The Gatekeepers

by Jen Lancaster

  His wire and tortoise shell glasses make him seem far older than he probably is. I’d guess he was fifty based on his demeanor, but he’s probably barely thirty. Suspect this is intentional, to seem like more of an authority to the students. Muss his hair, skip the shave for a few days, and give him cool shirt and a pair of Chucks, he might even pass for our age.

  He tells me, “After you take the test, there’s a three-to eight-week lag period for the results to be released. Let me be clear here. This is the first semester of your senior year—eight weeks is practically a lifetime. You cannot afford to wait any longer, it’s imperative you take the ACTs now. You’re already desperately behind the curve.”

  Mr. Gorton’s cheeks begin to flush and little balls of spittle form in the corners of his mouth. I don’t want to stare, but I’m drawn to those tiny spheres of foam wedging their ways into the ends of his lips. They’re so incongruous with the rest of his buttoned-down visage. Would it be rude to hand him a Kleenex?

  “Behind the curve for what, exactly?”

  “For admission! For starting in the fall.”

  I shrug. “If I go to university at all, I’m taking a gap year.”

  Mr. Gorton deflates like one of those blow-up Santa yard ornaments on Boxing Day. “We don’t advocate gap years here.”

  “Why not? Loads of my friends have taken them. They’re marvelous, great fun. People at home do them all the time.”

  Every friend that’s taken a gap year has loved it. In my head, it makes sense to take time to be a kid before vaulting forever into the world of grown-ups. I don’t understand the rush here to have the future all mapped out before you’re even legally allowed to vote or drink or smoke.

  Mr. Gorton says, “Gap years slow students’ trajectories—they throw them off course.”

  “What if you’ve no clue as to what course you should be on? Wouldn’t a gap year be incredibly useful in that respect? Sometimes people aren’t fully baked—they need a bit more time in the oven, you know?”

  I thought I’d be immune to the pressure here, but it’s starting to impact me, put me on edge, particularly now that I don’t have Owen’s calming influence. The pervasive anxiety in the atmosphere is making me more quick to escalate, prone to argue.

  I don’t like it; definitely not mindful.

  “Here’s what we suggest—take your ACTs, apply to college, and if you insist on a gap year, defer your acceptance.”

  What?

  “How is this a good idea?” And how could I select a college when I’m not even ready to pick a continent?

  “Beg your pardon?” He rests his elbows on the desk, steepling his fingers.

  “How does your strategy benefit anyone other than NSHS? Let’s say my applying would help maintain the college acceptance statistics, but how would that benefit me? If I’m uncertain about university, why in the bloody hell—sorry, heavens—would I make a commitment? That’s nonsensical. While I don’t want to be a pain, I have to ask—is this not ludicrous?”

  “You’re not understanding the bigger picture.”

  “Then please paint it for me,” I request. “I’m not trying to be difficult, I genuinely want to understand your point of view.”

  His foot taps out a frustrated beat beneath his desk. Suspect this conversation is not going well for either of us.

  “My point of view, Miss Chastain, is that 98 percent of our students go on to college right after high school. Our goal is 100 percent. If this were a bad idea, we wouldn’t be pushing it.”

  “Right, but what does it look like a year after this most excellent, well-bred 98 percent graduates? How do they progress in college? Is it smooth sailing? Do your alumni continue the patterns of success set up here or do they arrive at uni and just lose their minds after four years of such discipline? And doesn’t anyone want to be, say, an electrician or plumber instead? If that’s more their aptitude? Those are excellent jobs in Europe, highly respected. We’ll always have lightbulbs and toilets. Why is everyone so hell-bent on college here? Without, say, welders or masons, university buildings wouldn’t even exist.”

  Mr. Gorton is visibly uncomfortable. “Because of our rigorous standards, students establish the groundwork for success here. That’s our job and we do it well. How students use these tools after graduation is their responsibility.”

  So some do flame out from burning too hot in high school.

  Interesting.

