Jerkbait Page 5

  “I need you to.” Ms. Price pressed her hands on my shoulders. I had to take a slow, shaky breath as I met her eyes. Until a couple of weeks ago, Ms. Price only knew me from sometimes helping Heather out backstage with her makeup, an unofficial dresser. Now, she wanted me to audition? “Take a breather,” she said, giving a squeeze as if she could read my whirring mind. “Five minutes, okay?”

  Mutely, I nodded and hopped in a seat a little way from the group as Ms. Price began discussing monologues and the order we’d do them in, whether we’d be singing if we were concentrating on musical theatre or doing something from a play.

  I pressed the heels of my palms to my eyes and inhaled slowly. Ms. Price didn’t hand out compliments on a plate. I wasn’t sure what was more overwhelming: the fact I had the potential to be on a Broadway stage or that she actually saw something in me. Anger mixed in with that blissful revelation. If I didn’t play hockey, I could have had a chance. My parents knew since I was eight that I wouldn’t be the player Robbie was. I could have started acting younger. I could have been a star, just like Robbie. They kept that from me.

  “You okay, Tristan?” Heather asked, sitting next to me.

  “Sort of. Just a bit overwhelmed.”

  “I’m glad I was able to help you get noticed by Ms. Price,” she said with a smile. Then, she quickly added, “I asked her if we could do something together instead of monologues. She said to ask you about it. So, what do you say to a duet?”

  “That sounds great, but I kind of prepared something.”

  “Oh. Well, if you don’t want to . . .”

  “It’s not that I don’t want to,” I said hurriedly. “I just wanted to give something a try. A test run in case I go on with the audition.”

  “Yeah. Okay.”

  “Maybe next time?”

  “Maybe next time I’ll want to do a duet with Craig,” Heather said.

  I sighed. Heather could be impossible if she had an idea and it didn’t go to plan. Plus, she had great taste. “So, what’d you have in mind?”

  “Well,” she said, eyes lighting up as she dug through her bag and handed me a copy of “Inside Out” from A Gentleman’s Guide to Love and Murder.

  “Okay,” I said, nodding more eagerly. My solo plans could wait a class—doing a romantic duet with Heather would be a bonus, even though Monty’s part was kind of small in that song

  “Great!” she chirped as she sat next to me with her own sheet music, tapping on my thigh with her index finger as she silently mouthed the words. My eyes were glued to her fingers. In the background, Keisha started singing “Losing My Mind” from Follies but I couldn’t process her voice.

  Heather’s fingers danced higher up my thigh. “If we kill it, I’ll bring you with me to a show this weekend,” she whispered.

  “Okay,” I whispered back, even though I wasn’t sure how I could convince my parents to let me go. But that didn’t matter. Not when we were going to go onstage, sheet music in hand, Ms. Price on the piano, and kill it. And, when it was finally our turn, belting and looking into each other’s eyes, voices clear and passionate, that’s exactly what we did. Killed it enough for a standing ovation and for Heather to throw her arms around my shoulders, letting me lift and twirl her before the bell rang. In the corner of my eye, I saw Keisha give the saddest smile I’ve ever seen before she got her purse and backpack and walked out.

  “You were divine,” Heather whispered, fingers linking with mine. “You made me sound amazing.”

  “You were perfect,” I replied as I squeezed her hand, smiling as we walked together until we split ways for our next class. Maybe it was a matter of time before she’d suggest we change our Facebook statuses. Maybe it was a matter of time before she’d let me kiss her for real. Maybe it’d happen this weekend once I convinced my parents to let me go see a show with her instead of staying home with Robbie.

  Maybe this would be it. Erase Durrell’s arm around Heather’s shoulder in the hot tub and replace it with mine. Think about our sides pressed together, Heather running her hands over years of hardened muscle. Like the time I once thought something would happen when Heather had a party over the summer, and I took off my shirt, and the girls kept wanting to feel my abs. Or like the time I thought something would happen when Heather rose her leg in arabesque and asked me to lift her and was so strong in her poise, it felt like she literally weighed nothing before she twisted her body over my shoulder, arms above her head, crotch too close to my face for me not to wonder if it was intentional and did anyone notice my hard on.

