I ask him, “Are you flirting with me, Kent?”
His reticent grin is heartbreakingly sincere. “I don’t have that kind of confidence, Mallory. But thank you for thinking I have game.”
Hold on, what if his saying he has no game is actually the ultimate amount of game? Did he somehow just Tom Sawyer–me into painting his fence?
Before I can ponder further, Kent strains to look out the window as we hit the intersection on Elkpath Road. “Wait. Here. Pull over here, I see something.”
I’m not even parked when he flies out of the passenger seat, practically tucking and rolling. I take off after him, in the direction of the railroad crossing.
Simone is here, I see her now, too.
Oh, no.
fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
Simone is standing by the tracks, a smallish, fattish dog at her side, facing the north. There’s a train about a mile away that should be here within the next minute or two. Her head’s down and the slope of her shoulders reads as despondent. She emanates sadness, radiates hopelessness.
My mind races with the possibilities of her intentions, all of them grim. Kent’s already running toward her, but he’s slower than I am. I sprint alongside and quickly overpass him.
I reach Simone first.
In one fell swoop, I grab Simone and wrestle her down the embankment, away from the clear and present danger of the oncoming train. Her tubby dog is rolling along behind us on the other end of his leash, profoundly confused as to what’s just happened, yet utterly delighted.
When we reach the bottom of the hill, I throw my whole self on top of her to make sure she can’t move and Kent leaps on top of both of us. He knocks the wind out of me. Somehow I assumed he’d be light as balsawood, but he has a surprising amount of ballast, like there might be some actual muscle under his jacket. He grips both of us firmly, pressing our bodies into the grass. Adrenaline courses through my system and my face is streaked with terror sweat, but something in me causes me to turn to Kent and say, “Worst threesome ever.”
My God, he’s right. I do have a twisted sense of humor.
When he laughs, he loses his grip on Simone and she struggles free partway, so I lunge and grab her legs, bringing her down again as the Metra continues to hurtle toward us.
“What in the bloody hell are you lunatics doing?” she sputters loudly, over the clatter of the oncoming train.
“We’re gatekeeping you,” I reply, putting her in a headlock and practically dragging her up the embankment in the direction of my car.
Kent grabs the leash and he and the dog trot along behind us, as we place valuable space between us and the tracks. He tells her, “You’re not jumping today.”
Simone wriggles out of my clutches and begins to pick stray leaves off herself before brushing at the dog’s sweater. “Christ on a bike, what’s wrong with both of you? I wasn’t going to leap.”
“Sure looked like it,” Kent replies. He’s bent in half, leash looped over his wrist, with both hands on his knees, panting hard. I should probably have him run stairs with me some time. I feel like that would benefit his cardiovascular system, and as his new friend, I’m obligated to look out for him, to gatekeep him in some respect.
“I wasn’t jumping,” she insists.
“Sure seemed like it,” Kent says, still gasping for air.
Yes. Cardio. Definitely.
“He’s right,” I agree.
She says, “No, no, I heard the train coming, so I figured I’d just wait for it to pass, be better safe than sorry.”
“Uh-huh, then what were you doing right by the tracks?” I ask, still completely dubious.
She looks back at the spot where she’d been moments before. “I was reflecting.”
“Reflecting?” Kent asks.
“I was standing here thinking about Stephen, wondering what must have been going through his head that afternoon.” She fishes a twig out of her hair and looks at it for a couple of seconds before letting it drop to the ground. “How much pain he must have been in to feel that taking his life was his only option. That there was no joy, no tomorrow to look forward to, no eventual happy ending. I hate that he felt he had nothing worth living for. I hate that he wanted it all to stop. I hate that I’ll never see his huge grin again.”
Her words are like a kick in the stomach.
