The Gatekeepers by Jen Lancaster
Before we can discuss this further, the warning bell rings and we have to go to class.
“I’m legit worried,” he says. “We need to do something. I’m gonna rally the troops for lunch to discuss a strategy. You in, Maladjusted?”
I nod. “Count on it.”
* * *
Owen, Theo, Kent, Jasper, and I are meeting to download what happened with Liam. We’re an odd fivesome; not a group you’d ever imagine together, sort of like our own Breakfast Club, Generation Z–style.
“He’s all agitated now? As in aggro?” Owen asks. “I saw him barf in the sink in the men’s room yesterday. Said he’d had some bad fish. That makes no sense. I was, like, ‘On Sloppy Joe Day? Who eats fish on Sloppy Joe Day?’”
“He couldn’t sit still in class this morning,” Jasper adds. “His knee was bouncing so hard, Mr. Lawless had to say something.”
“Withdrawals,” Kent says, his lips forming a thin, grim line.
Kent still doesn’t talk much when we’re together as a group. Yet when he does speak, his thoughts always add value and I’m grateful for his input. He’d have been an excellent peer counselor. For everything bad that’s happened this semester, I’m finding a few silver linings. Having the collective wisdom of the Gatekeepers behind me is at the top of that list.
“Withdrawals? That sucks,” Owen says.
“Wouldn’t withdrawals mean the drugs are leaving his system? Seems like that’s good news,” I say.
Kent replies, “Yeah, jury’s still out on that. Simone says his parents went batshit, really cracking the whip.”
To himself, Jasper mutters, “Literally and figuratively.”
I chose not to elaborate for the group to help Liam keep some semblance of dignity.
Kent says, “From what I’ve pieced together, doesn’t sound like he’s getting help. His mom and dad are just sweeping the whole thing under the rug.”
“They aren’t putting him in treatment?” I ask. “Even outpatient?”
Kent shakes his head.
“That’s a bad idea. You’ve got to figure the pills were just the symptom—there’s something bigger going on there, right?” Theo says.
We all nod. Jasper clenches and unclenches his fists, as though he wouldn’t mind punching something, or, rather, someone. When they were kids, Liam spent every waking moment at Jasper’s place to avoid his dad’s wrath.
Theo adds, “If his family doesn’t figure out the root of his problem, then how’s he ever going to get past it? Denial works...until it doesn’t.” The Gatekeepers has brought a hidden depth out of my brother. I’m so proud of him. He’s a lot more like Holden than I ever realized.
Kent explains, “Simone’s only allowed to see Liam at school and now they’re moving back to England way early. Her folks say it’s because her dad can’t seem to work here, but I bet it’s because of Liam. She can’t stay away.”
Theo picks at a rough part of his cast. “What a clusterfuck.”
“Her leaving is going to be really bad for Liam,” I say.
Kent says, “She’s the only person he’s even talking to.”
Jasper says, “You know, he’s not been without a girlfriend since, like, the fourth grade. He’s not so great on his own.”
“What can we do for him?” I ask. “How do we go about, I don’t know, gatekeeping him?”
Owen says, “Dude’s a freaking powder keg right now.”
Jasper adds, “Seeing him yelling at you in the hallway, Malcontent? That’s not the L-Money I know. I remember him microwaving hot cocoa to give to the mailman on snow days. I’d be like, ‘What are you doing?’ He’d say it wasn’t fair for the mailman to have to work when the weather was bad, so he wanted to do what he could to make the day easier for him. Who does that?”
“We need to keep an eye on him,” Kent says.
Owen replies, “For sure. Mr. Gorton says that someone else’s suicide suddenly puts the option on the table for others. We’ve gotta be vigilant.”
“Agreed, but how do we help someone who wants nothing to do with us?” I ask.
Owen sighs. “That’s, like, the million-dollar question.”
