by Mia Siegert
“Damn.” Dad swore. “Okay. Okay. So he said that to protect you. I can work with that. I’ll contact the scouts and say it was in solidarity with you—”
I faced my Dad, jaw dropped. “You’re going to say it’s a lie?”
“He’s got one shot,” Dad said. “Once he makes it big, he can do what he wants. We’ll just say you’re gay. With you acting and quitting hockey, scouts would believe that. Robbie’ll be the hero that way. Hell, his stock would probably go through the roof.”
I got to my feet. “Get out.”
Dad gazed at me, stunned. “But—”
“Get out,” I reiterated with a growl.
He got to his feet. Then said, “I’ll reimburse you for doing this—”
“I said, get out.”
“Dance clothes? Equipment? Shoes? Lessons once the season’s over?”
“Get out!” I yelled, pulling open the door. If there was one thing I knew, it was that I wouldn’t ever give Dad the satisfaction of buying me over. “Get OUT!”
“Equipment, clothes, shoes, lessons once the season’s over, and in the interim, I’ll buy you Broadway tickets.”
. . . except possibly that.
My lips tugged down. This had nothing to do with giving my parents satisfaction—but they owed me. Dance shoes were expensive. Dance clothes were expensive. Dance belts were expensive. Lessons were expensive. And Broadway shows were expensive.
“I still want to go to rehearsal,” I said.
“Not happening, Tristan.”
My lips pressed in a thin line. No, missing my chance was what’s not happening. I could possibly sneak over to rehearsal while Robbie was in practice. Robbie owed me that much. I’d make him owe me.
“I’ll write a list of what I need.”
“Done.”
“And I want one show a week.”
“That’s way too much.”
“Let me go into the city by myself then.”
“You need to stay with Robbie.”
“So you’re saying Robbie’s coming with me to see musicals?”
Dad’s forced smile disappeared. “Every month for the rest of the season.”
“You want me to pretend I’m gay instead of my brother so he can get drafted knowing that Mom will treat me like hell?”
“She won’t. If anything, she’ll treat you better for what you’re doing.”
“How would—oh my god, Dad. You can’t tell her.”
“It’s going to come out sooner or later. Better from me than the press.”
I slumped low. No. It wouldn’t be better from Dad than the press. It wouldn’t be better unless it came from Robbie’s lips.
“It’ll be fine,” Dad said. “And you’ll get the benefit of a show every month.”
“Every week,” I mumbled. “To compensate for Robbie never speaking to me again.”
Dad shifted his weight and sighed. “Every week unless there’s a big game.” He pulled out his iPhone and handed it to me. “Write a list of the dance supplies you need.”
Reluctantly, I wrote out a list, everything from dance belts to tap shoes, to leg warmers. By the time I was done with essentials, there must have been over a thousand dollars worth of stuff on it. Good tap shoes usually ran at least three hundred dollars alone. I then wrote down as many extras as possible, from character shoes to unitards to stage makeup. Anything I could think of. I handed it to Dad. He didn’t even flinch. “I’ll order it right now. Glad we could get this all resolved.”
But it wasn’t all resolved. I’d just sold myself out.
“Why don’t you see if there’s something Wednesday night you want to see? We’ll go right after practice. You, me, and Robbie.”
The idea of spending time with Robbie right now wasn’t appealing. At all. Or Dad. Especially both of them. But I wanted to see a show, and I was going to hold Dad to this. “I get to choose it without complaint, right?”
“Completely up to you.”
Dad left, and I booted up my computer to look up shows. My heart sank when I saw a Facebook message pop up from Keisha: Had a great time with you! I can’t wait to see you at school!!! =)
Reluctantly, I typed up my reply: Hey Keisha, I had a great time, too. Thanks for inviting me. I hope we hang out again soon. I rubbed my eyes. Bad news, though. Mom and Dad are making us take a leave of absence. I stopped typing, took a breath, and continued. Robbie had another attempt. Not sure what all happened, but he totaled his car. We’re only able to leave the house to go to practice.
