by Mia Siegert
Despite the shitty morning, I brightly said, “Would you believe us if we said it was an interpretive ballet of The Drowsy Chaperone?”
“Crossed over with The Book of Mormon,” Craig joined me.
“But politically correct! Sort of. Only not really.”
“Complete with a WWE brawl, which we’d be more than happy to demonstrate.”
“But we’ll need a lot of props first, and a good fight captain. Anyone here know tai kwon do?”
Although Ms. Price laughed, Heather’s voice filtered through the commotion, a voice only I was meant to hear. “Maybe if you learned how to dance half as good as Craig, people would take you more seriously.”
I stopped laughing.
“What’s wrong?” Craig asked.
“Nothing,” I mumbled. I stared at the sheet music just so I wouldn’t have to look anyone in the eye.
Heather was right. I’d never be taken seriously. I was a senior. Learning choreography from Heather and Youtube videos wasn’t enough to make up for such a late start. Those guys at the audition were just being nice. She was probably right—I was cast as Robert because I could skate. Hell, if Robbie auditioned, he probably would have been cast as Robert before me.
By the end of class, I’d gone through “I Am Aldolpho” twice with Craig and had sweat through my spare T-shirt as learning the tap choreography for “Cold Feets” in a pair of borrowed shoes, which would be my biggest number. I was so exhausted I almost forgot what would face me once I left the sanctuary of class. But it came back to me fast the moment I was shoved against a locker hard enough to knock the breath out of me.
19
My sides ached from people shoving into me any time I walked down the hall. Someone tried to trip me on the stairs. I barely caught the railing in time. I continued to the cafeteria, stopping outside its doors and wondered whether it was worth it.
Hesitantly, I entered the cafeteria. I wanted a hot lunch, but I grabbed a yogurt, small bag of Fritos, and a bottle of V8 so I could avoid the line. I passed Heather on the way to our old table. Durrell and the guys didn’t even look at me. I thought I heard Keisha say my name, but when I turned my head she was staring at her lunch tray.
As soon as I sat down, I was pelted with crumpled paper balls. Noticing a little bit of pencil on the lined paper, I opened one up—MUSICAL FAG. Then another—R U A PEDO IF U LIKE ANNIE?
I shrank down in my seat like I could fold myself and disappear. Maybe it was time to start taking a paper bag lunch to school and seeing if I could eat in the music room with the band geeks. Even though Craig and his self-dubbed Gay-Bros were fun in acting, I couldn’t sit with them. Not unless I wanted to get the shit kicked out of me.
I finished my yogurt and was just about to open the bag of Fritos, when I noticed some of the football jocks across the cafeteria. Several of them glanced in my direction, then they got up and walked toward me. Durrell wrapped his arm around Heather’s shoulder and pointed at me. Heather looked me dead in the eye, smirked, and kissed Durrell.
The football jocks came closer. I shoved the bag of Fritos and the bottle of V8 into my backpack so I could make a getaway.
“Relax,” one of the guys, Eric, said. His smirk was the cruelest. I picked up my backpack anyway and stood to leave, but he forced me back down. “No, stay.”
I looked at the exit. Could I outrun them? Possibly, but that would only make things worse the next time.
I looked around the football jocks to the Gay-Bros’ table. Craig and I made eye contact. I mouthed a plea for help. But Craig shook his head apologetically and looked away. Just like everyone else at the table.
I looked toward Durrell’s table, tried to make eye contact with my former teammates. They refused to look at me either. But Heather stared at me dead on. Beside her, an empty chair where Keisha normally sat.
“Why don’t you dance? Do some of that gay ballet stuff,” Eric taunted.
“I don’t do ballet,” I lied.
“Or do you just dance alone in your bedroom when you think no one’s watching?”
I thought about Heather, about rehearsing with her. I thought about the Youtube barre exercises I practiced. How the hell did they know about that?
Eric’s hand closed on the back of my neck, gripping tightly enough for it to hurt.