* * *
All of us Gatekeepers are gathered, waiting for Mr. Gorton to begin the meeting. People are starting to glance at the time on their phones; he’s never late. Simone has just shown up and I’m surprised to see her here without Liam. She peers anxiously around the room for a minute before she picks the seat next to me, and when she does sit, she barely inhabits the chair. She looks ready to spring up and run away at any moment, a kitten spooked by loud noises and quick movements.
“Mallory, hey, have you, um...seen Liam? You have an afternoon class together, right?” she asks. She sounds tentative, like she’s afraid to even speak to me. Her (clueless) bravado from the day I met her is long gone. She seems diminished somehow, as though no longer firing on all pistons. Like she’s traveling at half speed.
“Haven’t run into him since this morning,” I reply. I noticed he wasn’t in our AP Statistics class sixth period and I wondered if he’d cut in order to avoid me, but I don’t say that. I don’t say anything about his terrible behavior. She seems so breakable right now, all hollowed out and made of glass, and I feel protective. So I offer, “Maybe he went home sick?”
“Yeah, maybe,” she echoes, but doesn’t seem convinced. She toys with her Cheerios bracelet, talking to me from behind her curtain of hair. The blue has long since washed away. “Does...he seem ‘off’ to you?”
I don’t want to sound like a jealous ex-girlfriend but I do want to express concern, so I tread lightly here. “We don’t talk now, so this isn’t firsthand knowledge. From what I hear, he’s not been himself.”
The poor girl looks so glum, so bereft of her (annoying) joie de vivre, which has faded much like her indigo bangs. I add, “The semester’s been really hard on all of us.”
The door to the lecture hall swings open and Vice Principal Torres enters. Following him is Principal Gottfried, who strides in on her tottering heels and power suit. She used to teach second grade reading at my elementary school, so it’s still weird to see her here, all professionally dressed and blown-dry. I still picture her in her fuzzy cardigans and pretty, flowered skirts, untamed curls spilling halfway down her back. She’d hug us when we’d sound out particularly big words and she always smelled like chocolate chip cookies.
Principal Gottfried was involved in some big brouhaha when I was in fifth grade. Something about teachers coaching students on their standardized tests? I guess the superintendent was having an affair with the elementary school’s principal and they were working together to inflate our scores so that the principal would be granted a raise. Principal Gottfried, who was Miss Gottfried back then, was the whistleblower on the whole thing.
I was young at the time, so I was never quite clear on all the details of the scandal. But it was so bad that half the town stopped talking to the other half. One group of parents was outraged that their kids were essentially cheating/being cheated and the other half was outraged to hear their kids weren’t as gifted as the tests results indicated. My mom stopped doing yoga with a whole group of her girlfriends. While I’d like to believe she was one of the people outraged about the cheating, my gut says she was actually Team Special Snowflake.
Principal Gottfried clears her throat and approaches the lectern with a piece of paper in her hands. She dons a pair of bifocals and reads, “Students, I regret to inform you that your club is not officially recognized by North Shore High School. As unrecognized clubs are not covered by the district’s insurance policy, they are forbidden to assemble anywhere on the NSHS grounds for liability reasons. Further, they are barred from use of any and all school resources, both material goods as well as intellectual property, which includes the North Shore Knights website an
We all look at each other in wild confusion.
“What does that even mean?” Jasper demands.
Principal Gottfried glances down at the sheet of paper. Dolefully, she says, “That means the Gatekeepers can’t exist here on campus, Mr. Gates.”
The entire room begins to buzz and dozens of hands shoot up in the air.
“The Gatekeepers are important,” Owen protests, not even waiting for her to call on him. “What are we supposed to do? There’s, like, at least fifty of us in every meeting. Are we supposed to all cram into a Starbucks or something? I feel like you’re playing lawyer-ball right now.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way. I’m afraid my hands are tied. The school can’t condone any unofficial activities.”
Owen persists, “Then how do we become all North Shore-official?”
Without meeting his eye, she says, “To be recognized, your organization will need to pursue a charter.”