I hesitated, not quite sure what else to write. I didn’t want to seem like I was whining, or blowing her off. And I didn’t want to seem like I was gloating about being a superhero for watching my suicidal twin. I’m going to sneak out at practice so I can go to rehearsal. See you there, I hope? And, after a little thought, I added, ::Kisses Cheek::
The door opened. Robbie came in, hair flat against his scalp from a shower. I didn’t hear the shower on this floor. “They boarded up our bathroom,” Robbie answered my unasked question. “Have to use the one downstairs.”
“Why?”
“Because there’s no Jacuzzi and therefore I won’t drown myself, apparently.”
“Don’t you need to use a Jacuzzi for your muscles?”
“Apparently the one at the school’s good enough. That is if I can get there alone.” He shifted, trying to seem upbeat, though his voice betrayed him. “Dad said we’re going to see something on Broadway. Am I, uh . . . am I supposed to wear anything specific? Like a suit or anything?”
“Look dress code up yourself.”
“I thought I’d just ask you.”
“Well, don’t ask.”
“You don’t need to bite my head off. You should be happy I’m seeing some lame ass musical with you.”
“Happy? Seriously? After what you did?”
“You weren’t there, Tristan. You have no idea.”
“Actually I was right here. You could have woken me up.”
“Get over it.”
“No, fuck you.”
Robbie sat down at his computer and started to type. I’m not sure why that got to me so much, but it did. Robbie wasn’t acting any differently. Maybe Dad hadn’t talked to Mom yet, or told Robbie that he knew. Or Dad said something, Mom went in denial, and nothing changed.
I went through the different Broadway shows and thought about the ones I’d enjoy that Robbie and Dad would be sure to hate. Especially Robbie. He was getting off easy, and he had no right to tell me the musical I liked was shit. If he made me miserable, he deserved to be equally unhappy. It came to me immediately. Not even a question. My face lit up, and I pulled my headphones off.
“Hey Robbie?” I said sweetly. “Ever hear of Jesus Christ Superstar?”
26
I couldn’t believe it. He liked it. Robbie freaking liked Jesus Christ Superstar. Not just liked, but loved. And it wasn’t just him either, but my Dad, too.
What. The. Hell?
Seriously, the Arizona Coyotes had a better chance of winning the Stanley Cup this year than Robbie or Dad—let alone both—liking Jesus Christ Superstar. Was there some alien abduction that I didn’t know about? Were they the results of a recent brain transplant?
I wanted to be mad at them for liking it and having a good time, but I enjoyed the show too much and was on a high from its excitement and energy. I knew it’d be epic. I loved the soundtrack, and both the 1973 and 2000 films. But the films didn’t have that sort of live energy. We even had an understudy on for Judas, and he stole the show.
Robbie couldn’t even speak during intermission, just shook his head in astonished disbelief. Dad roared with laughter the moment King Herod’s song came on and his buffoon followers danced wildly around a piano. All of us flinched as Jesus was flogged, watched the marquis turn red with electric bloo
d as the bullwhip cracked through the air.
The car ride home was actually fun. Dad let us stop at Starbucks where we got venti skim chais, and then stopped at a sidewalk food vendor for giant pretzels and hot dogs. “What was your favorite part?” Robbie asked, mouth full of pretzel.
“Definitely ‘Gethsemene.’ Best song in the show,” I said. “Yours?”
“Everything Mary sang.” Not surprising. He always loved the female vocalists. “Oh, and the one Judas did at the beginning with the sick guitar riff.”
“‘Heaven on Their Minds.’ That’s a great one, too.” It was kind of nice being the expert instead of the afterthought.
When we were near the house, Dad said, “I can’t wait until the next show. Pick another great one, okay?”
Yeah. Okay. Fine. Next week, I’d make them sit through Aladdin.
The car rolled into our garage, and we parked and got out. I thought I heard Robbie say, “That was the best night of my life,” but I probably imagined it. Like the last three nights didn’t happen.