  Maybe this was it.

  8

  “All right, boys!” Coach Benoit said after setting up cones, dividing the ring in two. “We’re finishing off the long weekend with some speed. You don’t need to go one hundred percent fast one hundred percent of the time, but for this, you do. Anyone who isn’t on the verge of puking when they’re done will have to go again and again until they’re vomiting blood. Understood?”

  Even though all the guys groaned, I couldn’t help but grin. Gameless weekends were the best. Especially the gameless weekends when Coach told us to take time off. He was always conservative when it came to preventing injury; it wasn’t worth wrecking some of the main prospects, i.e. Robbie.

  Any break from hockey was nice, but this particular break corresponded with the miracle of Mom agreeing to watch Robbie so I could go into the city with Heather and see a show, her treat. In fact, they even said I could stay there for the weekend, like it was some sort of prize for good behavior. I was pretty sure the real reason was that they had made plans with Robbie, probably involving scouting, or a road trip to see the Devils take on the Sabres up in Buffalo.

  That didn’t matter. They could do whatever the hell they wanted to if that meant going to Heather’s for the weekend and seeing a mysterious show, aka she hadn’t bought the tickets yet and would text me her decision.

  This was probably the best practice of my life, even though I couldn’t wait for it to be over. Yesterday’s practice ended up with one-timers, today we’d be racing. I made it halfway through the one-timers yesterday before I got out. Durrell beat Robbie at the very end, at which point Robbie over-dramatically dropped his stick to the ice, pressed his hands to his face, and belted out, “WHYYYYY, GOD? WHYYYYYY???? AY DIO MIOOOOOOO!”

  “All right, boys!” Coach yelled as he divided us in teams of two, starting with the goalies, then the defenders, and finally the forwards. When Robbie and Raiden started jawing each other, Coach shook his head. “Not today, boys. Margarine versus Butter.”

  Immediately, I cringed. Admittedly, I was damn fast, and definitely had won my fair share of matches, but pitting me up against Robbie was just cruel. Especially when Raiden snickered, “Already know that outcome.”

  “Knock it off,” Robbie said, shoving him. “He’s fast.”

  “But you’re faster.”

  Coach blew his whistle, instructing us to get set. I watched Janek and Ray-Ray line up, crouched forward with their sticks and heavy goalie pads. When Coach blew his whistle and they were off, we couldn’t keep from laughing and cheering. There was always something hilarious about goalies whenever they raced, or fought, or did anything “fast.” Especially when those goalies were Janek and Ray-Ray. Maybe from all the pucks they take to the head, or the absolute joy they had in taking off, skidding wildly around the ends of the ring. Ray-Ray hustled to pull ahead of Janek, skating backwards for the last few steps as he gestured toward his crotch and yelled, “Suck it!”

  Coach blew the whistle again, not giving anyone time to celebrate as our next duo took off—Durrell against Smitty—then the next and the next. Robbie and I were dead last. As the pair before us moved out and we took our spots, I glanced at my twin. We had an identical stance. I crouched forward, toe digging into the ice. If I wasn’t prepared to spring, I wouldn’t stand a chance.

  The second the whistle c
ame, we were flying. We pumped our arms for more momentum as our legs shoved off in fast, hard skates. Our bodies fell in near perfect alignment. Our teammates screamed and I pressed on, ignoring the sting in my lungs as I leaned into the corner, sliding fast on the last stretch back as everyone cheered wildly. My heart pounded faster than from adrenaline alone. Robbie wasn’t in my line of sight.

  As I skated hard, maybe eleven strides from the finish, I saw it. A flash of jersey fabric. Robbie came out of nowhere, charging on the end rush. I kept my head low, my lungs burning as I stretched out, elongating my body, and crossed the finish line a step-and-a-half before Robbie. I doubled over, hands pressed to my thighs as I tried to catch my breath, grinning ear to ear.

  “Damn it!” Robbie swore, slamming down his stick hard enough for it to snap.

