The hot girl, ostensibly Noell, photobombs our Snap by lifting her shirt and flashing Stephen her paean to plastic surgery.
“Woo! This is an epic night, see you soon! DJ Wonderbread out!”
With that, he stuffs his phone in his pocket while Noell climbs onto him piggyback-style. “Can you carry me upstairs like this?” she asks, breathing heavily into his ear.
I’ve never seen Kent hoist anything heavier than a textbook, but I have a feeling he’s going to soldier through. They run off.
Liam suggests we get some air. I don’t know if this is code for something else, but I’m game to find out.
Wait, am I interpreting this wrong, too? I so misread Owen’s signs. Argh. He’s still icing me out, so I’m listening to Mum and giving him a wide berth. Kent made the point that you can do only so much for people who steadfastly refuse your help. At some point, you let go for your own sanity. So I guess I’m free and clear to join him outside.
Liam leads me through a maze of perfectly appointed rooms until we reach the kitchen. He takes a fancy blue bottle of sparkling water from the fridge and we head out to the patio, where we grab a couple of padded metal lawn chairs overlooking the pool.
The music from the party seems to have followed us. I look around for the source of the sound and discover that the large, decorative rocks out here are actually speakers. So posh! The Weeknd’s “Can’t Feel My Face” plays as we settle in.
...be beautiful...
The water in the pool must be heated, because great swaths of steam are wafting from it. The mist envelops the whole patio in a dreamy haze. In the distance, I can almost make out the lake at the bottom of the bluff. I bet if we walked closer to the edge, we could hear the water lapping against the shoreline. Who knew a lake could have waves? The air has a nip to it, so we each wrap up in the plush green-and-white-striped towels that are stacked in a ginormous terrycloth pyramid inside the pool’s cabana.
“So...” Liam begins. “What’s next?” His speech is slowing and his eyes are becoming a bit glassy. Whatever he’s taken must be strong. Hope it’s helping what ails him.
“What’s next tonight? What’s next tomorrow? What’s next for the rest of my life?” I ask. I stick my feet under the towel because my toes are ten little ice cubes. “Please be more specific here. For example, tonight, I’m going to go home, eat all the hummus in the fridge—doesn’t that sound amazing? I’m famished! Then, off to bed in footed pajamas with my dog. Tomorrow I’m prepping more for the ACTs and I also need to order a birthday present.”
Stephen’s turning eighteen in a couple of weeks. I’ve already made him a tooled leather necklace with a Tuareg amulet on the end, which tribe fathers used to give to their sons for protection. The amulets were meant to guide these young men in times of confusion. Could there be a more apt description of senior year? I’m also buying him a version of the black Compton hat that Eazy-E made famous. Only, instead of Compton, I’ll ask the designer to spell out North Shore in Gothic calligraphy. I figure his mum couldn’t possibly protest that and I’m sure he’ll love it.
I conclude, “For the rest of my life? Don’t know. That’s wide open. We’ll see where the road takes me.”
“What’s that like?” he asks. He sounds wistful.
...can’t feel...
“What’d you mean, then?” I reply. I sound far more English when I’m drinking.
He scrubs at his eyes with the heels of his hands. “To not have every second of your life mapped out for you. I’ve been on the same course since I was ten. Ten. Like with the soccer? Soccer wasn’t even my favorite sport, I wanted to swim. But I wasn’t fast enough.”
“For what?” I ask. “For sharks? You look to be in one piece.”
He offers me a wry smile. “Fast enough for my dad. Fast enough to be the star of the swim team, I guess. Everyone said, ‘Oh, Liam’s so great at soccer, that’s his sport.’ Didn’t have a choice. I was forced into it. Around here, you’re put into a track when you’re too young to know enough to say, ‘Nope, not into that.’ Then you’re, like, swept up, moved along. You can’t go against the tide of what someone else decides should be your life. ‘Play soccer, Liam.’ ‘Class President would look great on your transcript, Liam.’ ‘Make sure they elect you Homecoming King, Liam.’ So now I’m here and I’m doing everything everyone expects of me. Like it or not, I’m the one the team is counting on to bring us the W. Which stands for win.”
