The Divided Twin

by M. Billiter

  I slung my ski bag over my shoulder, and the weight of the rifle rested against my back. The box of bullets bumped against my thigh with each step.

  Students ran through the quad with backpacks over their heads as if they’d melt from the light splattering of rain.

  “Lame.”

  Agreed.

  The mass amount of people running all around campus didn’t even bother me. I was at peace. I had a plan, one that would get the results David wanted. I wasn’t crazy about it, but if it meant David and I were on the same page, I’d do it.

  Thunder cracked and lightning lit the sky. More students blurred past me, but the rain and I kept a steady pace. I headed toward the student union for a bite to eat and glanced in the direction of my apartment complex. A campus cop car was parked on the side of the building beside the dumpsters. I kept walking toward the union with my focus on my upstairs apartment. I had a corner apartment that was easy to spot from a distance, even through the rain. But to see my front door, I walked diagonally, away from the union and closer toward the complex, to get a clearer view.

  My front door was shut, but someone stood off to the side.

  “What the fuck?”

  Yeah, what’s up with that?

  I squinted just as a campus cop popped up from the side stairwell. He walked in the direction of the other dude, who was outside my apartment.

  “Tom? Is that Tom?”

  It looked like my resident advisor, but I couldn’t be sure.

  My stomach tightened and I clenched my jaw. It felt like I’d been hit by one of the lightning bolts that broke through the gray clouds. My heart raced, and even though it was raining, I felt sweat running down my leg. Either that or I’d pissed myself.

  “Stay calm and hide the gun.”

  David’s voice in my head was the only one that drowned out all others.

  The university was a stone’s throw—or gun toss—away from the biggest river in the state. I walked toward the north end of campus and the footbridge that overlooked the river. The light rain became a downpour. The sudden high-pitched, ear-splitting sound of the tornado siren startled me, and I flinched. My entire body tensed so much that my muscles cramped when I walked.

  “Keep it together. This is no time to look suspicious. Man up.”

  My measured steps were a stark contrast to other students who zigzagged across campus through the onslaught of rain. I held on to the strap of the ski bag and began to jog toward the footbridge. It was mid-November, and I silently prayed to whoever would still listen to me that there wasn’t any ice on the river. The footbridge was the fastest way to cross the river or, in my case, dump something into it.

  “Hide it.”

  No.

  I never should’ve bought the gun. My bald head felt every pelt of rain like God’s wrath hailing down on me.

  The sirens continued to sound, warning everyone to take shelter from the impending tornado. I ignored them and kept moving. Gloomy, heavy clouds covered the sky, and night replaced day like someone had flipped a switch and turned out all the lights. Suddenly, I was in the dark.

  “I’m here. It’s okay.”

  But it didn’t feel okay. My eyes burned, and I just wanted to hold someone’s hand. Worse still, David’s voice wasn’t reassuring me. I was alone.

  Blinking until my eyes adjusted to the dark, I then focused on the lights that softly illuminated the bridge in the distance.

  But if I could see the bridge, wouldn’t the campus cops be able to see me? If they were at my apartment, wouldn’t they be looking for me?

  “Pussy.”

  My jaw tightened.

  Shut up.

  “Your dad’s right, you are a bitch.”

  Shut up. Shut up. Shut up!

  I walked as fast as I dared, as the path that led to the footbridge was well worn and slippery from the rain. I took the stairs that led to the bridge’s entrance two at a time. Other students and faculty were ahead of me on the bridge; I hung back until there was enough distance between me and the last person on the bridge to go unnoticed.

  I unzipped the ski bag and removed the rifle as easily and unsuspiciously as I would skis. The most obvious things were done in the open. If I acted weird, people would notice. If I didn’t, they wouldn’t care.

