by Mia Siegert
16
At Monday’s practice, Durrell avoided me in the locker room. I hadn’t seen him since he and Heather thought dry humping in front of us was an awesome idea. Anytime I tried to walk near him, he’d move across the room, picking up a piece of equipment, or going into the bathroom, or rushing out on the ice to work on a strained muscle. Maybe he was just embarrassed at getting carried away. I guess I could see that.
When I stepped on the ice, some of the guys gave me strange looks and a wide berth. When I shot a stray puck at the net as we loosened up, there was whispering behind me.
“Hey, Tristan. Wait up!” Smitty called as he skated up to me. He put his glove over his nose and mouth. “Oh my God. Your breath stinks.”
“Ha, ha,” I said dryly. “Like you didn’t rip that from a Youtube video.”
“I’m serious, though. Your breath smells like dick.”
Smitty was across the ice before I even had a chance to respond.
We dropped to the ice with our legs spread, knees bent so our calves and feet stuck out in a W. I leaned forward to heighten the intensity of the abductor stretch, allowing gravity to split my legs further.
“You look like you’re just waiting for someone to pound your ass,” Durrell commented from behind me.
I turned to face him. “We’re all stretching the same.”
“None of us look like we’re asking for it.”
Some of the guys laughed. My cheeks flushed with anger. “Why are you staring at my ass anyway?” I snapped.
“It’s in the way.”
My brother skated next to me and dropped to one knee, stretching out his quads with a groan. “Oh. My. God. I seriously must have done something when I was sleeping. I’m sore as hell. What about you?”
I glanced at my brother. Beneath his breath, he said, “Ignore them.”
Coach Benoit set up a course with traffic cones and various obstacles. He scribbled the exercise on a white board. We were to weave through, circle, change directions. A ladder was set on its side for us to work the puck through its grates. Robbie volunteered to go first.
Once Coach blew his whistle, it was like magic. Robbie was so light on his feet, it looked like he was tap dancing. He skated across the ice with ease, leaning into the turns and stick handling like he could have kept his eyes closed.
By the time Robbie finished, everyone was tapping their stick against the ice and hollering.
“Who’s next?”
“Tristan wants to go,” Durrell said suddenly.
I tensed up and shook my head. “It’s okay. I’ll wait.”
“No, really. He’s being shy,” Smitty agreed. “Let him go.”
“Butter, get up there,” Coach Benoit said.
I hated doing any exercise after Robbie. It made me look even worse than I was. I took my spot and waited for the whistle. I skated quickly toward the first cone, taking the turn a bit wider than Robbie. My hips twisted with each move.
“I think your girly hips are lying!” Henry yelled, setting most of the guys off in peals of laughter.
I missed one of the ladder rungs. Gritting my teeth, I pulled the puck back to pass it through again.
“Relax, Butter!” Ray-Ray yelled. “Just imagine it’s some guy’s ass and you’ll get it right every time.”
“What the hell?” I came to an abrupt stop.
“Keep going, Butter,” Coach Benoit said.
“Seriously, are you listening to them?”
“I didn’t hear anything,” Coach Benoit said. “Keep going.”
Fuming, I recollected the puck as I slowly wove through the ladder, spinning a clover through three close cones.
As I moved to the next obstacle, stick handling through a ton of pucks, I heard Durrell hum The Phantom of the Opera theme. My blood went cold. I skated up hard to the net. There were four targets in each corner. As I shot, I kept hitting the crossbar. At my seventh attempt, I felt the splinter and lightness as my stick cracked.
“If you can’t perform out here, how can you perform at all?” Durrell’s voice rang.
I whirled on Durrell, my broken stick in hand. “What the hell’s your problem?”
“I don’t have a problem.”
“Yes. You do. You’ve been treating me like crap ever since you started going out with Heather.”
“Personal drama off the ice, Butter,” Coach said. “Go get a new stick and finish up.”
“Aren’t you going to do something?”
“Here,” Robbie said quickly, skating up to me. He pressed his stick in my hand. It felt warm. Way better than mine. With the extra curve in the blade, I got all targets in nine tries.
“Thanks,” I said as I handed it back to Robbie.
“Careful, Robbie,” Henry said. “You might get gay germs off it.”
My face heated. My fists clenched. Something inside me splintered and snapped, just like my stick had.
“Just ignore it,” Robbie said beneath his breath.
To my surprise, I answered with, “No.”
I pulled off my helmet and skated toward the locker room.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Coach Benoit asked.
“I quit!” I yelled over my shoulder.
My teammates’ eyes burned into my back as I stepped off the ice and pulled on my skate guards. Not a single person spoke. No one came after me. Not to say they were sorry, or that I should stay and gut it out.
None of the guys wanted me there. Not even Coach.
I showered slowly then packed up my bag. With a heavy sigh, I left the locker room for the last time.
Dad couldn’t look me in the eye. He tried several times as we sat around the dinner table eating pasta and chicken, mouth opening then closing, sighing again and again. I couldn’t touch my food with Dad looking at me like I broke his heart. I almost regretted my decision.
