by Mia Siegert
I turned to the door, for a moment forgetting about my brother until I saw him standing near it, making HELP ME gestures while Kenny continued to flourish with his hands. I cut over to him and patted Kenny on the back. “Sorry to cut in, but I’ve gotta head back and I’m his ride.”
“Aww, that’s too bad.” Kenny grinned at Robbie. “I’ll add you on Facebook.”
“Right,” Robbie said between grit teeth. He grabbed my arm and dragged me out the door. Beneath his breath, he hissed, “Remind me to find out his last name so I can block him before he gets the chance to add me.”
“That bad?”
“He tried to talk me into watching Glee and The New Normal.”
“The horror.”
“I know, right? Then he had the nerve to tell me that hockey was a barbaric, primitive sport until I said I played it. Then he magically had a change of heart. And get this, when I asked him who he’d hypothetically root for, do you know who he said? Do you?”
Even though I knew the answer, I said, “Winnipeg Jets?”
“What? No. The jerk said he was totally a fan of the Rangers. You know how much I hate bandwagon New York fans? It’s one thing if he grew up liking them, had parents who actually saw them win their last Cup, but no excuses!”
“Oh, come on.”
“I could have overlooked the other issues, but that? That’s crossing the damn line.”
I couldn’t help it. I burst out laughing. Robbie gave me a hard shove as we walked into the cold night’s air. “It’s not funny!”
“Oh, come on. You can’t say that someone liking a rival hockey team is a deal breaker.”
“Yes, I can!” he huffed, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Ever think about what would happen if you were drafted by the Rangers?”
Immediately, a look of horror crossed Robbie’s face. “You don’t think . . .”
“It could be payback.” I knew I was pushing it, but I was in too good of a mood to resist. “Devils drafted Matteau’s kid, Rangers draft—”
“Ugh. I hate you, Tristan. I really do.”
Robbie shook his head crossly, but I kept smiling. How could I not? Keisha just made my night, no, my week even. Heather’s expression was priceless. I was in a great mood, and Robbie could deal with a few miserable hours. It was the least he owed me.
Mom was in the kitchen on her cellphone when we came in. “How was the party?” she asked, not looking up.
“Amazing,” I said without thinking about whether she really wanted an answer or not. Mom turned her body away. I guess she didn’t. At least not from me. I’m not sure why I blurted out, “Keisha was really stoked that I was there. Danced with her the whole night.”
Immediately, Mom whipped around. Her face lit up. I’d never seen an expression like this from her. Ever. “Who’s Keisha? Birthday girl?”
“Yeah. She’s this amazing girl in acting.” When Mom twitched a little, I added, “Potential girlfriend. I mean, I hope. Nice, smart, beautiful—”
“Ugh,” Robbie said. “You’re going to make me barf.”
Mom laughed. A rare, genuine laugh. She actually stood up and ruffled my hair. I wanted to twist my body and embrace her, but that would’ve been too much. We might have grown up starved for touch, but I’d take what small endearments I could get. The glow soon faded when Mom asked, “What about you, Robbie? Any potential girlfriends?”
Robbie stiffened. “No.”
“Really?” Mom stepped away from me. “Doesn’t seem fair that Tristan’s getting all the attention, although Keisha sounds great.”
“She is great,” I said.
But Mom wouldn’t stop. “I know you’ve been focused on the draft, but haven’t you noticed someone?”
To Mom, Robbie being gay would be even more crushing than if I was. If she seemed that insulted by me acting, I couldn’t imagine the rage if she knew about Robbie.
Robbie played with his fake lip piercing, like he was figuring out an excuse to take off. I felt a sudden pain in my chest, my lungs burning. Robbie’s face stayed blank, but his silent screams overflowed and leaked into me.
Something was wrong.
I opened my mouth to speak but nothing came out. What could I say, especially in front of Mom? Before I could think of something, Robbie cut me off, surprising me as he said, “There’s sort of someone . . .” His voice trailed off into a nothingness.
Before she’d have the chance to ask more, Robbie hustled up the stairs, shoving past Dad as he came down.
“What’s with him?” Dad asked.
“Beats me,” I lied, eyeing the stairs. If I took off right then after Robbie, my parents would know something was up. “I was telling Mom about Keisha. She’s the girl whose party we went to.” I felt in my pocket for my cell and pulled it out. I flipped through the photos before awkwardly holding my phone out. Mom reached for it first, but Dad closed his hand around the phone. He gazed at the pictures and flipped through, nodding his head.
“She’s pretty,” he said, totally disinterested before handing the phone to Mom.
Mom’s finger hovered over the photos as she went through, the smile breaking with a hint of confusion.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Nothing,” Mom murmured. “She’s just . . . not what I expected. She seems nice. Good smile.”
“What’d you expect?” I asked.
“Just . . . something else.” Mom forced a smile then. “I’m glad you’re dating a girl though.”
A girl. Not that girl. Or Keisha. But a girl. Like any woman would be better than a man in her eyes.
I took my phone back and walked up the stairs to Robbie’s room. He was already in pajamas sitting at his computer, weaving back and forth in the chair as he looked at the screen, headphones blasting. When he noticed me, he took his headphones off and hit pause. I was surprised that it wasn’t some female, piano rock musician he was listening to but some clashing beat with a distinctly male voice.
