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  Before I could stop myself, I blurted out, “But Robbie was the one who tried to kill himself, not me.”

  I could hear my sudden heartbeat in my ears. Envisioned Dad tackling me to the ground, hands squeezing around my throat as Mom begged him to knock it off. My shoulders trembled. I stared at the carpet like it would soften the blow of Dad’s fists but couldn’t help glancing up at him just once. Dad’s hands were bunched. “Food poisoning,” he said hoarsely. “It was food poisoning. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” Robbie and I mumbled, our voices joining in rare unison.

  Dad got to his feet and walked out of the living room. Our meeting was over. The couch cushions gave when Robbie stood up. I heard him jog up the stairs, the quiet creak of a door opening, then the loud bang of it shutting. I wondered which room he entered, which one we’d be sharing. Had Mom and Dad brought in the futon or would one of us have to sleep on the floor in a sleeping bag? I didn’t want to sleep on the floor, or the futon, but Robbie would get first dibs. Suicide aside, he always did.

  I stood up with my food and walked to the stairs. Mom touched my arm before I could take the first step. The only time she ever initiated physical contact was whenever she made an excuse for Robbie. Starved as I was for attention, her touches were never for my sake, so I pulled away.

  She took a deep breath. “Can we talk?”

  I looked at my McDonald’s bag and cup of Coke. It was harder to smell the aroma of meat and fatty grease from the bag. The ice had probably melted by now, and the burger was probably cold. Maybe we’d get food poisoning for real. Joke’s on you, Dad.

  “I know this is frustrating for you in particular,” she said shakily, as if she forgot her lines. I didn’t know why she bothered. Any time Robbie got in trouble, I wasn’t allowed to go out either. Dad said it was because I was the responsible twin, that it was my duty to keep an eye on Robbie, keep him from sneaking out, drinking with teammates, and smoking weed on the roof. Whether Mom agreed didn’t matter; she also didn’t argue.

  I knew my line. “What do you need me to do?”

  Mom rubbed her forehead, French tip fingernails sliding into her hair. “The medicine cabinet is to be kept empty. If Robbie needs a pain killer, you’re to get it for him and mark the drug, dose, and time. You’re to check the room every day before school, when you get home, and before bed. If you find anything, you’re to bring it to me immediately. Understood?”

  Mom folded her arms, waiting for me to tell her I understood my brother was going to live out Dad’s failed dream no matter what. Sometimes I wonder what Dad’s plans were for me. I was good enough for our high school hockey team, but on scouting depth charts, I was embarrassingly low, “probably not draftable.” Unlike Robbie who might even be a late first-rounder depending on the draft combine in June.

  “What about after wins?” I asked. We always had parties after wins, the guys rotating who’d host. Robbie always went, but usually I went to Heather’s instead. Nothing wrong with my teammates, and there would always be an open invite for me, but we had nothing in common outside of hockey. They got along so well with Robbie because he was interested in nothing but hockey.

  “You can surely spend a few hours with him and his friends.”

  Right. His friends. So much for Heather and the rest of my friends, who admittedly were only my friends because of Heather. But still. Thanks, Mom.

  With a reluctant nod, I padded up the stairs. Robbie’s door was open. I peered in. The room was empty except for his desk and hockey posters, mostly of the Devils, especially his favorite, Adam Henrique. That meant we’d be staying in my room. I wondered when our parents even had the time to rearrange everything. Did they hire someone to help them while I was at school before we went to pick him up?

  I returned to my room, took a deep breath, and opened my door. I almost screamed.

  My bed was gone. In its place, a bunk bed. A friggin’ bunk bed. What. The. Hell. On the opposite side of the room sat a long, plastic table instead of my desk. There were two rolling chairs there, one already occupied by Robbie, along with our iMacs, and a wireless printer in between them. Stiffly, I set my bag of McDonalds and Coke next to my computer and sat down.

  Robbie turned in his chair to face me. I stared at the screen so I wouldn’t have to look at him.

  “I’m sorry,” he muttered.