“We’ll get you playing somewhere,” Dad finally said, although it lacked conviction. “Some other school. Or club. Or worst case, get you in sports management.”
I hung my head. My fingers knitted together. “I’m done, Dad. I don’t want to do this anymore.”
Dad was on his feet so quickly I didn’t see him move. His knuckles blanched from his grip on the table edge. “You’re giving up because of what your teammates said? Some stupid hazing? You know what would happen if you were in the NHL? You know what fans would be saying about you?”
“It’s not about what they’re saying,” I said, even though that wasn’t entirely true. A few times I’d wondered if I was gay. I never looked at guys, but I never really had a girlfriend. I loved musicals, and musical theatre was pretty dominated by gay men. Deep down, I knew I wasn’t. I could look at a man and find him attractive, in the platonic sense; I could admit, “he’s a good looking guy,” but I didn’t get butterflies the way I would around Heather.
“What would you even do without hockey? Have you thought about that?”
I lifted my head. Maybe this was my chance. My opportunity to get what I wanted.
“I want to be an actor,” I blurted.
Everything was silent around me.
“After what your brother did, you still want to act?” Mom said, almost snorting. “You’re going to quit hockey so you can act? You know what people will think about you?”
“I don’t care.”
“Really? Really, you’re not going to care at all that they’ll think you’re queer?”
“Maybe I am,” I challenged.
“That’s not funny.”
“No, it’s not funny because it’s stupid as hell.”
“What’s gotten into you?”
“You mean me getting a backbone?”
I got up and stomped up the steps, slowing near the top, wondering if Robbie or Dad would defend me. But Robbie remained silent a
nd Dad only said, “He was out of line.”
Mom’s voice sighed. “I don’t know what’s gotten into him.”
I sat on the top of the steps to listen.
“Has he always wanted to act?” Dad murmured.
I pleaded for Robbie to say something. To be my savior and say yes. But Robbie was silent.
“It’s a phase,” Mom said, trying to comfort him. “I’d almost count on it. Probably he’s getting affected because of the draft.”
“You’re probably right,” Dad said with a sigh. “I don’t know if I should start making calls now or later. Surely someone would give him a job as an equipment manager or something.”
“You can’t be too surprised. We’ve known since he was eight.”
“I hoped he’d catch up,” Dad said.
“So, we’ll have him be Robbie’s personal assistant. He can manage him directly.”
What?
I stormed to Robbie’s room, opened the door, then slammed it shut, hoping my parents would realize I overheard them.
Robbie’s personal assistant? My parents degraded me to being his personal assistant?
I flopped on my mattress face down. I wouldn’t do it. I put up with a lot but that was too much.
So I wouldn’t.
There was something strangely calming in quitting hockey—the simple freedom of doing what I wanted. I wouldn’t play hockey, I wouldn’t be Robbie’s assistant, and I would star in a musical. Soon, I’d be out of there. Off to some college on a scholarship, get a job to cover housing. Change my name, maybe even legally. I would never act under the name Betterby. In playbills, I wouldn’t thank my parents.
I didn’t hear Robbie enter the room but I noticed when he sat on the mattress next to mine. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“Why didn’t you stand up for me?” I asked.
“You know why.”
“No. I don’t.” I sat upright. “Seriously, what’s with all the cryptic stuff? Just tell me what’s going on.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
Robbie got on his feet and walked to the door. “I’m getting a shower.”
“You already had one.”
“So you’re monitoring me now?”
“Pot calling the kettle black?”
“Whatever,” he said, stepping into the hallway.
I snorted and flopped on my back. “Whatever,” I muttered to the empty room.
17
I don’t think I’d ever slept better in my life. Being free from hockey was a relief. I wouldn’t be compared to Robbie. I could focus on my acting and actually have the time to take the pro bono lessons. For the first time, I was an individual. Not nameless, disappearing on the ice, a replaceable player.
My stomach did a flip as I pulled into the parking lot and watched the students walking in and out of Briar Rose’s front doors. Things would change today. I wasn’t a hockey player; I was an actor, one in the musical, one who had an insanely hard tap routine to learn within a few months.
I turned the ignition off, locked my car behind me, and walked into the building. Everyone stared at me. Not just a few looks in the hallway. Literally everyone was watching me. I fought to keep from vomiting as I walked down the hall toward my locker. Word got around fast. I wasn’t Robbie’s winger anymore. I was an individual, standing on my own feet.
And it was terrifying.
When I turned around the corner, a large crowd had formed in a semi-circle around my locker. They parted like a corridor as I approached. I heard my name through whispers of white noise and giggles.
I weaved between them until I stood dead center and froze.
The top of my locker to the bottom was covered with paper and pictures. Not just any papers and pictures, but of musicals. Musicals I’d never intended for anyone to discover I liked. Mary Poppins, The Lion King, Shrek, Seussical the Musical, Annie Get Your Gun, Legally Blonde, Starlight Express, The Secret Garden, Cats.
Worse than that were pages of fanfic I wrote. I picked off one of the papers and looked at it. Silenced1 was circled in red, an arrow pointing to it that read TRISTAN. GlitterB0mb was scratched out in black, permanent marker so it wasn’t visible.