“Who are you listening to?”
“There’s this guy I’ve talked to a bit online,” he mumbled.
“That Jimmy guy?”
“Yeah. He sent me a link to his band’s demos. I think they’re pretty good.”
From what little I heard, they were pretty garbage.
“How was it with Mom and Dad and the girlfriend interrogation?” Robbie asked.
“Mom got really weird after I showed her pictures.”
Robbie’s lower lip puffed out. “You can’t tell me you’re surprised.”
“Actually, I am.”
“It’s because she’s black.”
“Huh?”
Robbie shook his head. “Seriously, have you seen Mom with any friends who weren’t waspy Stepford Wives?”
“No . . .” I murmured. “Durrell’s been over before. She’s never said anything about him.”
“He plays hockey. He’s great at it. And he’s on D, so I’m not competing with him for a roster spot,” he said. “She’s probably caught in the dilemma deciding which is worse, having a gay son, or having her white son date a black woman.”
“Jeez . . .” I sat at my computer.
Robbie twisted in his computer chair to face me. “Don’t let it get to you. For what it’s worth, I think she’s attractive . . . you know . . . for a girl.”
A smile cracked on my brother’s face, enough to make me laugh. He got to his feet, stretched, and walked to his mattress.
“Go upload your stupid photos to Facebook and tag her, then get the lights. I’m tired as hell.”
“About the party,” I began. “Are you okay?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, is everything cool?”
Robbie got on his mattress and under the covers. “Yeah. It’s cool.”
“Yo
u sure?”
“Yeah. I’m sure.”
My shoulders relaxed. I’d rather a false alarm than the alternative.
By the time I uploaded and tagged my photos and liked every one that Keisha uploaded except the ones with Heather and Durrell, almost two hours had passed. Robbie was still, probably asleep. I got into bed.
If I were just a little bit braver, I would have kissed Keisha on the lips. Kissing Keisha properly would have to wait. She seemed to like the romantic, mushy stuff, and I kind of liked that, too. Maybe I’d take her out to some retro ice skating park with music from the 70s, 80s, and 90s. I didn’t know if she skated, but if she didn’t, it’d be a good excuse to have my arm around her for support and I could show off. I might have been crap next to my brother, but I’d be good to her.
Finally, things were going right.
25
I woke up to muffled screaming. For a few disoriented moments, I stayed on my mattress, not wanting to get up. Monday mornings were always the worst. A cold breeze came in from our window. I stood up, groggily stepped over the mattress, and tugged at the wood. It wouldn’t budge. “Hey Robbie, help me get this thing shut?”
Silence.
I looked behind my shoulder; the mattress next to mine was empty. From downstairs, there was more screaming: louder, less muted.
I didn’t stay in my room another second. My socks skidded on the floor when I sprinted out of my room and to the stairs, still in my sweatshirt and pajama bottoms. The clock chimed six times as I ran down the steps, echoing through the long hallway.
But when I got downstairs, shouting, “Where’s Robbie?” he was right there. On the couch, arms folded across his chest. At first glance, he looked normal, but a closer look showed that his clothes were filthy, face scratched up and bruised.
“What’s going on?” I demanded. “Robbie, what happened?!”
Mom and Dad whirled on me, stunned. Like they forgot I lived in the house. They didn’t need to answer. Their expressions said everything I needed to know.
Robbie tried it again.
As if two suicide attempts weren’t bad enough, now there was a third. If statistics on suicide were accurate, soon there would be a fourth, and a fifth, until finally he’d take it too far and there wouldn’t be a next time.
My veins throbbed by my temple, skin burning hot from anger. We shared the same room, mattresses right next to each other on the goddamn floor. Last night, we had a great time. Why didn’t he wake me up?
My body seized with hurt. This was just proof that Robbie and I would never be close. We weren’t born close, so why should we get close now? The first time he tried to kill himself, I was numb. The second time he tried, I went to an audition and came back guilty as hell. My parents made me think I was the reason he couldn’t cope. Robbie didn’t try to commit suicide because of me. I had nothing to do with it.
Mom rubbed the bridge of her nose. She looked so weary and old. “The Dean is going to come here this afternoon so we can discuss a leave of absence.”
“Car accident,” Dad said wearily. “If she asks, it was a car accident.”
“That’d be telling the truth,” my twin muttered.
Unbelievable . . .
“Are you going to send Robbie to a psychiatric hospital?” I demanded.
“No.” Mom looked at Dad, then said, “We’re pulling both of you from school to focus on playoffs.”
“Are you serious?” I gawked. “I don’t even play hockey anymore!”
“You need to watch your brother.”
“I’m eighteen. You can’t make me.”
“Actually, we can until you finish the school year, unless you want to drop out, stay in a homeless shelter, and be cut off financially.”
I’d had enough. If I was going to get grounded by proxy anyway, I would at least take the opportunity to speak my mind.
Mom asked, “Something you want to say, or are we clear?”
She hated questions. She hated when we answered questions. She hated when we asked them. I looked her dead in the eye.