  I unwrapped my cheeseburger and took a bite. Barely warm, with hardening yellow American cheese, gross. My Coke was watery, barely flavored. Even grosser.

  “No, really. Tristan, I’m sorry.” His voice sounded sincere, so similar to mine it could have been a recording.

  I swiveled around on my computer chair. Robbie clenched his hat in his hands. There was a good inch of brown roots in his ear-length bleached hair, the same color as mine. “Just wanted you to know that.”

  I knew it then, with startling clarity and absolute certainty: Robbie wasn’t trying to get high. He intentionally tried to die.

  Then Robbie got up, walked to the bunk bed, and climbed up the ladder. “I call top.”

  I opened my mouth but then shut it. I didn’t want the top bunk anyway, not that I wanted a freaking bunk bed or to share my room. Being his roommate for away games was bad enough with all of his pranks—bucket of ice water propped on the door, wedging Dubble Bubble gum in the fingers of my gloves, unscrewing the lid on my Gatorade bottle. Even though it’d been more than a year since the last time he punched me, if I pissed him off, I’d have no place to escape. “It’s just hormones,” Mom had said the one time I complained after Robbie slammed me into the boards at practice just to call me a loser in front of everyone. “He’s under a lot of stress,” she said another time as she iced the purple bruising around my eye.

  How long would we have to share my room? Probably a few days, a week at most before Robbie fussed enough to get his room back, using some sort of bullshit excuse about it affecting his play.

  I picked at a French fry. I knew my role: be a good son to my parents, try to ignore Robbie, and do what was requested of me. Just had to share my room, for now, and keep thinking about the future.

  The second I graduated, I’d be gone. No looking back. I’d never told anyone about my plan, not even Heather. I’d maintain a great GPA so I could get a full ride to a good performing arts college like NYU. I’d graduate and get on Broadway, Off-Broadway, or at least a national tour.

  I’d get away from my clueless parents, away from my identical stranger—my new roommate I didn’t know at all despite nine months together in the womb, head to toe, yin-yang. I’d get a stage name. A strange name. Nothing that could tie me to the Betterby family. I’d be reborn into a world without our biased parents. And most importantly, without being the shadow of Robbie.

  3

  When I approached Heather’s locker on Friday morning, she had crazy pink streaks in her hair. Last week, they were teal. She always went a bit nuts with her looks whenever she wasn’t auditioning. Every few months, her private vocal teacher insisted that she take some time off so she wouldn’t wreck her voice. “Way too young to have your career cut short,” she’d say as she smoked a cigarette on a stick.

  “Hey, Tristan,” she greeted, turning to show me an Attack on Titan backpack. “Like my new swag?”

  “I thought you said you weren’t into anime anymore.”

  “Yeah, well, this show’s different. It’s good.”

  “Uh huh.” I fiddled with the clip on my messenger bag, thumb brushing over the thirty pins on the front, one for every team in the NHL. Something my dad insisted Robbie and I do.

  Heather closed her locker. “What’s wrong?”

  “Hm?”

  “You’re barely looking at me.”

  “Just a lot on my mind.”

  “Like?”

  I bit the inside of my cheek. “I’m not supposed to talk about it.”

  “W
ooooow. You’re going there?” Heather’s nose wrinkled. “How long have I been your best friend?”

  “Please don’t do that.”

  “Four years.” She touched my bicep. “You know whatever it is will stay just between us.”

  “It’s not about me, though.”

  She quirked her brow. “Robbie?”

  My thumb snagged on the Toronto Maple Leafs pin. I barely could meet her eye. “He tried to kill himself.”

  Heather barely got her hand over her mouth before she could gasp out loud. “Oh my God, are you serious? When? Why would he do that?”

  “Few days ago, and I don’t know.” I shifted my weight. “My parents are making me keep an eye on him. Check for prescriptions and whatnot. They even put a bunkbed in my room and are making us share.”

  “A bunkbed? What are you, five?”

  “Apparently.”

  Heather frowned. “I’d say that sucks, but looking on the bright side, I guess it’s nice they trust you, right?”