“You know what’s going to happen next,” Eric said quietly. He was right; I knew what was coming. I clenched my fists. I’d never been in a single hockey fight, and now I was to go against football players who towered over me. In the corner of my eye, I saw people pull out their cellphones to take video. A lunch aid slipped into the hallway.
I braced my body and swung my fist out. I barely caught his side before Eric’s friends forced my arms behind my back. I tried to kick free, back arching as Eric took a swing. The harsh pain of knuckles collided into my stomach. His class ring dug deep in my side. I gasped for breath, my body wriggling to break free.
With a knee to my back, they forced me to the ground, slamming my face against the floor. A boot connected with my ribs moments before I was flipped on my back. Eric held a banana in front of my face. “Suck it, musical fag.” I turned my head to the side, teeth grit, trying not to cry. “Suck it like a dick!”
“Leave my brother alone.”
The pressure around me eased. I was freed. I scrambled to my feet, gripping a chair for support as the cafeteria spun.
Robbie stood at the end of the table, hands balled up in fists. His hateful glare was locked on Eric. He might have been shorter than Eric and the football guys, but he made them look small, carrying himself large. His elbows bent out, muscle definition clear. He’d be faster than the football guys, more wiry and quick on his feet. Football guys might have known how to tackle, but hockey guys fought. They policed the ice, righting wrongs. I was being wronged, and Robbie rarely lost a fight.
Behind Robbie, at his table, I saw Raiden stand up, prepared to jump in if things got out of hand.
The football guys almost shrank back. I had never seen Robbie look so dangerous. He never looked this scary when he was on the ice. His fake lip ring made him look more intimidating, and his bleached blond hair made his brown eyes even darker. Like they were black, fiery coal or molten lava.
“We were just joking around,” Eric tried to explain, still trying to laugh, to smile, to say anything to pacify Robbie.
“Didn’t look like joking to me.” Robbie took a step closer. “Tristan, you okay?”
I couldn’t even wheeze an answer. Robbie stepped up to me and gently pressed on my shoulder until I eased myself on the chair
Eric tried to laugh again, each guffaw breaking up his nervousness. “It was just a joke. Chill. I mean, you used to haze him all the time.”
“I never made him try to choke.”
Eric swallowed. “I mean, you have to admit that listening to musicals is a faggy thing to do.”
“I don’t have to admit anything.”
I sank deeper into my chair, completely limp, hurting, and mute from fear. Robbie’s face contorted the same way it always did when he was figuring out what to say. “Some straight guys like musicals. And some gay guys—” Robbie’s voice cut off. There was something I couldn’t place in his expression. Like he was going to throw up, or scream, or something.
“Some gay guys,” he repeated.
My brother shifted his weight. He was breathing fast and heavily. He was trying to stand tall, to look intimidating, but I could sense his fear. While seconds ago, he gave the appearance of towering, now he looked small. So small.
Robbie said, “Some gay guys play hockey.”
My chest restricted harder than when I was punched. I stared at my brother. Everything became startlingly clear. How many times had Robbie talked with me, saying, “they don’t know,” again and again and again? Robbie’s pleas in the kitchen with the knife. My int
estines twisted into knots, hurting more than the bruises that would form.
Eric laughed. “What? You’re saying all these fags are wanting to play hockey in pink jerseys?”
“Oh, because being gay means pink and sparkles and unicorns. Yeah, real mature, Eric,” Robbie snapped.
“Jesus, Robbie. Chill. It’s not like you’re some homo,” Eric said defensively, holding up his hands.
Robbie’s eyes narrowed into thinner slits. My throat tightened. Robbie wasn’t considering doing here and now what I feared . . . could he? Not in front of everyone, just to protect me?
“Robbie,” I finally whispered. He broke his glare to look at me. Maybe we weren’t super close, but I couldn’t let him do this. I wasn’t worth him losing his future. More than his favorite sport, his life. “Don’t.”