“Which stands for win,” I repeat, because I’m not sure what else to say.
...with you...
“Then next year, I’m probably off to Princeton.”
“Amazing,” I reply. I know the Ivy League is the holy grail for the Knights.
“Not amazing. New Jersey is cold. Real fucking cold. Cold as Illinois. I want to go to college somewhere warm. Studying outside in January? Getting a tan? That appeals. University of Arizona, UCLA, Gainesville, someplace like that. But I don’t have a choice. At what point do I get to be in charge? When can I call the shots? When am I allowed to finally steer this ship?” More to himself than to me, he adds, “They act like I’m going to lose control and crash into the rocks. So what if I did? What then?”
Before I can answer, the door from the kitchen bangs open and something pasty-white whizzes past us. We hear a Tarzan-type yell, followed by a huge splash. A brief-clad Kent has launched himself off the diving board into the pool, with a half-dressed Noell on his heels. She shouts, “Tunaverse!” before she hits the water. Another girl runs up behind them and hops in, too.
Liam looks at them and then looks at me. “Fuck it. I can’t control the future but I can still swim if I want.” He rises from his chair, a bit unsteadily, and pulls off his T-shirt and hoodie in one fluid motion before dropping his pants.
Blimey.
He has those cut oblique muscles on either side of his stomach, a la David Beckham. I love those. A lot. My hand takes on a mind of its own, reaching in the direction of his abs. Before I can connect, he begins to sprint away. Pity.
Over his shoulder, he calls, “Last one in’s a rotten egg.”
What else can I do?
I strip down to my camisole and knickers and I’m in the pool, too.
The whole party moves outdoors and everyone starts jumping into the warm water, some of them fully clothed, and some of them completely bare-assed. (Maybe that’s just Jasper?) We chicken fight and relay race. We play round after round of Marco Polo before we collectively decide we’re freezing and head inside.
Liam and I never finish our conversation, but maybe splashing is more therapeutic than talking. His medicine knocks him out fast once we’re back inside and when Kent and I leave, he’s snoring on the couch in the living room. He looks to be at peace.
We practically jog home because we’re both in damp underwear and chilled to the bone. Kent is suddenly grateful to his loathsome tennis sweater. We live close, so we don’t have much time to download, save for him repeating over and over that this was the greatest night of his life.
Only after I’m snuggled under my duvet with a bully puppy do I realize Stephen never showed.
What was he was doing instead?
23
MALLORY
“Can’t you at least pretend to be happy?”
I say this through gritted teeth. For everyone watching me in the stands, I’m beaming, radiating joy, but that’s just on the surface. Inside, I’m a mess.
In a fit of serious passy-assy, last year’s queen jammed the bobby pins directly into my skull as she was adjusting my crown. (Like it’s my fault Kaya gained the Freshman Fifteen at Oberlin?) Instead of responding, I just smiled and waved, like I was a good little Miss America contestant or something.
No one ever considers how the pageant winner holds it together when all of the also-rans smear her face wit
h their lipstick in the final thirty seconds of the telecast. She’s forced to stand there with her bouquet, trying not to cry off her fake lashes, feigning delight when the runners-up give her the kind of intentionally violent congratulatory kisses that wreck her ’do and dislodge her tiara.
In this scenario, the losing contestants return to their Atlantic City hotel rooms and order, like, fifteen pizzas, while the winner’s obligated to spend the next year under the constant public scrutiny to not gain an ounce, lest she wind up on the cover of People for porking out.
Some prize.
Liam replies through his own clenched teeth. “Why does it matter if I look happy? Wasn’t this all about you anyway?”
I blow a kiss to the crowd. Under my breath, I reply, “These pictures will be in the Round Table, in the yearbook, probably in the Herald and on North Shore Daily. Please pretend you’re grateful.”