  I glanced behind me. The next herd of people approached the steps. It was either throw the rifle now or never. I walked briskly on the steel-grid deck, dropped the rifle like a piece of trash over the side, and kept walking. My $300 cash purchase disappeared in the dark, fast-flowing river. I grabbed the box of bullets, ripped the top off, and let its contents fall like silver confetti over the side of the bridge. I was about to toss my ski bag when David’s voice in my head became a command.

  “Keep it.”

  Why?

  It made no sense. The campus cops were at my apartment. It had to be that nosey neighbor who saw me with my ski bag and freaked out when I said I was buying an AK-47. It was the only thing that made sense.

  I ripped the airport tag off the handle of the bag so violently that I yanked myself forward and lost my balance. My feet slid out from beneath me on the slick grating, and no matter how hard I tried to regain my balance, I couldn’t. The river rushed below me, and for a second I thought I’d end up in it. I held out my hand to break my fall, and in the process my ski bag fell from my shoulder into the river. I landed flat on my ass, still gripping the bag tag.

  I glanced over my shoulder to see the group of students was now on the bridge. I began to stand, though every muscle in my body hurt. All I had left to dump was my fake ID. I grabbed my wallet and David’s driver’s license that was in front of mine and sent it flying into the night like a Frisbee. David would not be pleased, which was more terrifying than anything that had happened all night.

  25

  David and Me

  Now that the rifle was gone, as well as any evidence of who purchased it, I was in the clear. Hell, I was like the tornado that roared through town and left just as quickly—virtually untraceable. So I wasn’t sure why I hesitated to go to my apartment. I stood in the shadows of the complex and watched. There hadn’t been any activity for more than an hour, but the campus cop car was still parked outside. I didn’t think anyone went inside my apartment, but there was no way to know until I went inside. My resident advisor, Tom, had a key, but he wouldn’t just go into my apartment, would he?

  “Is that even legal?”

  I don’t know.

  I quickly googled student housing rights and found a shit ton of blogs on the topic. The takeaway was threefold: remain calm, I didn’t have to consent to a search, and always request an attorney. If they had a search warrant, chances were the search would continue without me. I was sure they were on the lookout for some kind of contraband. But David and I both knew that wasn’t what they’d find.

  “Why are you freaking out?”

  Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because there’s a cop outside my apartment.

  “Get a grip. Don’t be such a pussy.”

  I’m not. I’m just assessing the situation.

  Everyone on campus knew that the university hired local police officers to patrol the campus during the school year. They had arrest authority, which I didn’t want to test.

  Even if the cops didn’t get involved, the university could still exercise its disciplinary rights, which usually meant that if I didn’t comply with whatever they wanted, they could expel me.

  It happened to a buddy of mine. He was accused of hacking the transcript office and wouldn’t turn over his computer. I didn’t know if the university didn’t have enough evidence or not, only that when he refused their request for his computer, they kicked him off campus and out of school. I was sure there was more to the story than that, but I remembered him saying that the school had these clauses that protected them and screwed the students. They basically could do whatever they wanted.

  “But expulsion?”

  I know, right?

  Fou
r years of college with fifteen credits shy from graduating, and I could lose it all. It’d be one thing if they didn’t let me graduate because I owed them money, which I did. But to lose everything I’d worked so hard to earn just didn’t seem right.

  “It’s bullshit and it’s not fair.”

  You’re right.

  Adrenaline kicked in and I bolted toward the stairwell that led to my apartment. Tom and a scrawny cop stood off to the side. As soon as they spotted me, they briskly walked in the direction of my apartment.

  “Hey, guys. How’s it goin’?” I said as I approached.

  The cop glanced at a piece of paper that had my photo on it and then back at me, but it was Tom who spoke.

  “We’d like to talk,” he said.

  “Sure, what’s up?”

  “Perhaps we could go inside.” Tom nodded to my apartment.

  “I’d rather not.” I grimaced. “It’s kind of a mess.”

  “We don’t mind,” the cop said.

  “But I do,” I said resolutely, enforcing my fourth amendment rights.

  “And without a warrant, you can’t do dick, motherfuckers.”