“Yeah, actually.” I clenched my fists. “What the hell is wrong with you? Why would you only take Robbie to the hospital once even though he’s tried three times? Are appearances worth more than his life? He needs to be committed, or in therapy, or something!”
“Are you done?” Mom said in the way that meant discussion over.
“You and Dad, especially Dad, blamed me for Robbie trying to kill himself. What kind of demented parents blame their own child for something like that?”
“Tristan—”
“It wasn’t my fault that Robbie tried to hang himself. I had nothing to do with it! Nothing! I went to one stupid audition. I didn’t tell him to tie a noose around his neck!”
“That’s unfair—”
But I couldn’t stop. The brakes on my verbal locomotive wouldn’t slow down. “If you don’t acknowledge me as your son, then don’t make me a scapegoat for your own shortcomings as parents!”
“Tristan, that’s enough!” Dad yelled. “You’re completely out of line taking this out on your mother.”
“I’m out of line? Pot calling the kettle black? When the hell have you ever treated me like a son? When have you ever done anything for me?” I faced Mom. “Like you calling me a faggot because I like musicals and want to act. Or you judging Keisha because she’s black.”
Mom became pale. “I’m not racist or homophobic—”
“Maybe you’re not if it’s someone else’s kid!” I snarled. “You know what I was doing after school while Robbie was at hockey practice? I was at rehearsals. Because that audition I did? Yeah. I booked a lead in the spring musical.”
“Tristan—”
“Seriously, what’s wrong with you two? Are you guys trying to win the worst parents of the year award? Because if you are, congratulations. I think you’re in the lead.”
Dad bunched his fists up like he was about to strike me. In his eyes, I didn’t see anger. I saw guilt and the threat of tears. “One more outburst, and—”
I laughed. “And what? What else could you possibly take from me?” I started up the steps, but only made it halfway before I stopped and turned around. I leaned on the banister to glare at my twin. He gazed at me, eyes shiny with tears.
Looking him dead in the eye, I said, “I never thought I’d actually hate you.”
I stormed up to the room, slammed the door, then waited. There was only silence. I pressed my ear to the door. Not a peep.
They weren’t coming.
I fell on my mattress, buried my face in my pillow, and began to cry. They didn’t care enough to follow me and see if I was okay, or even to punish me.
I screamed into my pillow, but I didn’t feel better. Screamed again; still nothing. Although I didn’t want to kill myself, at that moment I didn’t want to live. What was the point? I was eighteen, and I was still a prisoner.
I pulled the covers over my head, closed my eyes, and tried to force myself to sleep but I kept turning and shifting uncomfortably. I must have passed out at some point because the next time I opened my eyes, I felt someone watching. “Go away, Robbie.”
“It’s Dad.”
I pulled the covers down from my face and rubbed dried snot off of my nostrils. “What do you want?”
Dad sighed, “Mind if I come in?” He didn’t wait for me to answer before he stepped in and closed the door behind him. “I know this isn’t fair for you. Your mom, too. Especially her. You really shook her up with the homophobic and racist thing.”
“Good.”
Dad hesitated. “Look. We’re a small family. Your mom and I can only do so much. Robbie needs all the support he can get.”
I stared at my dad incredulously. Did he really talk about Robbie’s potential career as being a priority for me? That I needed to sacrifice even mo
re? “Then send him to a therapist and leave me alone.”
“He can’t go.”
“He can’t play if he, you know, kills himself.”
“He can’t play if he doesn’t get drafted. And he won’t get drafted if . . .” Dad’s voice trailed off. “No team’s going to want a liability. If they think he’s too depressed to function . . .” He looked me straight in the eye. “He’s only got one shot to make it, Tristan. We all need to make sacrifices and this . . . it’s just until the draft. Then he can get a therapist. If you’re becoming an actor, you’ve got the rest of your life.”
“Actually, I don’t,” I snapped. “Dancers only have so many years. If my voice isn’t strong enough—” I couldn’t finish. I hugged my pillow to my chest.
“Is there anything we can do to make it up to you?”
“Yeah. You can put me up for adoption,” I muttered.
“Do you want to go get some lunch? I could take you and Robbie to get Chinese. Buy you guys some DVDs at the mall.”
“Buy us some DVDs, yeah. That’s making it up to me.” I set my pillow down. “I want to do the musical.”
“You need to watch Robbie.”
“So you want me to chauffeur him to and from practice and won’t let me go to my rehearsals, which, by the way, are at the same time.”
“He’s been a mess without you on the ice.”
“He’s not a mess because of me. He’s a mess because the guys are beating the shit out of him for being gay.”
As soon as the words left my mouth, I knew I fucked up. Big time. Dad stared at me. I couldn’t read his expression. He took a few strides across the room to the closed door, opened it, and peered out. He shut it softly and sat on the mattress next to me.
I pressed my head in my hands. Outing someone was about the worst thing a person could do. It was Robbie’s life to share, not mine.
“Robbie’s gay?” Dad asked after several minutes. “Did he tell you?”
“He told everyone. He was trying to protect me from some of the football players.” I bit my lip. “. . . please don’t tell him I told you that. Or tell Mom.”