“Thought that’d be the worst part. No. He doesn’t die. He isn’t killed on impact, just thrown real far.”
I don’t share what happened next. They don’t need to hear that he was still alive. I ran to him, I fucking dug in and made it up the hill. I held his hand while I dialed 911. I’ll never forget the worst part—the worst part is that he still looked like him. He wasn’t all disfigured. He was just there, regular old handsome Braden, only spread out real weird by the road, like a broken doll. People aren’t supposed to bend that way.
I need a second, so I take another sip of my Coke and I struggle to get it down.
“We weren’t tight but I was there in the last minute when he needed a friend the most. I just wish I’d been sooner. I can’t forgive myself for not being there sooner. Working on it but not there yet.”
Theo’s tears have come. Mallory pulls him into her arms and he weeps like a little boy. He looks and sounds and acts like a man, but as he cries, I realize he’s still just a kid.
We’re all still just kids.
“I ride in the ambulance with him and I’m still at the hospital an hour later when his mom finally shows up. He was already gone by then. She said she was having coffee with a friend and didn’t hear her phone at first. She’s in shock. She starts babbling, saying that Braden had been depressed because she and his father are having marital problems. They want the big D but neither one of them is willing to move out of the big house, so they’re just there, fighting all the time, like the War of the Roses.”
“I had no idea,” Mallory says, more to herself than to anyone else. “I’ve been out of my head about the why. Why couldn’t he have told us? Why didn’t we figure it out?”
I look around and say to Mr. Gorton. “I think I know why. And I’m glad you cleared the room. People don’t need to know about the DeRochers’ private business.”
“What was happening?” Mallory demands.
“She said his dad had a girlfriend. She told me Braden had been depressed about everything and withdrawn at home, but she figured it would pass. Assumed it was a phase and eventually he’d get used to the new reality of his parents dating other people in this fucked-up arrangement at the house, where everyone wanted to make sure they got every penny coming to them. She told me she and Mr. DeRocher were having affairs and that they’d been horrible to each other.”
Thinking about this now, I’m pissed off. You don’t want to be married anymore? Then don’t be married. But, like, excuse yourself first before you begin this whole new life. Live under a different roof. Don’t drag your kids into your bullshit.
A torrent of tears roll down Mallory’s face, but it’s like she doesn’t even notice them. Some splash onto my pants.
Theo looks devastated. “I can’t believe it wasn’t an accident.”
Mallory hugs him harder. “I’m so sorry, Theo.”
I say, “I keep going back to that day in the ER, wondering if I should have reacted differently with his mom. I didn’t want to hear whatever else she had to say, but I couldn’t stop her from talking because she seemed like she needed to confess or whatever. I just sat there and listened. Like, maybe that was my penance for not being quicker. She kept saying again and again, ‘We thought it would pass. We thought he’d be okay.’”
I take another long breath. “It didn’t pass. He wasn’t okay. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I want to be a Gatekeeper. I failed ’cause I wasn’t there for Braden.”
“No, you didn’t fail,” Mallory insists. “Those of us in his life failed. The signs were there and we didn’t see them.”
I say, “Then I think you’re with me when I say I’m not about failing again.”
*
It’s dark by the time we finish our meeting. We covered so much and I’m completely wiped, but hopeful. I feel like it’s possible for us to make a difference, not just here, but everywhere. I’ve been looking for a documentary subject but didn’t have enough passion about any topic before. I do now. I feel real strongly about this, about being a Gatekeeper.
We’re putting a bunch of strategies in place to help everyone manage and deal. Not just monitoring for red flags, but fun stuff, too. Mr. Gorton gave us these suggestions from this Dr. Sonja Lyubomirsky lady on how to be happy, like keeping gratitude journals and savoring positive experiences and connecting with friends.
What’s most important is that Mr. Gorton’s talking to the school board this week to see about reducing the academic pressures, maybe decreasing our workloads, cutting down on homework. We can’t keep up this pace. It’s not possible. We’ve gotta relax the standards. Lessen everyone’s burdens, help us all chill a little bit. If we lower the bar across the board, we all benefit. The group feels like if everyone has less of a boot on our necks, the whole student body would change for the better.
We figure maybe we can tell everyone they can stop trying to be so excellent.
Maybe we can settle for just being real good.
I exit the building via the door to the student parking lot, which is ringed in halogen lights. There’s only a couple of cars left in this massive parking area. Theo and Mallory are a few paces behind me.
“Hey, this might be weird,” I say, trotting back to them. “I feel like we’re not done talking to each other, you know? Do you guys wanna, I don’t know, come to my house for dinner? Tonight’s pizza night, nothing fancy, but we’re getting Lou Malnati’s. We could order a salad for you, Mallory.”
“Um, no,” she replies.
“Cool. I’ll just see you guys at the next meeting.”
I thought maybe we could all try being friends again despite our parents’ feud, but I guess not.
Mallory stops me by tugging my sleeve. “Wait, I’m so sorry, Owen, please. I meant, no, you don’t have to order a salad for me. Theo and I absolutely want to come. I’d love to see your folks and pizza sounds freaking amazing.”
Theo stands there with his mouth hanging open.
To him, she says, “What? I’m starving. Let’s roll.”
33
SIMONE
“Yo, Chastain in the Membrane, we need to talk.”
I’m sorting through the books in my locker when Jasper sidles up to me. Huh, that’s odd. While he and I often chat in study hall, it’s always breezy. Sometimes we compare notes on favorite places or bands, but we’ve never covered anything that might cause him to say We need to talk, as though we’re confidantes, as though this is our norm.
What would we even discuss?
His ability to bend his arms while wearing four shirts concurrently, each one with its collar flipped just so?
Sure, I’ve attended his parties and he’s driven Liam and me home in his Navigator a couple of times, but that’s hardly the basis for a private convo.
“Um, okay. What’s the story?” I ask.
He looks first over his left shoulder and then his right. “Not here. Follow me.” He pulls me into an empty chemistry lab. “We gotta talk about L-Money.”
I’m suddenly regretting my curiosity.
“What about Liam?” I ask.
“I’m worried.”
“Worried how? Worried in what respect?”