The Gatekeepers by Jen Lancaster
NORTH SHORE DAILY OBITUARIES
Paul “Paulie” Barat, age 17, a North Shore High School junior and cherished son of Henry Barat and Merle Sloan-Barat, died suddenly on Saturday, May 28, in North Shore. He’s survived by his parents and his younger sister, Anna. A gifted actor, Paulie participated in NSHS’s musical theater productions, senior one-act plays, and variety shows, and won the Illinois State speech team titles in both Humorous Interpretation and Original Comedy. His joyful personality and captivating laugh will be eternally missed. Visitation will be held from 5 to 9 p.m. Monday, May 30th, at the Good Shepherd Methodist Church at 191 Oakley Road in North Shore. The funeral service will be held at 11 a.m. Tuesday, May 31, at Good Shepherd, with interment to immediately follow at North Shore Memorial Gardens, South Quadrant. In lieu of flowers, the family requests that donations in honor of Paulie be made to the Paul Barat Memorial Fund, c/o North Shore Thespians.
NORTH SHORE DAILY OBITUARIES
Macey Lund, age 18, of North Shore, passed away on July 17th. Loving daughter of Therese and Geoffrey; sweet sister of Knox and Langley. A seasoned athlete, Macey led the Lady Knights to capture the Illinois Division I Soccer Championship and was blessed to perform her beloved Irish dance on three continents, including special presentations for Pope Francis and Queen Elizabeth. Memorial Service to be held Wednesday, July 20th, 3:15 p.m. at the Church of Christ, 212 West Wisconsin Ave., North Shore. Info: Harper and Horvath Funeral Home, North Shore. Interment will be private. In lieu of flowers, the family requests donations in her name to AYSO Youth Sports, North Shore.
Mallory
7:55 AM
where r u?
8:11 AM
r u coming??
8:17 AM
seriously wtf, when will u be here?
Liam
10:34 AM
Srry
1
MALLORY
GOODMAN
Seventy-one, seventy-two, seventy-three.
Harder.
Faster.
You can do it, I tell myself. You have to do it.
Seventy-four, seventy-five.
Stop being the kind of lard-ass who let her boyfriend pressure her into scarfing down onion rings. “They’re so good,” he’d insisted. “Extra salty, really crispy. They’re the perfect balance of light batter and onion, like tempura. The chef brought his A-game to the deep fryer. You’ll be sorry if you don’t at least try one.”
Whenever our squad wants to meet for dinner, I suggest a place with a salad bar. I always eat the same thing—a blend of arugula and romaine, shredded carrots, red cabbage, diced peppers, and celery sticks, tossed in lemon juice, with a side of fat-free ranch dressing. If I’ve been good, I grab a grapefruit or an apple for dessert at home.
Obviously, I wasn’t good last night.
Liam wouldn’t let it go, though. He leaned across the table, doing that baby-feeding, airplane-in-the-hangar move with the onion ring, complete with sound effects. Everyone in the whole restaurant started looking at us. Sure, they’re always looking at us, because Liam’s kind of our school’s Golden Boy, but last night they were seriously staring. The easiest thing was to open up and just eat the stupid, greasy thing. So I chewed and smiled when all I wanted to do was to spit it into my napkin—but I’d never hear the end of it if I did that.
I swear Jasper Gates was ready to search inside my mouth afterward to make sure I’d actually swallowed, like on those cheesy survival game shows where the host verifies contestants downed the whole worm. Jasper was the one who demanded I eat another, because the first one was “too small.” Sitting there, all kicked back and smarmy in his obnoxious plaid shorts and Ray-Bans, I wanted to smack him. Who wears sunglasses inside at night? We’re in Illinois, not LA. And my diet is Jasper’s business how exactly? Do I get on him for the stupid loafers he insists on wearing without socks, even when it’s snowing?
Can you believe he actually wonders why I call him the JasHole?
Ugh, I hate Liam’s friends.
Seventy-six, seventy-seven.
I dig in my heels and try to spring up even more quickly as I run the stadium steps for the third time. My pulse quickens inside my chest.
Okay.
That’s more like it.
My brother Theo and his best friend, Braden, turned me on to running the stairs, something their football coach makes them do first thing in the morning during the season. That way they can spend the afternoon drilling on the field or weight training for their two-a-days. Kids at other schools can’t believe how much our teams practice. They always say this after we’ve beaten them, so you tell me who’s got it right.
One twenty-one. One twenty-two.
Well, most of us believe in all the practice.
Ahem, Liam.
First, he makes me ingest a fatty carb bomb and then he doesn’t even show to run the stairs with me this morning? He claimed he hurt his knee playing ultimate Frisbee after soccer practice yesterday. Last night, the JasHole was all, “You should give it a rest, brah. Don’t want to be a gimp when the season starts. Take it easy.”
Well, guess what, Liam?
Winners walk it off.
Winners play through the pain, brah.
Winners make time to run the stairs, each day, every day, even those days when they know they’ll be up until 2:00 a.m. writing their final AP Italian theme on Il pendolo di Foucault.
I keep going.
I mean, my calves feel like they’re on fire right now, like they’re being poked with burning hot knives, but the discomfort’s just spurring me on.
Go. Run faster.
I make it to the top and sprint back down the steps double-time. I don’t count the stairs on the way down; that’s considered rest.
Rest is for the weak.
Three hundred. Three hundred and one. Three hundred and two.
Move it, Calorie Mallory. Get your fat ass up those steps. Knees up. Knees up to the chest. More. Do more.
I ask myself, Do you think the New Trier Trevians ate onion rings last night? Hell, no. Did the Lake Forest Scouts wolf down fro-yo last week? Doubtful.
Hustle. Now.
I glance at my iWatch. All right, I’m in the zone. I’m at 95 percent of my target heart rate. I’m a finely tuned machine, burning off serious blubber. Keep it up.
Five hundred forty-nine. Five hundred fifty. Five fifty-one.
I’m sweating now, but that’s good because sweat is fat crying for mercy.
I mean, why would Liam slam on the brakes now? Why would he look for an excuse to slack? Our senior year starts Monday.
This is the time to go balls-out.
We haven’t reached the summit. There’s no time to coast. We’re coming up on the hardest part of our twelve-year academic climb—applying to college.
Now is when we show the world what we’re made of.
Now is when we prove we have the right stuff for Princeton’s early decision.