The Gatekeepers

by Jen Lancaster

  “That’s what Gatekeepers do,” I tell him, adding, “and that’s what friends do.”

  He says, “If you need anything, if there’s anything hard that you can’t do on your own, you tell me, okay? I’ll be there for you.”

  I dismiss his offer with an, “I’m fine, I’m good.”

  And then I realize what I’m saying.

  “Actually, I’m not fine. I’m still far from good. Do you mind coming back to my house with me? There’s something I have to do and I could really use a friend.”

  * * *

  “Is this weird?” I ask. I have Braden’s North Shore email log-in pulled up on my laptop. Kent is sitting next to me on my bed for moral support.

  “Obsessing about hacking into your dead friend’s email? No, what could be weird about that?” Kent replies.

  I stiffen next to him. This was a mistake.

  He sees that I’m upset and quickly changes his tune. “Mallory, no, bad joke. Sorry. I totally understand you. I do. You feel like this is your last chance for answers, like there’s some kind of golden ticket in his email.”

  “Basically, yes. And if I screw up his password one more time, I’ll never get in. I’ll never know if there was something else, one last thought, one final word. He said he was going to email me, but I never got it. Not knowing if that letter’s stuck in Draft will haunt me.”

  Kent’s leaning against my headboard, but I’m completely rigid, so tense right now, so tightly wound that I might snap in two.

  He says, “From Owen we know that there was a lot of shit in Braden’s life that he never talked about. It’s really sad, but we do have a better understanding of why he might have felt bereft. Still...you’re hoping to find a new clue, right? A breadcrumb of sorts?”

  I nod.

  He asks me, “In a perfect world, what would you wanna know?”

  I tell him, “In a perfect world, I’d like confirmation that he felt the same way about me that I did about him. Because he never told me. Why couldn’t he ever tell me?”

  “Um, duh.”

  “What do you mean, ‘duh’? And who says ‘duh’? What are you, nine?”

  “No, ‘duh’ is reserved for when someone says something that’s a mile past dumb and a tenth of a mile before moronic. So lemme break it down for you—you are Hot Mallory and until he grew into his looks the summer after eighth grade, Braden was a big tool. Like, huge tool. You didn’t know him, he went to a different junior high than us. But I met him in grade school. We were buds. We went to astronomy camp together, and trust me, we tools? We can smell our own.”

  “He was never a tool,” I seethe, anxious to defend his honor.

  “Girl, please. The puns, Mallory? Only someone handsome like Braden could get away with puns. Save for limericks, puns are the lowest form of humor. And speaking in emojis? The girls’ hats? The weird cartoon backpacks? All that stuff comes across super cool when you look like Channing Tatum. When you don’t? Not so much.”

  “I never thought of it that way,” I admit.

  “Lemme ask you something—if you cared about him and he was into you, what’s with all the Romeo and Juliet business? Like, hook up already. What was the problem? It’s not like you were going anywhere permanent with Liam.”

  “Oh, poor Liam. Has Simone heard from him?” I ask. “Does she even want to?”

  “Nope, he’s still in lockdown in rehab, and she won’t admit it, but I’m sure she does want to, because she’s a mile past dumb and veering close to Moron City Limits, too. PS, you changed the subject.”

  “Guilty.”

  “Then what is it you want me to do?” he asks.

  “Do you know any password hacking programs?”

  “I’m sure I could find one on the dark web. Do you have any bitcoin?”

  “I’m sorry, could you repeat that? I don’t speak geek.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Before we go to that kind of trouble, why don’t you tell me the passwords you tried? Maybe we can figure it out if we put our heads together.”

  I show him my list of all the combinations, mostly pets’ names and combinations of football numbers.

  “You’re missing the most obvious one,” he says. “I can’t believe this wasn’t your first inclination. Here, gimme this.”

  I pass him my laptop and he taps in a phrase. “Wait! No! Don’t press enter yet! What if it’s wrong? What if we’re locked out forever?”