“I miss him all day, every day,” Kent says. “You know how many times I pick up my phone and start to text him before I remember, nope, not an option anymore. Then I get mad at him, like, ‘Why’d you leave me here to deal with all this shit on my own?’ We always figured everything out as a pair, you know? We were a team, better together, like Eric B. and Rakim on Paid in Full or Kanye and anyone. I can’t do MIT without him. Like, I really don’t even know how I’ll do any college without him. And then I get mad at myself for being pissed at him. It’s this whole shame spiral.”
My thoughts bounce back and forth between Braden and Stephen. The only difference is I actually did text Braden after he was gone. And then I’d sit there, waiting for those ellipses to appear, but they never did.
Braden was kind of a throwback, though, the only person I knew who preferred email over text. People who expressed themselves with slices of pizza and taxi emojis made him seethe. That’s why he used to say “heart” this and “heart” that; he was mocking the reliance on emojis. Used to say that one day, our generation would speak entirely in hieroglyphics.
That’s why I can’t stop stalking his log-in.
Had he any final words, I feel like he would have emailed Theo or me. Or maybe he had his own version of corresponding with those who’d passed, perhaps confessing in an email Macey would never read.
“Do you wonder if Stephen’s somewhere on the other side, looking down on us, saying, ‘What if my life wasn’t so bad after all?’ Like he regrets his actions? Like if he had another shot, he’d make a different choice?” Kent asks.
“Kent, no. Don’t go there. You’ll never get passed it if you let your mind go there,” I tell him.
Trust me, I know.
“We can’t change what’s happened,” I say. “Our only choice is to be cognizant and present and alert. Our choice is to be there for each other. And if that means I accidentally wrestle someone down a hill while trying to help, so be it.”
Simone says, “Standing there in that daze, I realized exactly how much I appreciate the gift of life. How it’s far too precious to ever squander. I finally accept why my parents were so insistent on keeping me safe, on keeping Liam away. They already knew what I’ve just now figured out.”
“So you’re okay,” Kent confirms. He makes tentative patting motions up and down her arms and shoulders, like he’s conducting a half-assed security line search at the airport. “You’re telling me that you can deal, that you are okay.”
“Okay is a relative term, but, yes, I’m okay,” she replies.
“All is well, you’re not going to snap?” he says.
“Yes, I’m well, Kent.”
“You’re sure about that?” he demands.
“Profoundly sure.”
He shouts, “Then why the fuck did you not return my texts?”
She replies, “Because it’s dangerous to text and walk.”
Which isn’t funny.
Nothing about this day or week or month or semester is funny, but for some reason, this response makes Kent laugh. Then I join in. Then Simone starts in, too, and our laughter is like a burning ember touching down in a field of dry brush; it just ignites everything.
I guess we all have twisted senses of humor.
We stand here hooting and cackling until we practically lose our breath. The train rushing by is what finally sobers us up. We watch in sudden silence as all the cars fly past, each window a cozily lit vignette of a subur
ban mom or dad coming home to their green oasis, their little slice of paradise by the lake after a long day of work in the city.
“We have to talk to Liam’s parents, though,” Simone says. “They have to know what he’s doing now.”
We return to the warmth of my car, with Kent and me in the front and Simone and her dog in the back. We sit here on the side of the road, hazard lights blinking out a steady beat, as she tells us everything.
“They won’t listen to you,” I say. “Mr. and Mrs. Avery—they’re not going to believe you. They don’t know you and it sounds like they definitely don’t trust and/or like you. Jasper tried to talk to them, too, but I’m not sure how credible he is—they probably just assumed he was trying to deflect some of the trouble off himself. You’d be wasting your time going over to see his folks, setting yourself up for failure.”
“If we’re Gatekeepers, don’t we have to try?” Kent asks.
“Yes, absolutely,” I say. “Not Simone, though, it has to be me. Let’s get you both home and then I’ll take care of this.”
“No, I’m coming with you,” Kent insists. “No arguments.”
Before we can go anywhere, my phone rings and Theo’s picture flashes across my screen. “I should answer. They might have found Liam.”
