Jerkbait Page 6

  I gritted my teeth. “Robbie? Do me a favor?”

  “Yeah. Sure. Anything.”

  “Stop talking.”

  “But—”

  “Just stop.”

  I turned my back to Robbie. I didn’t want to think about Heather going on a date with Durrell when I was supposed to be going to that show. Durrell probably disliked musicals as much as I disliked him at that moment, though that dislike would fade. Durrell was too cool to stay angry at. He probably didn’t even know I liked her. After all, I didn’t exactly tell him when he asked. If I had, he probably wouldn’t have bothered. He had integrity.

  So why didn’t I tell him, “Actually, I like her. A lot,” when I had the chance?

  I hugged my arms around my waist. I thought about Miss Maroney telling me to make my characters fall in love. For a moment, I pretended my arms were Heather. That we weren’t best friends so we could get together.

  Yeah, right.

  10

  Heather wasn’t at her locker Monday morning. She didn’t answer any of my texts either, not even the ones where I asked how the show was. I didn’t like using my cell during school, even though most of the kids at Briar Rose did without consequence—I guess that’s a perk of a private school geared for young professionals—but I peeked right after World Civilizations IV. Nothing.

  I glanced toward Robbie’s locker. He kept his head ducked, jerking out a textbook before heading to his next class. Beneath hooded lids, his eyes were flat and lifeless as buttons. He hadn’t been himself—not that I was any expert on what that was anymore—since the knife incident. He wouldn’t talk to me; and yet more than once, trapped so close in our room, I’d been startled out of daydreaming or some menial task, certain he’d been screaming at me.

  Turning off my phone, I went to my next class.

  Calculus was easy. I liked having foolproof formulas to work on. I was able to think about other things as I filled in the numbers and figured out the solution. I wanted to think about the dolphin people in my story, or maybe start a new one.

  Instead, I thought about Robbie.

  Identical twins were supposed to share so much, but we might as well have not been related. Sure, we came from the same split egg, but we were water and oil. We looked the same under a rolling boil, but we didn’t mix.

  If he were thinking about hurting himself, would I even know? A hundred times already I’d convinced myself he was fine, that if he wanted me to stick my nose in his business, he’d say something. I’d pretended everything was okay when Robbie laughed, ignoring how plastic his smiles could be.

  “Is everything all right?”

  My teacher, Mrs. Benedict, stopped by my desk. I looked around, unable to remember what I was just working on. It took staring at the pencil I gripped tightly to realize that I hadn’t stopped after the nine assigned problems, but went through the next few pages of work as well.

  “Yeah, sorry.” I felt the sting of something acidic in my throat. “Um. Just . . . a lot on my mind.”

  “If you need a moment . . .” Her voice trailed off. Mrs. Benedict wasn’t a kind woman by disposition. She was always fair to me and basically left me alone because I did what I was told and did well on exams, but she was never as warm as she was now. It was kind of pathetic that my teachers were more concerned about my well-being than my own parents.

  “It’s better that I keep busy, if that makes sense?”

  She seemed to understand. At least her eyes seemed like they did. Mrs. Benedict patted me on the shoulder. “If you need anything . . .” Again, her voice trailed off.

  I nodded, for a moment wishing she would hug me the way Mom wouldn’t. I wondered how much attention I’d get if I broke down and confessed that something was seriously wrong with my brother. He kept saying I wasn’t listening, but I was, I just didn’t understand. Something happened at that practice, something more than losing a stupid drill.

  I zoned through all my classes except for acting. Heather wasn’t there. Had she called in sick? Ms. Price approached me. “I hope I’ll see you at the auditions this afternoon, Tristan.”

  My stomach dropped. The audition.

  Of course, I’d been preparing something half-against my will, telling myself it was okay to practice because I didn’t have to show up. Somehow, with Phantom and Robbie and everything else, I’d forgotten it was this Monday. Heather hadn’t mentioned it at all—but there was no way she would miss it, right?

  By lunch, I figured she had to be sick. Still, I sent her a text that said, I think I’m really gonna do the audition today. No response. Unusual.

  I went into the cafeteria and saw the Gay-Bros eating their lunch. Craig caught my eye and waved before turning back to the others, clearly in the middle of a heated discussion, maybe another one about whether Hugh Jackman was secretly gay or not (spoiler alert: no one cares). I thought about sitting with the Gay-Bros, but some of those debates were draining and I didn’t want anyone on the team to get the wrong idea. I’m pretty sure everyone knew I was straight, but locker room homophobia could make anyone’s life miserable.

  Finally, I sat down at the normal table—it was empty. No friends, no Heather, just me. It was . . . weird.

  Halfway through lunch, I spotted her. She was sitting with some of the girls next to Durrell and some of the guys on the team. I dumped my tray without finishing my lunch, then walked to their table. “Hey,” I greeted with a smile and wave. Immediately, Durrell put his arm around Heather’s shoulder.

  “Oh. Tristan. Hi.” Heather smiled, but it seemed strangely icy.

  “I didn’t know you were in school today. You weren’t at our table,” I said, gesturing over my shoulder. “No one was.”