We said goodnight to Dad—Mom was already asleep—then went upstairs to get ready for bed. Although Robbie went straight to get his pajamas, I stopped in the doorframe. Something felt a little off. I looked around the room. The table had disappeared. I’m not sure how my parents thought Robbie could kill himself with that, but nonetheless it was gone. Our computers and printer sat on the ground. We pushed the mattresses farther apart, but that only made the room feel smaller. Pushed together against the side of the room closest to the window, we now had a small path.
I crossed the room and had trouble making the window budge. I gripped the frame and tried to pull up, but it wouldn’t budge. “Hey, Robbie, help me out?”
Robbie walked to the window and gripped it, but even with his yanking, it didn’t move. “The hell?”
I looked down at the windowsill, wondering how we could get the window open when I noticed a thin layer of something white against the painted frame. A sort of putty, or glue to keep the windows shut. “Oh, no . . .”
“What?” Robbie asked, then looked down at the sealant and looked sick. He touched his fingers against the wood. “Is this to keep me from jumping out?”
“No, it’s so we suffocate,” I said sarcastically. I walked away from the window and let myself drop on the mattress. “Great. Just great. Maybe we should get ourselves in trouble and get in juvie. We could at least get outside an hour a day that way.”
“I’m sorry I tried to kill myself again,” Robbie blurted out. His words caught me off-guard. He hurried to continue, “I just . . . couldn’t cope.”
“With what?”
“You’ll get mad if I tell you.”
“I’m already mad at you.”
“I don’t mean at me,” Robbie muttered beneath his breath.
I waited, confused. If not himself, who? The hair on the back of my neck rose, but I wasn’t entirely sure why. “Mom and Dad?”
“The party.”
“Huh?” I sat upright. “What do you mean?”
Robbie shrugged and hugged his sides. “I don’t know. Some stupid stuff happened at Keisha’s birthday party. And I guess so soon after the loss . . .”
“I thought you spent the whole time with that Kenny guy.”
Robbie snorted, “Hell no. I was trying to give him the slip. Thought I actually got away until I went in the bathroom to take a piss and he was there. Freaking stalker.”
“So, what happened?”
Robbie rubbed his shoulder. “I ran into Heather without Durrell.” Robbie looked away from me. “Heather said something that kind of . . . hit home, I guess. I don’t know. It was stupid. Never mind. Forget about it.”
“Drop the cryptic crap. You’re bad at it. What’d she say?”
“Tristan—”
“Just spit it out.”
“She said if I actually did the job right, the team wouldn’t have to suffer anymore.”
Time stopped. That moment after an explosion where everything was silent. My throat clenched. “You’re lying.” It’s impossible . . . “She would never say anything like that.” She wouldn’t dare. That wasn’t Heather. That wasn’t my once best friend.
“When have I ever lied to you?” Robbie asked desperately, gripping my shoulder. I tried to yank away from him, but he was stronger. He now clung to my arm, pleadingly, needing. “Name one time I’ve lied to you.”
There must have been something. Must have been some time Robbie lied to me and I caught him at his bluff. But I couldn’t think of an instance. Even when Robbie used to gang up on me, taunting me, harassing me, he was honest. Bluntly so.
Robbie would never lie, not about something like that. If anything, Robbie would be silent. Like the way he was after we went to Heather’s and she talked about the man who hanged himself in the guest room while we watched The Virgin Suicides. Like the way he was about being gay when he kept trying to tell me that he didn’t think he could hide it. That he couldn’t lie to his teammates about his sexual orientation if they asked. That he liked guys. Men.
Robbie’s shoulders dropped. “I couldn’t do it, Tristan. I tried, but I couldn’t.”
“Why?” I whispered, thinking of Heather. She used to talk about how depressed bullying made her feel. How school shootings and suicides could be prevented if people just smiled a little bit more and stayed a little less vicious. Didn’t she? It was hard to remember the way we used to be friends, the personality that suddenly became bitch extraordinaire.