  “Okay.” Tom clapped his hands together. “I’ll get right to the point. We were notified that you had made some dangerous-sounding comments that were concerning. With your permission, we’d like to search your apartment.”

  “If you’re referring to the stoner who lives on this floor, he joked about buying dope and I joked about buying an AK-47.” I held up my left hand like I was taking an oath. “Which I can now see was in poor taste. But that’s all it was, a dumb comment.”

  “Sounds harmless enough. Let’s just go inside and talk about this,” Tom said.

  The guy was good.

  “No, we can talk here,” I replied.

  “The complaint mentioned a ski bag,” Tom pressed.

  Damn criminal justice major. Why can’t he just go away?

  I nodded. “Yup, I was thinking of buying new alpine skis.”

  “Where’s the bag now?” the campus cop asked.

  “In the river,” I said and didn’t blink at their shocked expressions. “I was on the footbridge headed to Poor Boy’s Pub when it started dumping on me. Everyone was running, but when I did, I turfed it. My bag flew off my shoulder, and before I could get it, it slipped over the side and into the river.” It was the truth, so I knew neither my face nor voice would betray me.

  I turned my hands palm-side up and showed the burn marks from skidding on the grated bridge. They both took a quick yet inquisitive glance.

  “It hurt like hell.” I rubbed my palms on my jeans. “And that bag wasn’t cheap. Some lucky bastard’s going to find it next spring.”

  Tom wearily smiled like he was trying to get on board with my story. At this point, all he had was some stoner’s version of what happened. I wasn’t about to give him anything solid he could use.

  “Whatever. When did talking about buying a gun become illegal?”

  Shut up. That’s the least of our troubles. You know why they’re here.

  “Listen, I get why you’re here,” I said. “With all the crap that happens on college campuses, it was stupid of me to joke about a gun.”

  “Do you own a gun?” the officer asked.

  “I have a hunting rifle at my mom’s house, but it’s not here on campus,” I explained.

  The rifle was registered. They probably already knew I owned it.

  “Do you own any other types of weapons?”

  “Fuck you.”

  Yup.

  I slowly shook my head. “No, sir.”

  “What about a dart gun?” the cop asked.

  “A dart gun?” I laughed. “You’re joking, right?”

  “No joke. We found a disassembled dart gun in the dumpster,” Tom said.

  I shrugged. “Don’t know what to tell you, Tom. It wasn’t mine.”

  “Now, the electronics kit inside the apartment that looks like bomb parts, yeah, that’s ours.”

  Shut up.

  I scratched the back of my shaved head. “I wish I could help more.”

  Tom slowly nodded again like he was trying to convince himself of my truth.

  “Listen, guys, if that’s all, I’d really like to shower. My clothes are wet, I lost my best ski bag, and I’m hungry. Poor Boy’s was closed when I got there, and the union shut early.” Two additional truths I slipped into the conversation.

  “Yeah, sure.” Tom nodded, and the campus cop followed suit.

  They turned to leave, and I waited. I wasn’t about to open my apartment door until they were gone. When they disappeared into the stairwell, I unlocked my door and darted inside.

  Bonita was exactly where I’d left her. A length of rope was wrapped around her neck and tied to the water pipe in the apartment. When she looked up at me, her blue eyes no longer shone. They were kind of dull.

  Neither Tom nor the cop would understand. They’d probably think it was a noose and that I was trying to hang her. It couldn’t be further from the truth. I liked my cat. I was just fucking tired of cleaning up her messes.

  26

  Branson

  My twin brother was the baseball player in the family, but I played Legion ball long enough to know the three-strike rule. Three strikes and you’re out.

  First strike: Professor Nigel caught me with the midterm exam. Strike two: missed the deadline for the scholarship essay he requested.

  But seriously, what the hell?

  Still, I was afraid of what strike three might look like. Lately my choices weren’t hitting home runs. I was zero for two at bat.