  Kent believes a lot of the NSHS suicides are the result of students having too much academic pressure, and that makes me want to weep. There’s something profoundly wrong when kids feel like they have no other alternative when they don’t reach their goals.

  That is not okay.

  THAT IS NOT OKAY.

  I am on fire right now. “Mr. Gorton, I wholly disagree. The solution this school proposes is to work harder? Be more goal oriented? Have a keener focus? Aren’t we all still reeling from a terrible tragedy here? Wouldn’t everyone benefit from dialing down the heat a degree or two? Why is this school so intent on pushing people forward when a tiny break, a small reprieve, could be the one thing that makes a difference between life and death? I think that—”

  Before I can complete my thought, he starts talking, saying, “The other reason I wanted to speak with you is about your extracurricular activities. You’re dropping out of the newspaper? Terrible idea, you need this activity for your applications, it’s a must-have. Good colleges only admit students who are engaged, who demonstrate leadership positions. So why are you considering this impulsive and detrimental move?”

  I nod. “Artistic differences.”

  “Damn it, Miss Chastain, you’re seventeen years old, you have no right to claim artistic differences!” He bangs a fist on his desk, which takes us both by surprise. Cold coffee sloshes out of his cup and splashes onto the manila folder containing my information. He quickly extracts some Starbucks napkins from his drawer and sops up the spilled brew.

  Oh, no. I really have gotten under his skin. Before I can make it right, he beats me to an apology. “I’m so sorry, that was inappropriate. Please forgive me, we’ve all been on edge since what happened with Mr. DeRocher.”

  When Braden DeRocher stepped in front of the train that awful morning a few weeks ago, most people froze. Not me. I went dashing to the newspaper office to grab a proper camera. I ditched most of my morning classes to document what was happening. Nothing gristly, but I felt that this was a pivotal moment and it was my duty as a newspaper staffer to record everything.

  Choking back tears, I snapped shots of the rescue personnel and the emergency vehicles, of the forlorn sneaker by the side of the tracks, still white from being earmarked for back to school. I focused on the crowd of commuters, each one wearing a different expression, most of them in various stages of shock and disbelief, but a few who seemed almost relieved at the news that it wasn’t their kid. That their ticket wasn’t the one pulled.

  Over the next few days, I took shots of the grief counselors in their nubby jumpers, of the chalk drawings scrawled all over the school’s sidewalks, declaring the students’ love for ‘The Roach’—I guess that was his nickname. I captured images of the custodial staff going along after the students and collecting all the mementos they left at the ersatz memorials around his now-dented locker. I snapped THE ROACH spelled out with Solo cups inserted in the chain link fence around the back of the practice field and of the poster boards with their declarations of “hearting” him stuffed in the bins.

  Every single picture broke my heart but also told a story, one the school newspaper refused to report. My shots were summarily rejected so I tendered my resignation.

  In my opinion, we can’t go on pretending this didn’t happen; it’s unhealthy. I had no clue these tragedies occurred with such frequency here and I wanted to do something—anything—to make it stop. I
felt that pushing reality under the rug was the wrong call.

  Mr. Gorton uses one of the napkins to blot at either side of his mouth and he suddenly seems tired and beaten, far closer to fifty than thirty. “Let me explain something to you about the Werther Effect. Are you familiar?”

  I shake my head no.

  He sighs before he speaks, like he’s steeling himself for the explanation. “The Werther Effect is where others are inspired to imitate suicidal behavior after seeing it reported in the media.” He reaches into his desk and retrieves a pamphlet, then hands it to me.

  He says, “There’s such a prevailing belief that suicide is ‘contagious’ that the World Health Organization has set up specific guidelines for reporting on these stories. The overarching message is that of restraint. No sensationalism about the suicide. No prominent placement or explicit description. No particulars of the site where it happened. Actually, no use of the word suicide in the headline should be permitted. Definitely no footage of the scene, Miss Chastain. So, your pictures, regardless of the quality, of the ‘artistic intent,’ are inappropriate for so many reasons.”