Everyone around me began to laugh. Or maybe they were already laughing, and I only realized it at that moment. Like I was in a void—just me and the incriminating papers—and that void dissipated into reality: I was at school, and people were laughing at me.
Although pointless, I ripped down as many papers as I could and crumpled them together. The only people who knew about me liking musicals and writing fan-fiction were the theatre people and Robbie, sort of. My heartbeat quickened. Maybe Robbie staged an elaborate prank. He would have done shit like this a year ago. Would have thought it was hilarious. I doubted Robbie even knew the names of most of these musicals, but nixing Robbie left Heather, and it couldn’t have been Heather. She was ignoring me, but she would never go out of her way to be that cruel. She had nothing to gain from my downfall.
With papers in hand like a bouquet of weeds, I opened my locker. The inside was stuffed with printouts, pictures, and children’s activity books that tumbled to the floor. I stared at the mess. There was only one person besides me who knew my locker combination.
Heather.
On the inside of the locker door, someone wrote in permanent marker: GROW UP TRISTAN! Underneath that, an underlined word: FAGGOT.
I didn’t recognize the handwriting.
I scooped the papers together in my arms and threw them in the garbage can. I thought about rebutting, about yelling at the voyeuristic students to knock it off, or claim that I was set up, but that wouldn’t make a difference. The damage was done. Irreversible. No one forgot anything in high school. Teachers and parents always talked about people forgetting with time, but they didn’t. Once a person became a target, they were a target for life. Years would pass, and I’d graduate with a bunch of “kiddie musicals” on my back.
My thoughts collided like cars on the New Jersey Turnpike at rush hour in a blizzard. I wanted to vanish like I’d never existed. More than that, I wanted to erase all my years of friendship with Heather. If it weren’t for her, I probably never would have even gotten into musicals in the first place, or written fan-fiction, which was what really embarrassed me. Guys didn’t really write fanfic. At least none I knew about. Maybe, instead of fan-fiction, I’d have spent more time on my original stories, or maybe I would have been content with hockey. I could stop listening to musical soundtracks altogether and beg to rejoin the hockey team again and be a healthy scratch the rest of the season. I could pretend that I’d had a psychotic breakdown, and Coach Benoit would say he understood. I could go to college for sports management. Or why even bother with college if I’d just be Robbie’s personal assistant, living off his charity?
No. I couldn’t do that. If Robbie wasn’t even hospitalized after his second attempt, no way would I be able to pull the crazy card.
Even if I returned to hockey, I’d still be teased. Bullies never let things go. Nor did the people who wanted to be friends with bullies. No one ever let things go until someone died. Then the bullies were magically the recently deceased’s best friends. I’m going to miss him so much. He was like a brother to me. We were just joking, you know?
Because everyone always joked when it was all over. No one wanted to accept responsibility, accept the blame when things became permanent, irreversible.
Suicide.
18
By the time I got to Acting, barely anyone looked at me except Keisha. Her eyes were sympathetic, but she remained silent. I stopped in front of Heather’s chair. She was texting on her phone.
“I didn’t do it,” she said, not even looking up.
“You’re the only person who knows my locker combination.”
“No, I’m not.”
&nb
sp; “Yes, you are—” I stopped myself. Then I took a step back. “Did you give my combination to Durrell?”
“They were just messing with you. It’s just a prank.”
“It’s more than a prank, and you know it.”
I turned my back to Heather and sat on the other side of the room. Durrell orchestrated this? Maybe he and Heather were together, but that didn’t explain why I was a target. I’d never been a threat to their relationship.
Craig sat next to me, sheet music in hand. “Are you all right?” When I didn’t answer immediately, he lowered his voice, “Want me to talk to Heather?”
“No.”
He gave a sympathetic smile and extended the sheet music. “Elisa’s not in. Booked a role in Orange Is The New Black. Some high school flashback. Soooooo . . . I need a partner. Mind going over this with me if you’ve got a moment?”
I took the sheet music from him. It was the “I Am Aldopho” song. “You want me to be the Chaperone?” I asked, unable to keep an amused smirk off my face. “Wouldn’t you want to choose someone like Keisha instead?”
“Gorgeous as she is, I’d rather pretend to seduce someone with rippling abs,” Craig said, throwing a hand over his heart. But then, he became more serious again. “You sure you don’t want me to talk to Heather? I mean, it’s even making me uncomfortable. You two were supposed to be like conjoined.”
“It’s fine.”
“You sure?” Craig asked. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”
“A little late for that.”
“Well, more hurt than you already are. Seriously, you’re one of my besties, even though you’re, you know, straight.” He paused, over-dramatically leaning toward me, wiggling his eyebrows. “Then again, maybe that’s why I’m so unusually attracted to you.”
I snorted, “You are not.”
“You’re right. I’m not. Your twin’s the hot one.”
“Craig!”
We burst out laughing. I pulled Craig into a headlock as he made kissy faces at me and tried to wrestle me to the ground. Ms. Price interrupted us, “Are you two rehearsing? Because the words out of your mouths don’t sound like they’re from The Drowsy Chaperone.”