“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 happiness. 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.
I had such hopes for him after his first trip to the rehabilitation facility. His notes from that time were upbeat and I thought he was going to get back on track, right his course.
I allowed myself to fantasize that, maybe, just maybe... I even applied to American colleges.
After a while, the correspondence stopped. He relapsed and had to be sent away again for treatment. The guilt over what happened with Jasper proved to be too much to handle without self-medication. While it was an accident, Liam will always blame himself.
He’s on his third stint in rehab, this time in Florida. He lost his University of Florida scholarship right quick, but he hopes to take some community college classes down there once he’s out of the facility and into the halfway house. I’m happy that he’s getting a tiny portion of what he’d wanted for his future.
He says he still loves me, but I’m no longer na?ve.
I told him he needed a year of sobriety before I’d even consider a face-to-face meeting.
Love is not enough.
Oh, who am I kidding?
I’m still na?ve enough to be hopeful about someday.