  I begin to shrink in my chair, clutching the pamphlet, as he continues.

  “The media, including the school newspaper, has to do everything it can to avoid glorifying or romanticizing the notion of suicide to keep it from spreading.”

  I feel two inches tall. Why, why, WHY is my first impulse always the wrong one?

  “Did you notice how the memorials were removed after two days? There’s a solid rationale behind that—many of the students didn’t know Mr. DeRocher and seeing evidence of his suicide every day is jarring. Disconcerting. For those in mourning, encountering something about the deceased reopens that wound. We’re not trying to ‘cover up’ Mr. DeRocher’s death, nor is our intention to ‘censor’ you. I believe those were the words you used with your journalism advisor?”

  I sink lower into my seat. I want to spread open the pamphlet and cower behind it. If crawling under the chair were a possibility right now, I’d do it.

  He says, “We’re attempting to keep the emphasis off the story, because the more we focus on someone else’s suicide, the more it puts the option on the table for another student. Does this make sense to you, Miss Chastain?”

  Christ on a bike. I’m an arsehole. I came in here all self-righteous, spurred on by my nice chat with Liam, embracing my inner cowgirl, ready to take on the world. I was so convinced of being right, of needing to express myself as an artist, that it never occurred to me that my own actions could be detrimental.

  I say, “I... I sort of want to die now.”

  Mr. Gorton blanches.

  I quickly amend my statement. “I keep stepping in it, don’t I? Again and again.”

  He gives me a weary smile. “Happens to the best of us.”

  I clap my hands together. “Right, new plan. I’m going to find some ACT prep work and spend the next few weeks getting ready for this test. But first I’ll swing by the journalism room and apologize to Mr. Tompkins. I’m sorry, I’m so very sorry—I didn’t know. Does that cover everything in your file?”

  He glances down at his note. “It’s a start.”

  I can tell we’re not done talking, although we’re through with this particular conversation. This doesn’t mean I can’t take my gap year or that I have any clue as to what I’m meant to do as an adult. Nor does it mean he won’t try to convince me about how important college is. But for the moment, I want to meet him in the middle. I want him to have a win. How hard have the past few weeks been on him? Poor man. So if Mr. Gorton feels I should have the test in the bag in order to keep my options open, then I will.

  I mean, I was wrong—so unimaginably wrong—about the photos, so it’s possible that I don’t have every last bit figured out just yet.

  18

  MALLORY

  Well, that’s ironic, I think. My friends are all wasted, too. And I also hate this club party.

  Snakehips is blasting from the JasHole’s elaborate sound system. The components look like something out of NASA and the subwoofer’s the size of a coffee table. The heavy bass radiates up every vertebra in my spine. Anyone else would just play music on their phone with a couple of portable Bluetooth speakers, but not Jasper.

  Of course not Jasper.

  The crowd raises their glasses and sings along. Everyone, that is, except me. Not feeling it.

  You’d think that no one on a team would drink, given the consequences of being caught. NSHS has a zero-tolerance policy and if you’re found at a party where there’s liquor, boom, that’s it, your athletic career is over, no questions asked, do not pass go/do not collect two hundred dollars, even if you’re not imbibing yourself. Were this party to get busted, our entire men’s soccer, water polo, and lacrosse teams would be decimated, as would most of the women’s field hockey and cross-country teams. PS, shake a pom-pom goodbye at the entire spring sports cheerleading squad, save for Brooke, who’s only home because she had her wisdom teeth removed today.

  You’d imagine no one would take the risk, yet here we are.

  Really, though, it’s not like the cops would show up. Jasper’s house has a solid half mile of winding, brick-lined driveway from the ten-foot-tall iron gates out front and he’s stationed two freshmen from the soccer team to stand guard. Plus, this place sits on about six acres, set high on a cliff over the lake. His parents are out of the country and there are so many trees on either side of his property that you can’t even see the neighbors, let alone hear them.