“Why didn’t you say so?” Owen says. “Let’s do that.”
Principal Gottfried grasps the sides of the lectern and gazes out at us with the same kind of expression she’d wear when classmates would stumble over words when reading aloud. “Unfortunately, Mr. Foley-Feinstein, we can’t accept new charters this far into the academic year. We encourage you to submit in the fall.”
“That’s too late! Half of us will have graduated by then!” Kent exclaims, in the loudest voice I’ve ever heard him use. He flies up from his seat, his cheeks flushed with rage. The fire in his eyes takes me by surprise. “Just admit that the school board doesn’t want us to exist. I mean, if you guys were behind us, then you’d have to accept responsibility for overworking us.”
She says, “Mr. Mathers, Counselor Gorton presented your ideas to the Parents’ Association last night with the school board’s blessing. However, there was a vote and...” She exhales and glances down at her paper again, as though it might somehow help her. “I’m afraid the majority of your parents did not agree that the standards should be lowered or workloads decreased. And, unfortunately, these same parents insisted your group be formally recognized with a charter, which is why you have to disband.”
We sit in stunned silence.
She removes her glasses and rubs her eyes, her tone decidedly gentle, reminiscent of the days when she was still Miss Gottfried. “I’m so sorry. We support you, but our hands are tied. Ultimately, we have to answer to your parents.”
I can’t believe my mother was right.
Jasper stands. “Where’s Mr. Gorton?”
The principal’s expression morphs from apologetic to downright pained. “Counselor Gorton is taking some personal time. Now, students, I have to ask you to please vacate this room.”
37
SIMONE
“I’m taking Warhol out for a little jog around the neighborhood.”
My parents installed tracking software on my phone, so walking the dog is the only way I can leave without suspicion. I’m worried sick about Liam—he disappeared without a word after lunch. I waited for him at his locker and he never showed. I’d hoped he’d attend the Gatekeepers meeting, but there was no sign of him. I can’t try his house, obviously, but I have a feeling he’s not there anyway. Mallory suggested he might be at the bluff, so checking there seems to be the best plan.
“Can’t hear you, be out in a sec,” Mum says from her darkroom. Because we’re leaving so much sooner than we’d planned, she’s been working ’round the clock to get all her photos in line. She said she can do the actual writing back in London, where it’s safer for me. I pointed out the irony of them assuming I’d be more secure in one of the largest cities in the world, currently plagued by the threat of global terror, but no one thought I was clever.
I fought the decision, but ultimately I was outvoted.
I’m heartsick.
Liam believes we can still make it work, him and me. He’s decided to take the University of Florida scholarship. He’s not thrilled about playing soccer, but he says he’d rather be a Gator than be beholden to his father for one more minute.
Even though I’m going back to England now, I hope to return in the fall for college. I’ll apply to U of Florida the minute my ACT scores are in. Wouldn’t that be lovely, to be somewhere balmy with Liam, palm trees gently swaying in the breeze, finally away from all forces trying to keep us apart?
I realize this all sounds vaguely Capulets and Montagues, yet I feel our plan is feasible. And at some point, his parents will relent, once they realize this addiction nonsense is just that—nonsense. Overblown fantasies from watching too many episodes of Dateline, which is Dad’s newest obsession.
Once Dad’s away from the telly and home in an environment that inspires him, I’ll stop bearing the brunt of his artistic block.
Mum emerges from her darkroom and glances out the window. “What were you saying, Sim?”
“I’m taking Warhol for a walk.”
“Bloody freezing out there, isn’t it? You really want to walk him?”
“He’s restless,” I say. “Plus, look at his bottom, see how fat he’s become? He’s porky from all the training treats. Tubby could use a bit of exercise.”
“Okay, but take your phone,” she says.
“Naturally,” I reply.
I bundle Warhol into a bright yellow sweater and clip on his leash. I take my time going outdoors, so I don’t appear too anxious. I don’t start jogging until I’m down the block, then beelining due east to the bluff Mallory described.