“Because I got scared shitless, all right?” Robbie snapped. “I’m sorry, okay? You know how fucking terrifying it is driving into oncoming traffic, realizing you could hurt someone else, and not knowing when you spun the wheel to the side of the road whether you’d make it without killing an innocent bystander?”
“Huh?” I blinked up from my reverie, realizing then how my words must have sounded. Robbie misunderstood my why, thinking I was asking about why he didn’t kill himself properly. “I—no, I meant why to Heather. She’s . . . different, you know?”
“Oh . . .” Robbie’s face contorted like a gargoyle’s as he tried to refrain from crying. I wanted to say something else, to change the subject instead of hear what Robbie was about to say, but there was no stopping now. Not when Robbie was fighting to even get his words out. If I stopped him now, Robbie would never talk again.
“Instead of things getting normal, everything got revoked. Your life sucks even more than it did because I chickened the hell out. And people don’t get it. Think about what would happen to me.” Robbie trembled faintly. “Legally, I could play, I know that. I’ve seen players get reprimanded with fines and tiny suspensions, but for how long? If they learn not to say the word “faggot” or “queer,” they’ll just figure out something else to say. And the fans . . .” Robbie rubbed his hands over his face. “Remember when Zach Parise left for the Wild, and Minnesota passed gay marriage bills, all the fans went off about how much of a homo he must have been? Because that’s the worst thing they can think to say—not traitor, not deserter, but gay. Millions of people all ripping on this guy just because he wanted to go home . . . That’s the scariest part. More than the players. The fans.”
I swallowed hard. My mouth was too dry to speak. Everyone always talked about the homophobia in professional sports. If harassment on Facebook from classmates was bad, how much worse would it be if he got famous?
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe I should quit hockey.”
I struggled to breathe. It was too much to process at once. Robbie was too much to process at once. Him? Quit? Quitting his lifeline? Because of me?
My twin looked at me hopefully, wishfully, wanting me to say something. To deny his words, grant him forgiveness. He was silently begging for mercy that I couldn’t give. I didn’t know how. I didn’t deserve to be the one to grant him that.
�
��I . . . need to use the bathroom,” I squeaked.
My brother’s composure dissolved. He lay back on the mattress and pulled the covers up over his head, curling on his side so his back faced me.
Mechanically, I got up from my mattress and stepped over his. I went down the steps into the spare bathroom and changed into my pajamas. I stared at the mirror, wondering what I could say, but there was nothing. Even after splashing water over my face, my thoughts wouldn’t clear. I tried to digest what Robbie said, but as each sentence revolved through my head, I felt even worse. If I hadn’t let Robbie speak, I would have told him to look up an organization, to get help. I would have told him, “It gets better,” because that was what everyone was supposed to say. Because it was supposed to get better. Saying that was like saying, “Hang in there,” or “Try harder.”
But my brother had been hanging in there. He’d done his research, tried to find a way that he could fit in, and there was a problem. He studied the fans, his possible future in the NHL. He’d seen up close the cutthroat nature of teenagers desperate to make the league, others be damned.
When I returned to my room, I hit the lights and went straight to bed. Usually, I checked my email and Facebook first, but this time I wanted to crawl under the sheets to hide. Robbie’s shaky breaths rattled like the wind outside our windows. I looked at his feet, then grabbed my pillow and turned around on my mattress. Setting the pillow on the same side of the mattress as Robbie had on his, I turned on my side. “Hey, Robbie?”
Dark shadows mostly hid Robbie’s face, but I was certain he was crying. It made me feel worse. I caused that. He wanted to confide in me, but I couldn’t play therapist.
I complained about not being close with my brother, with being frustrated with him, and yet, when he needed me, I pushed him away. Maybe some hidden part of me didn’t want to get to know Robbie better. Maybe that part of me wanted us to stay strangers. Or maybe I was just terrified about what would happen if we were friends.
“Just wanted to tell you that was a great show,” Robbie eventually whispered. He was a much better person than me.