  “Then we find out if Schrödinger’s cat is dead and we move on with our lives. Mallory, I’m being serious here, do you trust me?”

  I hold my breath until I’m sure of my answer.

  With a whoosh and more than a little head-rush, I exhale. “I do.”

  “Then here we go.”

  He presses enter and the screen suddenly populates with all of Braden’s email.

  “Oh, my God! Oh, my God, Kent! You did it! You actually are a genius! I can’t believe you did it! Holy shit, how did you know? What did you do? What black magic did you work?” I have flown off the bed and I’m jumping all around my room.

  I can’t believe it. I cannot believe he figured it out so quickly.

  He shrugs. “Braden was a simple man with simple tastes. He felt how he felt, with very little pretense. So, what’s the most basic phrase? What’s simple to the point of obvious? What kind of thing would he say to himself over and over in the course of a day when he’d log in? What’s the one thing he’d never forget?”

  “If I knew, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. What was it?”

  “His password was...iheartmallory.”

  His password renders me incapable of speech. I needed a sign, a clue, a golden ticket.

  And now I’ll have it, always and forever.

  My initial moment of elation comes crashing to the ground as I realize what this means. I finally understand why Owen is always quoting Thomas Hobbes. He’s right; Hell really is the truth found out too late.

  Braden and I missed our chance. We both felt the same way and we missed our chance to see where it could have gone. We blew what might have been the greatest opportunity of our lives, and for what?

  What did we gain by not talking to each other, by not admitting everything? What did we win by sacrificing a future together? What if Theo actually supported our being together? We wanted to protect Theo... but what if he didn’t require our protection?

  Would having shared our feelings for each other have been enough to save him? To keep his demons at bay? To bring him around?

  Or would losing him have been so much worse if we’d been together?

  I can’t say.

  I wanted to know how he felt and now I do.

  Yet nothing has changed.

  I wonder, though, if I could change. Maybe that was the point of this whole exercise.

  Maybe this was Braden’s way of reaching out and gatekeeping me one last time, telling me not to let anything get in the way of whomever it is I should love.

  Kent asks, “So, what do we do here? Go through sent mails? You want to try the drafts folder first? How do we proceed?”

  I take my laptop from him and click it shut. “We don’t.”

  He scratches his head. “Wait, what? Why? That’s it? You’re done? What was the whole point of this exercise then?”

  I don’t know how to explain my epiphany to Kent, so instead I say, “The point was confirmation. Braden hearted me, Kent. He hearted me. And that’s enough.”

  * * *

  “Who was that?” my mother asks after she sees me saying goodnight to Kent at the door.

  “That was my friend Kent. We’re in Gatekeepers together? You’ve met him, like, three times already. And you saw him two days ago. You don’t remember?”

  “There’s nothing exceptiona
l about him so it didn’t register. And I’ve never heard of his parents. Wait, why is he here so much? Jesus, Mallory, you’re not seeing him, right? He’s not your rebound after Liam, yes? Please tell me you can do better than him.”

  Oh, my God.

  I get it now.

  I get why I was so reticent with Braden, the biggest reason why I was afraid to show him how I felt.

  It wasn’t Theo. It wasn’t Liam. It was my mother.

  My mom didn’t think he was good enough for me, didn’t think he’d help my star rise like Liam would.

  She didn’t care about my being with Liam because he was best for me. She wanted me to be with Liam because that was best for her.

  And I was the one who wasted everyone’s time trying to argue, trying to fight a battle I was destined to lose.

  The only way to win against her is not to play.

  Well, I’m done playing.

  43

  SIMONE

  Eight months later

  “Welcome back.”

  Mallory’s waiting for me in the arrivals area of Terminal Five at O’Hare, grinning like a lunatic as she holds up a sign that reads SIMONE AND WARHOL CHASTAIN.

