Miss Chastain. Please be seated.”
I note that the chairs in here are decidedly more comfortable than the ones in the waiting area. I guess they couldn’t be worse.
“Howdy, partner.” I doff my imaginary ten-gallon hat at him, inspired by Liam’s Wild West gesture.
Mr. Gorton seems nonplussed, but doesn’t question my suddenly speaking like a cowboy. Where did that come from? Perhaps Liam made me a tiny bit bubbly inside, which doesn’t feel like my MO. Then again, I don’t have an MO.
Of course, Cordy tells me I’d be more attractive to boys if I could develop some Daddy issues.
(She truly is a font of terrible advice, but I love her dearly.)
Mr. Gorton strikes me as one of the lesser characters on Mad Men, perhaps a Ken Cosgrove–type, all tidy and buttoned-down and spit-shined, with neatly parted hair and very starchy shirts. I feel as though the clocks are precise to the second in his world.
He opens a manila folder, placing it on a desk that looks to be neat as a pin. In fact, I’m impressed by how squared away his whole office is, not a pencil out of place. I bet he’s never had to drink milk out of an old spaghetti sauce jar at his new house because no one’s unpacked proper glassware yet. Of course, right after the whole Ragu incident, Dad went out and bought a gross of new tumblers. A gross! We had no drinking apparatus and now we have every glass in the universe.
Mr. Gorton clears his throat. “Yes, well, much to discuss. Let’s begin with the most pressing part, shall we? ACTs. I can’t stress enough how important these are. Colleges won’t even consider your application without SAT or ACT scores. We’ve registered you for the test—and paid the fee for the late registration, your parents will need to send a check, make it payable to the school—and you’ll sit for the ACTs on October 24th.”
I protest, “Begging your pardon but you didn’t even clear this with me! What if I have plans that day?” I don’t, but what if I did? Very presumptuous on his part.
The Gatekeepers Page 14