I thought he might have faltered. There was a sheen over his dark eyes. I extended my hand toward him, but he didn’t reach for me.
Instead, Robbie turned his full attention to Eric. I gripped onto the bottom of my seat. Felt dried chewing gum brush against my knuckle.
Robbie leaned toward Eric. His voice lowered in pitch. “Actually, I am.”
And then, in an even deeper growl, Robbie said, “Get the hell away from my brother before I break your fucking jaw.”
There was a dead silence throughout the cafeteria. Hundreds of eyes and cellphones were fixed on our table. On Robbie.
Eric looked stunned, opening and closing his mouth a few times before he turned his back to the table. Some of the hockey guys stared wide-eyed. Durrell’s face turned a sickly color, the pallor of guilt. Raiden left the cafeteria in a hurry. I swore I saw Heather smile.
Robbie continued glaring at Eric until he was across the cafeteria, even mouthing, “I will break you,” when it looked like Eric might return. Only when Eric was far enough away did Robbie drop into the chair directly across from me. He rested his face in his hands. “Damn it.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” I said, trembling slightly.
He didn’t look at me. “Yeah, I did.”
“But your career—”
“Yeah,” he said, barely audible. “I know.”
Desperately, I tried to make eye contact with my twin. I reached out across the table to touch his arm, but he yanked it away from me. The bell signaled the end of lunch. Robbie got to his feet and slung his backpack over his shoulder.
“I’ll see you after practice.” He started to the cafeteria exit then paused. “If anyone, and I mean anyone, gives you crap, promise to tell me?”
“But—”
“Promise me, Tristan. Right now. Or I swear to God, I will make you get dentures.”
Firm. Non-negotiable.
I nodded. Robbie looked relieved and continued out of the cafeteria. My mind was reeling. My twin outed himself in front of the entire school just to protect me.
Me.
And it worked.
For the rest of the day, people left me alone. No papers were thrown at me, no taunts about musicals and needing to grow up. People barely even acknowledged me. Just like before. All at once, it didn’t matter that my former-best friend betrayed me. Now I had a closer bond with someone who mattered. Someone I thought I barely knew, or would ever get to know. Someone who had desperately been trying to get my attention for years, and until now I completely ignored.
My brother.
My twin.
Robbie.
20
Sometimes, the Internet really sucked. Without having a face to directly confront, people typed all the stuff they wouldn’t dare say in person. Cyber-bullying and trolling is unavoidable to anyone who uses the Internet. Tumblr, Facebook, Twitter, Instagram. Parents and teachers always tell bullied kids to ignore it, but they don’t get that it’s impossible to ignore something in your face at every turn. They’re too old to understand that things now are different than when they were young and used America Online on 28.8 kb/s dial-up modems.
After we came home—me from my first rehearsal, Robbie from practice—we avoided going up to his room and using our computers. My bruises from the lunch fight starting to turn eggplant and yellow.
There were a few awkward moments of eye contact and fumbled half-starts, but we didn’t really talk. I didn’t tell Robbie that I was sorry; he didn’t tell me how he got the cut on his face. Neither one of us wanted to see the online damage that was undoubtedly waiting for us. We cleaned the house and made dinner without complaint, then stalled in the living room. Robbie agreed to watch Into The Woods with me since Mom and Dad were out, although he barely paid attention. When the movie was over, he grabbed the remote and put on the game—New Jersey Devils versus Tampa Bay Lightning—and I had to listen to him bitch after Stamkos got a power-play goal on a breakaway.
I got out Othello from my backpack and started to do my reading for next week. By the time the game was over and Robbie’s voice was hoarse from screaming at the refs, I’d read through most of Othello, and wasn’t in the mood to see another game when Robbie said he wanted to see what happened on the west coast.
“You sure you don’t want to see it?” Robbie asked, almost pleading. “San Jose Sharks versus the Minnesota Wild.”