And most definitely pinned and featured prominently on my mother’s Facebook timeline, with the caption “She gets it from me, of course!” Maybe she’ll even snap a selfie later wearing my crown.
By “maybe,” I mean “absolutely.”
Liam finally plasters on a fake grin. When I glance up at him, I notice his eyes are bloodshot. “Better?” he asks.
Flashes go off all around us. For a minute, I feel like we’re on the step-and-repeat at some glamorous Hollywood event, instead of standing on the fifty-yard line during halftime at Homecoming.
“Yes. Was that really so difficult?”
He gives an almost imperceptible shake of his head. “You have no idea.”
Why are we talking to each other like this? Why is this suddenly hard?
Being with Liam was never supposed to be challenging. Liam is meant to be my respite, my safe space. In theory, anyway. Really, we’ve been together more out of habit than anything else for the past few months. Something between us changed over the summer.
I wonder if we’re not getting along because, in some small way, I used him to bring me here, to this moment, to stand on this dais in this crown?
If that’s factual, then I don’t feel good about the win for so many reasons.
Truth?
I needed to ride Liam’s coattails. I couldn’t be elected Homecoming Queen on my own; I’d only win if I were part of a package deal, like with Junior Prom. Even my mom knows that. (In fact, she likes to tell me so. Often.) I mean, Liam is a demigod here. Mr. All-Around. Class President, star of the soccer team, and within three tenths of a point of making valedictorian. (Why did he opt for Honors Humanities and not AP? WHY? The weight in those grades would have made all the difference. I asked him, “Did you want to hand off the graduation speech to Sri Kapur?”)
Or maybe I just felt like I needed some of his light reflecting back on me.
Liam’s the one who’s the full package, not me. I’m a pale substitute, an also-ran. Everyone loves him, from the underprivileged kids he coaches during the off-season to the hair-netted lunchroom ladies. The old gal with the unfortunate birthmark saves the biggest slice of pizza for him every week! He even says hi to freshmen in the hallways, not because he has to, but because he wants to. He learns people’s names on purpose. He exudes goodness.
Everything I’ve sacrificed, everything I’ve worked for has led up to this moment and he and I are finally here, experiencing our (literal) crowning achievement. Instead of feeling amazing, like I finally reached that mountaintop, like everything will be easier from here on out, my sole emotion is rage.
I want to punch Liam right in his Prince Charming square jaw.
I want to knock his canted incisor back into place with my clenched fist.
Did he think I wouldn’t hear about how thirsty he was for Simone Chastain after I left Jasper’s? Trust me, I heard. He didn’t cross the line with her, but still. Everyone was stoked to fill me in on exactly how cozy they looked. At least I didn’t see all the hashtag troubleinparadise Instagrams until after I submitted my essay that night. That’s something, I guess.
What makes me feel like the worst person in the world is that I don’t care that much about losing Liam.
Not anymore.
I’m more concerned about losing face—I feel like that’s all I have left.
This is a legit crisis. I wonder, could I fend off the pending catastrophe that is our inevitable breakup? What if I went all Olivia Pope? You know, Team Proactive instead of Team Reactive? Got ahead of the story? What if I dumped Liam and not vice-versa? Would it be weird next year at Princeton to not have him as my boyfriend? I’d be on my own, but maybe that’s not a bad thing.
The applause has died down and we hold hands out of habit as Principal Gottfried escorts us off the field. As we walk past, people yell stuff like, “We love you, Liam!” and “Way to go, buddy!” and “All hail King Liam!”
No one calls my name.
With a few final waves to the crowd, the principal peels away from us to make more announcements before the second half begins. Then we’re out of the spotlight and under the bleachers, alone in the hallway by the team’s locker room.
If I’m going to be the one to end this, I should probably do it soon.
Question, though—if I’m ready to lose him like a bad habit, why do I feel like all the wind’s been knocked out of me?