  “This has nothing to do with trust. They just can’t risk their NHL superstar getting hurt, God forbid they send him to a therapist.”

  “Why won’t they send him to one?”

  “It’s really stupid.”

  “It can’t be that stupid.”

  “They’re convinced that scouts will find out and it’ll affect his draft status. That it’d make him a high risk player due to mental instability, forget about Hockey Talks.”

  “You’re right. I take it back. That’s the dumbest thing I’ve heard in my life.”

  “I know, right?” I rubbed my face. “You can’t tell anyone that I told you this.”

  “I won’t. I promise.”

  “Seriously—”

  “I said I won’t. Jeez. Relax.” Heather stepped forward and wrapped her arms around my shoulders. I hugged her back, hands resting on the small of her back. I inhaled her hair. Coconut. She always smelled good.

  I remembered when I first met her. Dad just enrolled us in Briar Rose’s School for Young Professionals because of their hockey program. Even though I was a much better student than him, Robbie got the full ride and I only got a three-quarter scholarship. It was fall, freshman year, and Heather had just been cast as Red Riding Hood’s understudy in a large, regional production of Into the Woods. Our school pulled some strings and, for a field trip, took a trek out to see her perform. From the second she stepped onstage, I was hooked. Hooked enough to grow a pair, walk up to her locker the next day at school, and tell her I thought she was great. We’d been nearly inseparable ever since.

  When I started to squeeze her more tightly, she pushed me back. “You’re playing this weekend, right?”

  “Unless I’m a scratch.”

  “Keisha’s singing the anthem so we’re all going.” By we, I knew she meant her theatre friends, people who were slowly becoming my friends, especially since I started taking an acting class with them in January. “You should come to mine afterward. We’re all gonna hang.”

  Over Heather’s shoulder, I could see Robbie with his friends, our teammates. He was way more subdued than he used to be. A year ago, he would have pulled someone into a headlock or jumped on someone’s back, forcing them to charge down the hallway, sometimes ramming into football players just for the hell of it. I wondered what would happen if Robbie told the team about his attempt. Would they ask him what it was like getting his stomach pumped, or would they tell him it’d get better? Would they even be his friends? A few years ago, a girl tried to kill herself after her old Myspace got flooded with comments about how fat she was, and someone doxed her, ordering 200 pizzas to her house from Dominos. She butchered her wrists. Afterward, she got bullied even more, especially by her closest friends, and finally her parents moved so she could go to a different school.

  But Robbie would always be popular. He’d never be harassed like that girl with the old Myspace page. He was the star center on the first line even though he sometimes spent more time in the penalty box than on the ice. Hooking, holding, tripping. Once, he even knocked out some guy’s teeth after the guy pulled a slew foot on our now team captain, Beau.

  The bell rang for first block.

  “Gotta go,” Heather said. She quickly gave me another hug. “Don’t forget you’re coming to mine after the game, okay? You can stay over and help me practice in the morning. I need to work on extensions.” She flashed a smile, waved, and jogged down the hall. I didn’t get a chance to tell her that the only way I’d be able to go out was if I talked Robbie into coming with me. She wouldn’t have understood anyway.

  World Civilizations IV was my first class, and the only class I shared with Robbie. Because Mr. Tan arranged the room alphabetically, I sat right behind him.

  “Nice to see you’ve joined us again, Robert,” Mr. Tan said.

  Robbie stuck his thumbs up. “Glad to be back, too. You know how much it sucks to not be ten feet away from a toilet? I swear, I lost ten pounds. Food poisoning: the new Weight Watchers.”

  Almost everyone in class burst out laughing. Robbie always had that ability to disarm anyone. Even Mr. Tan barely refrained from chuckling.

  “Well, I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

  “Thank you for being so concerned about the state of my ass, Mr. Tan. I shall remember your generosity the next time I worship the porcelain throne.” And, with a flourish, he reached into his bag, pulled out a bottle of Pepto Bismal, and took a chug. “Mmm, deeeeelliiiiish.”