  She sweeps me into a hug, practically crushing me. The ten pounds she’s groused about gaining must be all muscle because her arms feel like a couple of boa constrictors squeezing the air out of me.

  “I can’t breathe!” I protest.

  “You’re fine,” she admonishes. “Are you exhausted? What is it, eight hours on the way back or nine? I always forget. I still don’t understand why the flights are different amounts of time going and coming.”

  “Jet streams,” I explain.

  “Not a fan,” she replies.

  I peer at her neck. “You’re wearing it!”

  She touches the simple pearl strung onto the gold box chain that I designed for her. “Oh, honey, always. This is only my favorite thing ever.”

  “I’m so glad.”

  “My God, he’s a moose now,” she remarks, taking Warhol’s leash. “Much bigger than when I saw you at Spring Break.”

  My family returned to London not long after Jasper’s accident. But because of what we’d been through together, Mallory and I began to talk and discovered common ground. We quickly, inexplicably became tight and now she’s one of my dearest friends.

  I’ll admit it, I never saw that coming.

  What’s worse is that she and Cordy ADORE one another. Were thick as thieves when they met during Mal’s Spring Break. They’re going to team up on me, and soon. My shoe and trouser wardrobe will never be the same. I’m so afraid of what will happen when we’re all together at my mum’s book release party next spring.

  As we head to baggage claim, she asks, “On a scale of one to ten, exactly how full of shit are you, passing Porky off as an emotional support dog?”

  “Please,” I reply. “No higher than a seven. Eight tops. He’s a perfect gentleman, beautifully trained, a little prince, really. He’s not riding in the cargo hold like he’s a bit of luggage. The service dog route is the only way since he can’t exactly fit under the seat, can he? Of course, the larger lie is passing him off as a bulldog of the English variety and not the pit kind.”

  To bring Warhol to Britain, we had to lie regarding his pedigree. While I’m a huge proponent of honesty, there was no way on heaven or earth we were leaving him behind. Wasn’t happening. Fortunately, with his coloring and his underbite—and everyone’s willingness to not examine his papers too closely if it meant a Suri/Chastain homecoming—our ruse worked. Plus, Warhol’s a very lazy sort and he much prefers his short jaunts in the city than the wilds of suburbia, so it’s all worked out brilliantly.

  “You realize you finally sound British? I like it. Makes you sound smarter.”

  “Should make me sound politer, then, when I tell you to piss off, Mallory.”

  “It really does!” Mallory beams and gathers me in another crushing hug with her mighty pythons.

  “Are we swinging by the Center before tonight?” I ask. We’re meant to meet up with a group of Gatekeepers for dinner tonight, with the screening of Owen’s film tomorrow. My parents are coming for it, too, but not until the morning. The three of us are staying at the North Shore house, which has since been turned into an Airbnb.

  Mrs. Cho is less than pleased at this development.

  Oh, well.

  “Would you like to hit the Center now and not wait until tomorrow?” she asks.

  “Yes, so much! I’m dying to see it in person, plus I made a little something for Mr. Gorton.”

  I created small gold filigree pendants shaped liked gates specially for my friends in the Gatekeepers. Normally, I work less with precious metals and more with beads and stones and wood and sometimes even old bones, as my aesthetic trends toward big, bold statement pieces. But I’m learning every aspect of jewelry making during my new apprenticeship, so I’m becoming capable of intricate metalwork, too.

  Mallory laughs at me. “You’re allowed to call him Dave now. Everyone else does.”

  “Can’t. Too informal.”

  We climb into Mallory’s LR4 and half an hour later, we arrive in North Shore for a tour of the spanking new Gates Community Center.

  “This is a marvel,” I say.

  “Right?” Mallory replies. “Amazing what you can do when you match unlimited funds with steadfast purpose.”

  I’d seen only plans for the Center before now; the drawings didn’t do the place justice. While the structure itself is impressive, a smaller-scale model of North Shore High School fabricated to blend seamlessly into the surrounding neighborhood, what leaves me breathless is what the Center does.