  My grin disappeared. I shrank back until Coach Benoit said, “Good job, Butter.”

  “Man, if I were a fraction as fast as you,” Beau said, shaking his head with rare admiration. A compliment from the team captain always felt good, even if it came at Robbie’s expense.

  “All right, boys. We’re done. Have a good weekend, and don’t do anything stupid. I’m looking at you, Ray-Ray,” Coach said, clapping his hands. But, before we could move, he added, “Margarine, stay here.”

  I glanced at my brother, who hung his head. Raiden tapped Robbie’s shin with his stick as he passed, a sympathetic frown on his face. As I skated to the tunnel, I heard Coach’s voice. “You skated like shit.”

  “I tried, Coach.”

  Queasiness settled in my stomach. I knew I shouldn’t have been listening, but I stalled in the tunnel.

  Coach’s tone became harsher. “No room for trying. Only doing.”

  “I thought I did.”

  “You want to be drafted? You want to be the best forward on the team?”

  “It was one stupid exercise. It wasn’t like it was a game.”

  “You want that stupid exercise to give your competition ammunition?”

  “Ray-Ray freaking moonwalked over the finish.”

  “Ray-Ray’s an idiot. What if a scout was watching? You need to be one hundred percent all the time. No time to be some weak-ass pansy. Give in a little, and they’ll make you bend over and take it. Understood?”

  Robbie shrunk. “Yes, Coach.”

  “What aren’t you going to do?”

  “Bend over and take it.”

  “Again. Louder.”

  My brother’s voice became terse. “I’m not going to bend over and take it.”

  Coach Benoit nodded. “Forty laps as fast as possible. Then you can shower up. Maybe next time you’ll actually win.”

  I hustled into the locker room so they wouldn’t know I was listening. I changed and scooted off into the shower. Most of the guys had already left practice. By the time I came out, Robbie was sitting on the bench with his head in his hands. He was fully dressed, except for his helmet. His body was drenched in sweat, hair flat against his scalp. Robbie’s shoulders curled in. I smoothed out my polo shirt and sat next to him on the bench. “What’s wrong?”

  Robbie got to his feet. He pulled off his jersey. “Let’s go home.”

  “Is Coach still pissed that I beat you?”

  “Really, Tristan? Really?”

  I shut up. Fine. It didn’t matter. If he didn’t want an ounce of empathy, I wouldn’t give it to him.

  So, why was that getting harder to accept?

  We left the locker room and headed out to the parking lot. Snow dusted the sidewalk. As I got into the driver’s side, my phone buzzed with a text message from Heather. One acronym: POTO.

  9

  The best thing about living in North Jersey was that we could hop on any bus or train straight to New York Penn Station. We mostly walked around Times Square and the theatre district, coughing in the smog and hanging out by the stage door after the show for autographs. The last time we went into the city, we saw Wicked. That was Heather’s favorite musical. It was kind of growing on me even though at first I thought it was overrated. The time before, we saw Rock of Ages, which had kick-ass, old rock songs from the eighties. The time before that, we saw Matilda, which I said was only okay even though I loved it. Heather caught my bluff because she suggested we do Trunchbull and Miss Honey for Halloween at her party. Instead I went as Gabe from Next to Normal and wore just my underwear. Everyone was all over me, except Heather, so it was almost great.

  I packed a toiletry bag and finished my hair, wondering how close to the chandelier we’d be able to sit, whether we’d get first cast or understudies, what sort of effects would be used.

  On a hanger were my dress pants, a pressed white shirt, and a slim, burgundy tie. On another hanger, I had a navy sports jacket. I figured I could decide how dressy I should be at that last minute.

  A loud crash came from downstairs, followed by shouting. I dropped my backpack and clothes before taking off down the steps. “Everything okay?”

  Robbie stood in the kitchen looking wild. He gripped a kitchen knife. With his back against the sink, he rotated his arm, pointing it back and forth between Mom and Dad. “I can’t do it,” Robbie spluttered hysterically. “Don’t make me. Please don’t make me do it.”

  “Robbie, put it down,” Dad said, trying to inch forward. “Put it down.”