By the time I hang up, I feel like someone’s taken a baseball bat to my soul. Despite the heated seat and steering wheel, and the thermostat being set on seventy-eight degrees, my entire body has turned to ice.
I didn’t put the conversation on speaker, so Simone and Kent only catch half the conversation. They hear “Liam” and “car accident” and “ambulance” but they’ve wildly misinterpreted the information.
Simone is sobbing in the backseat, her head in her hands. Her chubby dog keeps trying to comfort her, nudging her and placing his paws on her shoulders, but to no avail. “No, no, no, not Liam,” she cries.
“Liam is okay,” I say, turning to face her, my heart a stone in my chest. “Simone, do you copy? Liam is okay. Jasper found him by the bluff. Then he wrestled him into the car because he was going to take him back to Liam’s house. They were arguing and Jasper lost control of his Navigator out on Plymouth Rock Road. They...went over the guardrail into the ravine. Liam was thrown out of the car but he walked away. Simone, he was able to walk away.”
“Oh, thank God,” Simone exhales. “He was so lucky.”
“What about Jasper?” Kent says. “Mallory, what about Jasper?”
I grab Kent, clinging to him and whispering into his coat, “Not so lucky.”
Socialite and Philanthropist Vanessa Gates Stuns in Her Valentino Original at the Met Gala.
All eyes were on Vanessa Gates last night when she arrived at the Met Gala. In an astoundingly beautiful micro-pleated gown made of silk and jersey, Gates was reminiscent of a Greek goddess, her star neatly eclipsing every celebrity in the room.
40
OWEN
The doctors say it will take a miracle for Jasper to survive.
Good thing I believe in miracles.
Right now, his team of physicians are pulling him out of a medically induced coma. We’re told this was the last resort to decrease cranial pressure. He’s been under for three days. After the docs bring him out of it, they’ll have a better idea about the extent of brain damage.
Jasper can’t have brain damage. He can’t. That’s not fair. He was doing the right thing; he shouldn’t have been the one to get hurt. He wasn’t always the best dude, but he’s come around. He fixed his own karma; he doesn’t need the universe doing it for him.
The Gatekeepers have taken shifts holding vigil in the hospital’s waiting area after school ever since the accident. But today’s real important, so we’re here in full force. Mr. Gorton’s joined us, too.
Well, we’re all here except for Simone, who’s at home packing, and Liam. His parents admitted him to a rehab facility the night of the accident. Mallory’s worried that his folks put him there less because they admit he has a problem and more to cover their own asses, as he’s still a minor and they’re liable.
I say his family’s reasons don’t matter, as long as he’s getting some help. On top of the addiction, he’s going to have to deal with almost killing his best friend. If the car hadn’t landed exactly where it did in relation to that old oak, it would have kept tumbling all the way down. Jasper would have died on impact.
I’m just real grateful that the accident happened when his folks were home. They were supposed to leave the next morning for Bali. If Jasper has any semblance of a normal life after this, it’s because his family brought in rock-star type physicians from around the world.
I’d never met his mom, but I’ve seen her in tons of magazines. She’s usually, like, covered in diamonds, hanging out on yachts with dukes and princesses and sheiks when she’s not doing her charity stuff. But right now, she’s here in the same NSHS sweatshirt someone handed her at the accident scene three days ago, insisting everyone call her by her first name. She hasn’t left the hospital at all, not even to shower or brush her teeth. Asked us all to call her Vanessa, too, not Mrs. Gates, and keeps telling us she’s real touched that so many of us care.
I told her what Euripides once said—“Friends show their love in times of trouble, not happiness.”
Because Jasper’s in the ICU, his family can only visit with him for a few minutes every hour. She seems to want people to talk to her, so I’ve been telling her about my Gatekeepers documentary. She suggested I interview the other kids while we wait, said no matter what happened, I’d want a record of this.