  Although everyone in North Shore does well, Jasper’s folks are extra rich. Super rich. Fuck-you-rich. Lucky-sperm-club rich. If anything were to happen, his dad would be on the horn with his BFF (the governor, natch) and that would be it. Non-issue. Membership has its privileges. Plus, his family’s, like, beloved. They spend all their time flying around the globe, doing stuff like building wells for developing countries. But I wonder if Jasper would be less of a JasHole if they ever spent time any time here?

  I’ve been nursing the same vodka and diet cran since I got here. I’ve had, what, two sips? Mostly I’m just holding the glass so the JasHole’s not all, Mallory, why aren’t you partying?

  I’m so not into this.

  Noell, a midfielder on my team, comes up to me, throwing an arm around my neck. She’s so enthusiastic that she practically puts me in a chokehold. Her auburn hair is parted down the middle and coiled into two matching buns on top of her head. She smells like artificial peaches. I can’t tell if that’s from her body lotion or her gum. She starts singing right in my face and I can practically see down her throat. I wonder why her parents didn’t spring for the white porcelain fillings instead of the metal ones? Why buy your kid new boobs and then cheap out on her smile?

  Noell finishes her drink and tosses the empty cup over her shoulder. I’d be all, Were you raised in a barn? except that’s what everyone else is doing, too. Jasper’s house is trashed and I mean that literally. Bottles and cans litter the floors and there are random pizza boxes and McDonald’s bags everywhere. All this garbage can’t just be from tonight. How long have his parents been away?

  A framed, signed Stan Mikita hockey jersey hangs crooked on the wall and there’s stuffing coming out of one of the leather club chairs. The cabinet doors on the built-ins hang open, one of them off its hinges, with hundreds of DVDs and Xbox games spilling out across the floor. Looks like a Best Buy after a Black Friday riot.

  Unprotected discs are all over the place—on the carpet, stuck in the drywall, peeking out from beneath the pool table—although the bulk of them seem to have landed in the plastic basket that’s half-full of dirty(?) clothes, like a game of indoor ultimate Frisbee broke out at some point.

  For a moment, I wonder who’s going to put this place back together before his parents return from Prague. Then I remember the J
aspers of this world always have someone around to clean up their messes for them.

  Noell howls along to the song. Yeah, girl, you do drink too much and you are wasting your Friday night.

  I raise my Solo cup and pretend to take a sip before extricating myself from Noell’s monkey-grip. Satisfied with our interaction, she grand-jetés over to Spencer, the team goalie. Those two hop up onto a coffee table, where someone hands Noell a fresh glass of something orange. They begin waving their cups around as they dance and shout. Despite the freezing temps, they’re both in tiny tanks and miniskirts, their feet bare. I’m wearing leggings and a turtleneck and a sweater and Uggs and I’m still frigid. They begin to grind on each other, less because they’re bi, and more because they’re thirsty for attention.

  I can’t help but roll my eyes.

  A couple of water polo guys notice—both named Jasper—and start pitching cups at them. Spencer handily deflects each one without spilling a drop of her beer. Her quick reflexes are why we’re going to crush Naperville North next Wednesday.

  So there’s that.

  How can everyone cut loose right now? How are they ready to resume their normal lives? How are they not awake all night, every night, trying to figure out why Braden might have done it? He was friends with everyone here. How are they happy? How is that possible? He’s gone. And it’s only been a few weeks. They’re just doing keg-stands and pounding shots and dancing on tables, like nothing happened.

  How are they not consumed with regret?

  Regret for not having seen the signs.

  Regret for not being a better listener.

  Regret for being too much of a chicken-shit, for getting so wrapped up in appearances, for wanting to make hashtag BarbieandKen happen so badly that I never indicated that his crush was reciprocal.

  Goddamn it.

  Maybe vodka is the answer.

  I take another drink but can’t even enjoy it because I didn’t budget for the calories and I’m too tired to do extra crunches when I get home.