Nothing. He may as well be a statue. He’s very good at this.
“The networks are still lurking around campus. It’s been a week. When are they going to leave us alone? This story is, like, a perfect storm. Every media outlet in the country is salivating for details. I can’t change the channel without hearing some empty suit blather on about ‘suicide clusters,’ explaining to those of us who aren’t actually witnessing them firsthand, who aren’t burying their friends, that they’re ‘multiple deaths in close succession and proximity.’”
I bristle over the faux concern so many on TV, radio, and the web have shown. America can’t get enough of this story, of the poor little rich kids who can’t hack it, like the One Percent are finally getting what’s been long overdue. Like somehow karma came a-callin’.
“These anchors sit there with their pancake makeup and their shiny blazers and matter-of-fact expressions, all hair-sprayed and clinical and detached. Somehow they forget they’re talking about kids from our swim classes, kids who rode the bus with us, or went to camp with us, or sat next to us in lunch. They’re talking about the girl who handed me an extra pencil before a standardized test and the boy who’d skew the results because he was so smart. Macey was real. Paul was real. Braden was real. Stephen was real. They were real people. Not statistics, not cautionary tales, but real kids who couldn’t take all the pressure. They cracked. Paul wasn’t the first, and it’s real fucking unfortunate that Stephen probably won’t be the last.”
Mr. Gorton’s totally mute right now, even though I just dropped an f-bomb. He’s silent and motionless, eerily calm, like I’m not even here, completely losing my shit in front of him.
“Did you see Will O’Leary’s show two days ago? He’s the worst. He ran a feature where he interviewed some of our students and then was kind enough to ‘mansplain’ that the problem is we’re a bunch of children who simply don’t understand the consequences of our actions. That suicide is permanent. This is what passes for fair and balanced? Blaming the victims? How is that possibly supposed to help?”
No reaction. I’d stick a mirror under his mouth to check his breathing, except he just blinked.
“Some of us saw the clip in the student lounge yesterday. I’m sure you’ve already heard, but if you missed it, that’s when Owen Foley-Feinstein walked up and punched a hole through the flat screen, right in O’Leary’s smug face. I was there when it happened, you know. I found myself cheering for Owen, for his doing what I didn’t have the guts to do.”
Mr. Gorton’s so motionless that if he were in a park right now, birds would land on him.
“With Braden? Who I loved? I was numb and I didn’t know what to do, but I still blame myself for not being there for him. I am drowning in regret. I torment myself every hour of the day trying to figure out why. With Stephen? Someone who I couldn’t even be bothered to give the time of day? A person who I’d refer to as a random? I’ve been bawling my head off. I can’t stop crying myself to sleep, his face in my mind. The bitch of it is, I can’t even picture him clearly because I never bothered to look him in the eye. Yet I am haunted, okay? Haunted. He might have been the greatest guy in the world, and now I’ll never know him. That’s on me.”
More blinking.
“Did you know that Asian American kids Stephen’s age are the most at risk? Because I know it now. They have the highest rates of suicidal thoughts, of intent, and of attempts. Did you know that the suicide rate at MIT—the college Stephen wanted to attend—has quadruple the national average of suicides for Asian American students? I read that between 1996 and 2006, a Cornell task force found that thirteen out of twenty-one campus suicides involved Asian American students. Thirteen out of twenty-one. Did you know they’re more likely than any other peer group to report anxiety or depression, but they’re the least likely to seek help? What in the actual fuck? These are documented facts! What are they always saying in Econ class? ‘If you can’t measure it, you can’t manage it. If you can’t manage it, you can’t improve it.’ We have the stats! We can measure it! SO WHY ISN’T ANYONE AROUND HERE MANAGING AND IMPROVING?”
I pace back and forth in front of his desk, my sneakers squeaking furiously each time I spin on my heels.
“So I’m mad. I’m mad at myself, but I’m madder at the circumstances that drove poor Stephen to that decision. I’m mad about the impossible standards here, the atmosphere that’s been created, that made him think that he could never be good enough, that he may as well end the game, take his ball and go home. Why are we so all-or-nothing here? Why are we all about black-and-white with no shades of gray? Although, I guess I should be happy about all the news coverage on Stephen because, traditionally, the media’s more likely to profile white students. At least there’s a modicum of awareness. Hashtag smallblessing.”
Mr. Gorton looks like he wants to say something and he parts his lips as if to speak, but something gets the better of him. His teeth clack together as he shuts his mouth.
“Personally, I’ve been living in mortal fear about not being accepted anywhere but the University of Iowa, when, in all actuality? Iowa’s a damn good school. Tennessee Williams went to the University of Iowa. Cat on a Hot Tin Roof? A Streetcar Named Desire? What kind of messed up value system do I have to look at Tennessee Williams’ alma mater like it’s some kind of votech, a third-tier community college, like being a Hawkeye is a fate worse than death? Guess what? Seen death now. Not a fan. And Iowa City? It’s Utopia in comparison.”
Mr. Gorton has closed his eyes at this point, as though he can’t even bear to look at me. Like he’s pained.
The truth fucking hurts.
“You know how many kids I’ve been working with this week in peer counseling? All of them. They are lined up out the door and down the hall. The other peer counselors and I can’t keep pace. What happens to the kids who can’t get in with us? The grief therapists are gone, so we’re the only line of defense. These suicides are all anyone wants to talk about and we’re not even supposed to get in-depth. You want us to give them pamphlets and refer them back to you. I’m here on the front lines. And to be clear? I am a seventeen-year-old girl who is afraid of bread. I can’t be the only thing potentially standing between life and death for our classmates! I can’t do this alone. We need to look out for each other. We need a system. We need a failsafe.”
“We need a gatekeeper.”
“We need a—wait,” I say, having forgotten that Mr. Gorton’s even capable of speech. “What’d you say?”
He straightens up in his seat. “You’re right, Mallory. I’m saying you’re one hundred percent right. What we need is a gatekeeper.”
“Like the song?” I ask, remembering that piece by Meg Hutchinson that I’d stumbled across.
He tells me, “The song is based on a real man.”
“You’re kidding.”