  When Nigel emailed that the window to send him the essay wasn’t completely closed, I took the soft lob he threw. Writing an essay during midterm week—or anytime—wasn’t what I wanted to do, but I wanted this monkey off my back more. I hated the feeling that I owed someone something.

  I exhaled and set my cold IPA on the milk crate beside the couch. My laptop was ready for something inspiring, but I had nothing. The only thing that inspired me was Hope. I wanted to drive back to Cheyenne and stare into her blue eyes. Instead, I stared at a black screen.

  Describe a unique challenge you’ve undergone to pursue your education.

  The essay’s topic was as Hallmark as it got.

  Fuck me.

  I took a sip of the Harvest ale and texted Hope. What’s up?

  Rnt u supposed 2b wrtg an essay?

  I laughed. m/b

  M/b my ass. Listen, write da essay so we cn hang out nxt w/end n I cn beat u @ mario kart.

  Ever since Hope checked out my Tinder profile, she’d been giving me shit. My pros and cons were legit. I knew how to start a fire with two sticks, I was a presentable plus one, and I did love camping and would take her with me. My cons were equally as real: I was not Ryan Reynolds, my baking skills would ruin anyone’s diet, and I wouldn’t let a girl beat me at Mario Kart. The last con got all the swipes—including Hope’s. Now her whole mission was to kick my ass at the video game.

  Nvr gonna happen, but cute idea, I replied.

  We'll c. Get back2work talk 2night

  I leaned against the couch. I didn’t want to wait and talk to her later tonight; I wanted to talk to her now. But I also knew she was spending time with a family friend and couldn’t talk. This family friend had already cut our weekend short, which sucked. I was back in Casper when I’d rather be in Cheyenne.

  I sighed. The sooner I finished this bullshit, the closer I’d be to freedom from Nigel. I cracked my neck and started typing.

  * * *

  Branson Kovak

  Scholarship Essay

  Professor Nigel

  Unique Challenge

  During senior seminar this week, the topic of how we could better relate, understand, and support our community was discussed. The issue of schools and education was presented. We talked about the concerns and fears parents may have when first introducing their children into the classroom. Regardless of the community, the
feelings that parents experience are similar.

  A parent’s job up until the first day of school is to be the sole protector of their child, but when they’re introduced to their teacher, that changes. Now the teacher is the protector of this child. Parents have the right to be concerned. Growing up, I had many teachers, but none of them truly made me feel safe until fifth grade.

  Throughout my childhood, I was faced with challenges that I would never wish on any kid my age. I was in constant fear in and outside of school from many different people in my young life.

  There was a man in my life at home who constantly ruled the household with fear and paranoia that I had to witness along with the rest of my family. Then at school, I was clearly affected from the trauma. I stuttered and had a lisp. Even if I didn’t speak, kids seemed to sense something was wrong, because I was constantly bullied and called a freak, or they wouldn’t hang out with me at all.

  I suffered this fate for many years until I was put in a testing situation with my fifth grade teacher, Mr. Brown. At this point in my life, whenever I was placed under tremendous stress, I would develop nervous ticks and my stuttering got worse. One day we were taking a standard quiz, which was nothing to be stressed about, but I began to do little coughs every couple of seconds. It was a sign of my tick. This occurred for several minutes until the teacher came over and put his hand on my shoulder.

  He knelt next to me and whispered in my ear, “There is nothing to fear here. You are safe.”

  It wasn’t until that moment that I realized I was cared for by someone outside of the terror I had been living with in my home. For the first time in my life, I felt completely and utterly safe somewhere.

  * * *

  I swallowed the emotions at the base of my throat and took a long drink. If my dad ever read this, he’d never speak to me again.

  Don’t quit now.

  It wasn’t Trevor or some command hallucination in my head, it was my own voice reminding me that I was more than my past. And at a base level, that internal voice reminded me that while my apartment might not be much, it was mine, and it was safe.