Warhol and I are in a full-on run when I spot a bit of Liam’s navy-and-silver North Shore letterman’s jacket from the stone path that borders the bluff. He’s here, with his legs curled into himself, looking out at the lake from under all the branches.
Thank God.
Relief washes over me. I loosen my death grip on Warhol’s leash, shaking out my hand so the circulation returns. Warhol, delighted to be out adventuring, yanks me along, causing me to go even faster. He’s not supposed to pull, but I’m too distracted to worry about proper training.
Liam glances up at us as we make our way down to him. “Hey,” he slurs. “I know you.”
My reprieve from panic is short-lived.
This is wrong. The feeling of dread begins to creep in, quietly nipping at my heels, wrapping its cold fingers around my neck.
“Liam, what happened to you this afternoon?” I ask, trying to keep the dismay out of my voice. “Where’d you go?”
“Hello, doggie!” He tries to scoop Warhol up in a sloppy embrace. The dog isn’t used to such an effusive return of affection and slips out of his arms. Warhol looks at me as if to say, What’s all this, then?
Liam crawls out from under the pine canopy and struggles to his feet. He’s disjointed and rubbery as he tries to give me a hug. He’s moving as though he’s trying to walk through water. His pupils are tiny pinpoints, even though it’s dusk.
“Are you okay?” I ask, searching his face. I want him to say yes, even though in my gut, I know he’s not. I can hear my dad’s voice in my head saying that this is not what okay looks like.
Something is profoundly off.
His lips curl into a grin. “I am out-freaking-standing. I am A-okay. I am Liam!” He throws his arms in the air like that cheerleader at Jasper’s party whenever they played her jam. The motion causes him to stagger before he catches himself.
Something here is very, very off.
“What’s wrong with your voice? You’re raspy.”
“Raaaaaahhhhspy. That? That is a fun word. Raaaaaahhhhspy.”
“Liam, talk to me,” I say. I sound like I’m pleading and Warhol picks up on the stress in my voice, the sharp quick notes. The dog loved Liam when they met the first time, but now seems anxious to move along. “What’s
“We just went ahead and fixed the glitch,” he says, quoting the Bobs from Office Space, the first movie we ever watched together. I’d not heard of it, but he promised me it was a cult classic in this country and I couldn’t consider myself truly American until I’d seen it. Didn’t care for the film, actually. Made me question why everyone in the school is working so hard to get into a good college so they can get a degree, only to land a job that’s nothing but useless TPS reports and eleven bosses.
With the leash looped on my wrist, I grip Liam’s arms, shaking him to get his attention. “What’d you mean by that? Where’d you go?”
“Met my friend.”
“What friend?”
“Harry Jones.” Then he giggles, but the sound that comes out isn’t like his regular laugh. It’s all high-pitched and shriek-y. Warhol tugs the leash, as though he wants to leave. “Harry Jones. Jarry Hones. Harry Jonesing.”
Harry Jones...according to Dateline, that’s slang for heroin.
My knees buckle beneath me and I brace myself with a tree limb to stay upright. It’s as though someone sucked all the air from my lungs and I’m gasping for breath through a cocktail straw. I feel like I’m looking at Liam through an entirely different pair of eyes. He’s become a photonegative where the dark spots are light and the light dark. This is him in front of me, yet entirely different, terribly skewed and disturbing.
Oh, how stupid am I?
How could I buy the lies he’s been selling me?
How did I not see this coming?
Was I blind by choice? By love? By my own innocence?
Ultimately, the reasons don’t matter. I’m a right fool because Liam is high. Liam’s not just high, but he’s chasing the goddamned dragon. Dateline’s Lester Holt was right—Liam’s moved on from opioids to opiates, exactly like the show predicted. Dateline even had a flowchart and he’s following it perfectly. Local rumor is the illegal stuff is even easier to score than its prescription cousin and Liam’s now living proof.