  “Stay back!” he yelled.

  Mom gripped her iPhone with her red fingernails. “Should I call 911?”

  “Yes,” I said at the same time Dad said, “No. We’ve got this.”

  My throat tightened. Did he really think it’d be better to risk getting stabbed than Robbie getting some help? I wanted to argue with Dad, to yell at him, but I couldn’t. He wouldn’t listen to me.

  I inched closer. “Hey, Robbie? Look at me.”

  I caught my brother’s eyes. They didn’t look right. He didn’t look like some crazed madman, or some psychopath. He looked . . . scared.

  “Come on,” I said. “Put it down. You’re freaking me out.”

  Robbie held the knife at me then dropped his eyes to his wrist. It was like I could hear him in my head. It’d be so easy . . .

  “Don’t,” I said firmly, stepping closer. “Put it down.”

  He whimpered.

  “Put it down. Now.”

  Robbie’s shaking hand dropped the knife to the floor. He covered his face, doubling over as he sobbed. I scooted forward and kicked the knife across the kitchen. Then I gripped Robbie’s shoulders.

  “Shh. It’s okay.”

  “I can’t do it,” he gasped.

  “That’s a good thing. You don’t want to cut anyone—”

  “No! I can’t do it. You’re not listening! No one fucking listens!” Robbie’s knees buckled. By instinct, I wrapped my arms around his waist, keeping him from hitting the floor. I glanced at my parents, both white as sheets and mute. I guess my silence was inherited if none of us could communicate.

  I walked Robbie to the steps, helping him up one step at a time until we got to my room. I guided him to my lower bunk. He dropped heavily on it before curling on his side, shaking.

  “I can’t do it. I can’t. I can’t.”

  “Shh. It’s okay.”

  “You know I want to, right?” he asked, desperately.

  “Want to what?”

  My brother couldn’t answer. I sighed, untied his sneakers, and pulled them off along with his socks, damp from sweat. He still hadn’t showered. His shaking body slowed when I pulled my blanket over him. With a sigh, I got out my cellphone and dialed up Heather.

  “Hey, Tristan,” she greeted.

  My chest ached. “I can’t go.”

  There was a long pause on the line. “Are you serious?”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “I got you a ticket to Phantom and you can’t go.”

  “It’s Rob
bie,” I said, keeping my voice low.

  “What about him?”

  I looked at the lump on the lower bunk. “I’ll explain later. In person.”

  “Unbelievable,” Heather murmured. “I don’t know why I bothered inviting you. I should have asked Durrell from the start.”

  The hair on the back of my neck stood up. What was all the fuss about Durrell? They hung out at one party. One. That didn’t warrant replacing me.

  “It’s an emergency. I promise, I’ll explain later,” I mumbled. “Would you get me a playbill or something? Autographed would be awesome.”

  “Yeah. Okay. If I have time.”

  I swallowed hard. “See you on Monday?”

  “Sure,” Heather said. Then there was silence. She hung up.

  “You didn’t need to cancel your trip,” Robbie said softly.

  “Yeah. I did.” Although Robbie was the last person I wanted to talk with, I needed to talk with someone. “Doesn’t matter. She’s freaking going to ask Durrell to go with her.”

  “Durrell? Like our teammate Durrell?”

  “The one and only.”

  “Go with her where?” Robbie asked cautiously.

  I hesitated. “We were going to see Phantom on Broadway.”

  Robbie wrinkled his nose. “What’s he doing going to a pansy-ass musical?” He paused, then added, “Uh. No offense.”

  Offense taken.

  “Uh, if it makes you feel better, he’s probably only going so he can get some,” Robbie said.

  I stared at him. “How the hell would that make me feel better?”

  “I don’t know.” Immediately after, Robbie added, “Maybe he likes her for real or something. That’d be better, right? I mean, it was his idea to go to hers to party. I could see him going out with her for a long time. He’s seriously the type that would marry a high school girlfriend. I can picture it now—a glimpse into his life produced by TSN, him and Heather on a couch with three kids and a rescued Rottweiler saying that they fell for each other over a Broadway show.”