Am I being impulsive? Am I overreacting out of jealousy? Am I playing it off like I don’t care to self-protect? Am I pissed because no one ever comments how cozy he and I are together anymore? Am I just a thousand percent more scattered now because of Braden?
If I’m being honest?
Yes, yes, yes, yes, and yes.
Of course, I could try to make us work again. We were perfect together once. We were hashtag BarbieandKen. Liam made me laugh and I gave him focus. We balanced each other. I helped him reach his true potential and I feel like he made me more approachable. He could talk to me about how his dad was so hard on him and I understood because of my mom. He’d come over so stressed-out, and after an epic hang, he’d be relaxed again, more like himself, and I’d feel better, too.
What if I’m looking at this wrong? Liam was my first love. Liam was my first. He says I was his, too, but let’s be realistic. I mean, (a) girls have been up in his grill since sixth grade, and (b) soccer camp was co-ed. Was he really a monk up there in the north woods of Wisconsin all those summers with athletic girls in tiny shorts and sweaty tank tops? In retrospect, doubtful. Also, he has too many moves for me to be his first-round draft choice. He’s all-pro, none of this amateur business. Like...the internet can only teach you so much. He’s had hands-on training.
Maybe I should just say that I’m sorry for how weird it’s been. How weird I’ve been. Recommit to us. This fall has been hard, so damn hard, and no one is himself or herself right now.
Instead of falling apart, we should come together. Be there for each other. Make MaLiam Great Again.
Like old times.
Before I can say anything, Liam pulls a prescription bottle out of his sport coat’s pocket and shoves a couple of tablets in his mouth.
“Wait, are you sick?”
Would a better girlfriend even have to ask? Wouldn’t she know?
I’ve never seen him take anything stronger than a gummy vite, yet here he is, swallowing pills dry, like he’s a junkie on The Wire or something. Seriously, I didn’t even realize someone could take meds without liquid; I thought that was just a television device when the director doesn’t want to break the flow of the scene by forcing the character to locate a water fountain. This is brand-new and seriously concerning.
A while back, Theo mentioned some teammates were self-medicating with opioids because they thought being immune to pain made them play harder. This shocked me but I’m not sure why. Everyone up here has a script for something. The few of us who aren’t diagnosed ADHD have been known to
borrow an Adderall or two during midterms; it’s what you do to get through. But messing with opioids? That’s kind of hardcore.
“Where do they even get them?” I asked.
“Are you kidding?” Theo replied. “Way easier to steal pills than alcohol. Everybody’s parents have Oxy or Vicodin sitting around in their bathroom. They lock the liquor cabinet, but the medicine cabinet? That’s wiiiiide open. Check out Mom and Dad’s bathroom if you don’t believe me.”
I peeked and he was right—there was a shelf full of stuff left over from when Mom had her tummy tuck...her cheek implants...her lipo. (I could go on, but you get the picture.)
Theo explained, “What’s scary is they start looking for the same high elsewhere when they can’t get more opioids. If they can’t score more from home, they go to Jasper. If he’s not holding, they head a few miles up the road for heroin, which is basically the same thing, but not controlled by the FDA. You know you can get it in pill form now?”
“What?” Again, shocker.
“Yeah, it’s true. North Shore kids won’t go near a needle because it’s low-class, but they will swallow, smoke, or snort shit all day long.”
I made Theo promise me he wouldn’t take anything. Then, for everyone’s protection, I told Dad I’d heard all about the opioid/opiate connection in an Organic Chemistry lecture. I suggested he lock our meds in the safe. I mean, I trust Theo, but his friends don’t always make wise decisions.
Obviously.
I can feel a lump forming in my throat.
Oh, please tell me Liam isn’t doing this now. Please tell me I haven’t been so self-involved that I missed the signs.
Damn it, I have, haven’t I?
When did he originally hurt his ACL? Right before school started? We’d already begun to grow apart, but then he started skipping stair sessions with me and the rift between us deepened. The timeline of us falling apart makes so much sense now. How could I have been so stupid?
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