That was very cool of her. Who even thinks about others at a time like this?
Yesterday, I shot footage of different Gatekeepers telling me what nickname Jasper had given then. I cut them all together last night to show his mom when I got here today. She liked it a lot, even showed a hint of a smile.
Mr. Gates (who does not share his wife’s love of informality) has been here the whole time, too. He’s mostly been on the phone. Lemme just say this—from the sounds of these calls, I would not want to be an Avery right now. Suspect Jasper’s dad did not amass his impossible fortune by being Mr. Nice Guy.
Regardless of their individual approaches, his parents are rallying around him. If anything good comes of this, it’s that. I know that more than anyone.
Jasper’s mom and dad are in with him now, watching the doctors bring him out of the coma. We’re told that even if his brain recovers, he has a long road to recovery, lots of surgeries ahead, between the broken bones and internal injuries.
So, we’re all sitting here, real nervous.
Mallory’s friend Elise approaches me. I met her a few times back when my parents hung out with Mal’s. (I think their moms were in college together or something.) I never really talked to her before the Gatekeepers, though. Honestly, didn’t even recognize her at first. She used to look like every other girl up here, like Mallory’s clone, but now she’s more interesting. She’s sort of Goth now, with her hair dyed dark, a few piercings, and some ink. She strikes me as the kind of person who wouldn’t be personally invested in Gigi Hadid’s dating life.
“Hey, Owen, I heard you wanted to interview me? Can we do it now? Otherwise we’re just going to be sitting here freaking out as we wait.”
Sounds like as good a plan as any.
I say, “Do you wanna grab your coat? I’ve been doing most of the interviews outside. Unless it’s too cold for you?”
“Actually, that sounds perfect. I’m so ready to get away from all this recirculated air,” she says. “Makes me feel suffocated.”
Huh. “Hey, do the fluorescent lights, like...zap all your energy?” I ask.
“Ugh. So much.”
Thought I was the only person who felt that way.
“Sorry it’s not nicer out. Yesterday w
as better, a lot sunnier,” I say, gathering up my filming gear. “Today I’ll definitely need my 5-in-1 reflector to get rid of shadows.”
Without even asking, she grabs one of my cases so I don’t have to hump it all out myself. “I like the gray skies. Being able to see my breath while we talk all seriously will add an interesting element. Good visual. Whatever I say would have less gravity on a warm, sunny day, right?”
“Actually, yes.”
“Today kind of makes me think of this one scene in Michael Moore’s documentary Roger and Me. You familiar with the bunny lady?”
I shake my head. I sort of miss the beads on the ends of my dreads, but they pulled on my scalp and eventually gave me too much of a headache. I took ’em out last month. “No. And Moore’s a great filmmaker, how’d I miss that?”
“Probably because you weren’t born. That was his first. Find it on Netflix. Anyway, Moore’s interviewing this ex-auto worker about her life now that the GM plant’s closed. For most of the interview, we see the lady tending to these fluffy rabbits. She’s real upbeat and the bunnies are super cute, with their fuzzy ears and twitchy noses. Then we cut to a scene where it’s colder and darker and her hopes haven’t materialized. With weather alone, you get the feeling that her life’s devolved. The scene ends with her butchering a rabbit on a weathered old picnic table because that’s what’s for dinner now that the assembly plant is gone. I mean, she’s eating her pets. She doesn’t have to say her life is a shit sandwich because of GM. Instead, Moore shows it.”
“I hate it. But I also kinda love it,” I say.
“Right?” Elise dons her jacket. “Shall we roll?”
* * *
After we’re set up on a bench outside, I give Elise my first prompt. “Describe North Shore for me.”
She scrunches up her forehead as she considers. “Hmm. I guess I’d say that North Shore is a beautiful façade, held together with duct tape and Crazy Glue.”
Dark. But accurate. I nod, encouraging her to elaborate. I like how quickly she gets real.
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