  When NSHS banned the Gatekeepers from meeting on campus, I assumed the organization was finished, especially when Mr. Gorton quit his job in protest. All of that went down around the time we were returning to London. But due to the generosity of Jasper’s family, the Gatekeepers were able to continue to meet at an off-campus location Mr. and Mrs. Gates had leased, with Mr. Gorton hired on as the director.

  Jasper’s dad gave zero damns as to what the community/the other parents wanted and he funded and built the Center himself in record time.

  I guess he finally decided that charity needed to start at home.

  The Center opened last month and serves as a hangout spot for students to gather all day now, and once classes begin, after school and on weekends. They can engage in social activities and service initiatives, with unlimited access to counseling and mentoring. The Center will be offering outings and field trips and talent shows, all in a safe place that encourages collaboration, not competition, to honor the memory of everyone we lost and strengthen those still here.

  Mallory and I stroll the grounds with Warhol and Mr. Gorton...whom I still can’t call Dave. He’s not nearly as buttoned-up and slicked-back as he used to be, as evidenced by his cargo shorts and Tevas. He’s far younger than I recall.

  I spot Theo on the vast expanse of lawn, wearing a pinny, playing a game of touch football with a bunch of junior high–aged kids. He loses his concentration when he spots me and the opposing team captures his flag. He just shrugs and waves.

  “I’m sorry you won’t see Owen today,” Mr. Gorton says. “He’s usually volunteering at this time, but he’s been busy doing interviews.”

  What started off as a piece about the Gatekeepers morphed into a critical look at what it’s like to grow up here. The movie’s not only been accepted to a number of upcoming festivals, but also nabbed him a spot in University of California, Los Angeles’s freshman class for film studies.

  Owen used to say he had no clue what he wanted to do with his life until he began to make this movie, and now he says he can’t imagine ever doing anything else. I’m thrilled for him. He deserves every happin
ess. Mallory tells me he’s gotten very tight with her friend Elise, who’s off to University of Southern California. Even better.

  “Would you like to see the memory gardens?” Mr. Gorton asks. We walk through a lushly landscaped area and he points out which specific trees in the distance were planted in honor of Braden and Stephen.

  “We haven’t labeled them, but every tree on the other side of the fence represents a young life lost in North Shore in the past three decades,” he explains.

  “There’re so many,” I comment, looking at a veritable forest. “Far, far too many.”

  “The good news is that there are no new trees since we formed the Gatekeepers,” he says. “Listen, why don’t we give you a minute of privacy out here? People like this area for silent reflection. Just come back when you’re done.”

  Mallory and Mr. Gorton head inside the Center and I find myself alone in the garden. I’m conflicted by the beauty of this spot—the trees are so gorgeous, yet every leaf represents heartbreak. But there’s something so powerful about the trees; they represent rebirths, new beginnings. When it’s winter and the branches are bare and barren and buried under snow, we’ll still have a promise of spring, of what’s to come if we have faith and patience.

  I linger by a golden pear tree outside of the garden’s entrance. I decide this one is Liam’s tree, even though he’s not gone forever.

  I think about Liam a lot.

  The pain of everything has lessened—it’s not the gaping hole in my soul anymore. Rather, it’s morphed into a bittersweet ache, brought on by the most random of circumstances, like when I hear The Weeknd or I see wafts of steam coming off warm water on a cool evening and I’m suddenly transported to the lawn chairs at Jasper’s house. Whenever that happens, I swear I can smell the chlorine and the pine trees. If I close my eyes, I’m still there with him.

  No one ever forgets her first love, especially when it comes to such an abrupt end.

  We emailed for a bit after I went home, Liam and I. With me back across the pond, he was given access to his electronics again. Plus, his family is essentially being sued into oblivion by Mr. Gates’s team, so they have bigger problems now. They had to sell their house, leaving North Shore in shame.