“Not really,” I admitted. Robbie looked down. I probably shouldn’t have said that, especially after what he sacrificed for me, but I had to be honest. I liked hockey, but I didn’t love it. Robbie didn’t just love hockey; he breathed it.
I walked up to Robbie’s room and sat at the table. Sooner or later, I’d need to address the inevitable. I ignored the number of notifications on my own Facebook page as I typed in my twin’s name. My stomach twisted when the page loaded. Robbie’s entire timeline was filled with questions and comments:
are you really gay?
did u just say that so tristan wudnt get picked on?
r u a fag?
What the hell was up with lunch???????
call me.
faggot
I’ll always support you, no matter who or what you are. <3
we need to talk. Call me.
no fags on the hockey team
call me.
WTF!?!??!?!?!?!?!
I alaways kenw you were gya!1
BIG HUGS
You need Jesus. I’ll pray for you. It’s not too late.
soap on a rope lawlz
There wasn’t a single post from Raiden, which was weird since he always spammed Robbie’s Facebook with Imgur memes and Youtube videos.
Even though none of those messages were directed at me, I felt hollow.
My own Facebook was getting bombarded with comments, too, though not on the same scale. There was a sweet one from Keisha: Just wanted to send hugs to you and Robbie and say hang in there. Tell him I said yay for gay! =) Maybe it was just in my head, but lately it seemed like she had been going out of her way to talk to me.
Other students posted links to musical parody videos on Youtube that were pretty funny, like “If You Were Gay” from Avenue Q, but some of the others weren’t so great. I deleted all of the comments that made fun of me for liking “kiddie musicals,” and deleted the ones that made fun of me with the straight twin/gay twin crap, but for each one I deleted, it seemed like three more would appear, some even with a hashtag #freedomofspeech, #nohomo, or a super offensive “no offense but.” I wondered if I should have been deleting people from Facebook rather than deleting comments, but I didn’t want to seem unpopular. Facebook friends showed social hierarchy. No one took anybody seriously if they had under four hundred friends. Even three hundred and ninety-nine friends wasn’t good enough.
I quickly typed a status: My brother is the bravest person I know.
I waited a moment before deleting what I typed without posting it.
“How bad is it?” Robbie asked from the doorway holding an ice pack. I hadn’t even h
eard him come up the stairs. Before I had the chance to answer, Robbie rubbed his forehead and said, “Never mind. I’ll see for myself.”
“Don’t,” I said, surprised I found my voice. “Give me your password and I’ll take care of it.”
Robbie hesitated and rubbed his hands together. “They’ll say I’m a pussy if you delete posts.”
“They’re going to say stuff anyway.”
Robbie sighed. I thought he might tell me off, but instead he said, “Margarine sixteen. No space. Lowercase. For my password, I mean.” He sat on his mattress and flipped through his phone.
I typed in margarine16 and my throat tightened.
There were hundreds of notifications and private messages. I started with his timeline, changing the setting so that only Robbie would be able to post on it. Then I deleted every single hostile post, leaving up the few ones of support, pressing the “Like” button on those. Like Keisha—who already left a note on my Facebook—who wrote: You should check out something like You Can Play or It Gets Better. I can help you if you want.
I moved to the private messages next.
One from Durrell immediately popped up.
Dude, I’m so sorry. I wouldn’t have said that crap about T if I knew. No promises but I’ll try to get the guys to back off you, aiight? Be strong, bro.
I frowned. That was the Durrell I knew. The one who was so cool. Not the monster who hazed me after stealing my best friend. Although I shouldn’t have, I scrolled up through the message to see if there was anything else about me. There wasn’t. They talked about hockey, plans, scouts, college versus juniors, and sometimes a few directions to parties.
Behind me, I heard Robbie hurl his phone at his mattress. I turned around on the computer chair. “Raiden,” he said, answering my unspoken question.
“What’d he say?”
“Nothing. Literally,” he mumbled. “Won’t return any of my texts.” He got to his feet. “I’m taking a shower.”