  The class started howling. Mr. Tan even wiped his eyes as he gripped his desk for support. Only Robbie could talk about taking a dump and have people worship him like it was the coolest thing ever. How could Robbie act like nothing changed? How could he act like his botched suicide attempt meant nothing to him?

  As Mr. Tan began lecturing, Robbie reached into the back pocket of his jeans for his iPhone. Over his shoulder, I caught a glimpse of a Snapchat from Dana, a girl who sat in the back of the class, angled to give a generous view down the front of her shirt. I swore I heard Robbie say, “Ugh,” before he shoved his cell in his back pocket, shoulders rounding over his work like it was a needless distraction. Maybe, with hockey always on his mind, that’s all it was. A nothing instead of something.

  4

  We shifted our weight from skate to skate while we waited in the tunnel that led from the locker room to the ice. Leading our pack would be Janek, our starting goalie who was brought to our school on full scholarship plus stipend from the Czech Republic, and bringing up the tail was Ray-Ray, our back up. Most high school teams were less formal than ours, but parents got what they paid for. With Briar Rose’s obscene tuition, parents expected the best. We had an NHL-size arena that could hold up to two thousand spectators, enormous locker rooms, showers, and fitness lounges. Students sang the national anthem, announced the play-by-play, and picked which songs to blast during stoppage of play. It might have been high school hockey, but we were so good we usually filled every seat.

  Robbie tapped everyone on the shin with his stick, proudly wearing the A on his chest. At the start of the season, Dad lost his shit when Robbie wasn’t given captaincy; instead, he shared the role of alternate, but Robbie said it was better that Beau got it. He and Coach Benoit told Dad it was to make him look humble to scouts, but I’d overheard them talking once. Robbie begged to not be given the C, and Coach only gave in once Robbie started getting hysterical.

  A horn blared. It was time. Lights flashed across the ice as Janek burst through the gate, leading us in a fast lap around half of the arena. We sped after him, torsos ducked as people cheered. We recognized our schoolmates’ faces, their flat palms pounding on the glass as we passed. Once their cheering turned to booing, we didn’t need to look to know the other team was here. Tonight we were against Neshanic High. They were always a shoe-in for playoffs with some really huge defensemen. Defense won championships, everyone knew
that. While our defense was just as good, we needed our offense to out-skate them. We needed Robbie to beat them.

  All our teammates who weren’t starters slipped off the ice to the bench. I lingered, glancing at Coach who nodded for me to stay on. It was a gimmick having me on the starting line-up, especially when I’d end up playing less than seven minutes a game, but coach thought it might intrigue scouts and give them ideas, like with the Sedin twins.

  Overhead, one of the broadcasting kids called, “At left wing, number nine, Raideeeeeen Hollennnnn.” I don’t remember a time when Raiden and Robbie weren’t on the same line. They were a dynamite duo on the ice and best friends off it, earning them the Rail Road Line nickname, which I thought was really dumb. Raiden grinned crookedly at my brother as the announcer said, “At center, number sixteen, Robbbbbbiiiiieee Bettterrrrby!”

  The crowd erupted for my brother, crazy enough for us to feel the vibration through our skates. Most of the guys were good, several would be drafted, but Robbie was the one who was signing autographs already. Robbie didn’t soak the attention up. Up until a year ago, he used to engage the crowd, showboat a bit. Now, he gazed ahead at the American flag, grin removed from his face, eyes narrowed in concentration, or prayer.

  Their cheering didn’t die as the seconds passed. I doubt anyone heard the announcer call me—Tristan Betterby, number forty-eight, at right wing.

  I looked at my twin as the announcer moved to our defense—Smitty and Durrell, and finally Janek, who elicited a roar as loud as Robbie’s. Janek wouldn’t be draft-eligible for another year, but if he were, it’d be a coin toss whether he or Robbie would be drafted first.

  “And now,” the announcer continued, “to sing our national anthem, let’s welcome Keisha Lewis.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. Keisha was a really great singer and one of the few in the theatre program who already committed to the New School as a junior. We had the same circle of friends, and now shared an acting class ever since I grew the balls to enroll in the one that started in January, but we never hung out on our own. Heather was always there.