  “Oh . . . well, yeah. Just seemed kind of silly to not be eating with Durrell since we’re together, you know? I mean, that’d be weird,” Heather said, words smooth as silk, like I should have known this would happen. My eyes honed in on Durrell’s thumb as it rubbed her shoulder. “I mean, wouldn’t you eat lunch with your girlfriend if you had one?”

  Uh, ouch?

  “Didn’t save me a spot?” I tried to joke. “Not like I’m not on the team.” She shifted in her seat, rubbed the back of her neck, twisted a curly lock of hair around her index and middle fingers.

  “It’s cramped,” Durrell said abruptly, putting his backpack on an empty chair. I took a step backward. The hell was going on? Durrell was always the cool guy. And now, all of my teammates were giving me weird looks. I’d rather they treated me like I was still invisible.

  Keisha interrupted, “We could pull up another chair if we all scoot in—”

  Heather looked at Keisha, lips pursed together, eyes narrowing. A silent language between girls. Keisha withdrew and looked at her lap.

  I cleared my throat. “Did I do something?”

  No one answered. That usually meant yes.

  My eyes moved two tables over. My brother turned his head and caught my eye. I saw his lips move, but couldn’t read them. I looked away from him and at Heather. I tried to shrug it off. “It’s uh . . . it’s fine. Just was saying hi, you know? Let’s uh . . . let’s talk later.”

  “Yeah. Okay,” she said hurriedly.

  “I really want to—”

  “I heard you the first time.”

  Double ouch. I gave a closed-mouthed smile before I made to leave.

  “Wait,” Keisha murmured, extending her hand toward me, but Heather slapped it down. I pretended I didn’t notice as I left their table and returned to the empty one, just like how I pretended not to hear Keisha say, “It’s not right, and you know it.” Or Durrell say, “He’s lucky he’s on the team or I’d take care of it.”

  Maybe it was just one off-day, I tried to convince myself. Just one day of weirdness that I didn’t understand. But even then I knew it wouldn’t be the same.

  11

&
nbsp; My sheet music was getting wrinkled. I shifted my weight from foot to foot. Auditioning was probably a terrible idea. An insanely bad one. I’d talked myself in and out of going several times just standing in the hallway. If my parents found out, they’d kill me. If my teammates found out, which they would eventually, they’d rip on me like no one’s business.

  With a deep breath, I walked down the hallway toward the band room where the auditions would be held. I could at least stick my head in. Maybe decide then whether I’d have the balls to go through with it or not.

  Halfway there, I saw my brother in the hallway with Raiden and two girls I didn’t know. One was practically straddling Raiden’s leg as they made out; the other was trying to press up against Robbie, who kept moving away and saying, “Knock it off.” A chill rushed through my body. Something wasn’t right. Robbie turned his head and our eyes met. His held the same fear he’d been drowning in last Saturday. My breath slowed.

  My hands clenched around my sheet music. I dampened my lips. Robbie was not okay, but the audition was now. I’d made it this far, and it’d only be for a few minutes, not hours.

  I could turn back. I knew I could. I could go home with Robbie and make sure he was fine.

  But I stayed home with Robbie when I could have gone out with Heather. And now, things were messed up with me and her and the guys on the hockey team.

  I studied my brother. He was with Raiden. He wouldn’t do anything in front of Raiden. I was certain of that.

  With a shaky breath, I continued to the band room. It’d only be a few hours. I could do the audition—in, out, fast—and be home just in case. For once, I had to do something that was just for me. He’d be fine. It’d be fine.

  The closer it got to my call time, the more my stomach twisted. Pressure rose behind my sternum the way it always did before I threw up. I sipped a small bottle of coconut water. A lot of actors on Twitter swore by it, saying it helped lubricate their throats and produce crisper sounds. I hoped that was true. Not just because I wanted to sing better, but because it tasted rancid.

  Behind the closed door, I heard Craig’s muted voice singing “Color My World” from Priscilla: Queen of the Desert. After a roar of laughter, I wondered if he danced his way through the vocal. I wouldn’t be surprised. Once he twerked on the Assistant Dean’s car and didn’t even get detention after setting off the alarm with his butt. He just couldn’t keep from moving.

  The door swung open. Craig sauntered out wearing the shortest shorts I’d ever seen and an open shirt. Both were a hideous shade of yellow.

  “Holy . . . Tristan?” Craig asked, eyebrows raising. “You’re not auditioning, are you?”

  “Ms. Price talked me into it.”

  “Holy guacamole!” His face lit up as he pulled me in a hug. “So proud of you.”

  “Don’t be proud yet. I could suck.”

  “Um, of course, I’m proud. Takes massive balls to audition.”

  “Tristan,” Ms. Price called from the open door. “Ready to go?”

  I extracted myself from Craig’s grasp and walked into the room, sheet music bunched up in hand. Just inside the door, I felt a sharp pain around my neck. My body jerked involuntarily.

  “You all right?” Ms. Price asked.

  There was a throbbing in my ears and a weight on my chest. If this was stage fright, it fucking sucked. I forced a smile and approached the pianist to give her my sheet music. She quirked her brow, but said nothing.

  Ms. Price sat on a folding chair. She adjusted a video camera on a tripod. The red recording light went on. “You want to say your name and who you’re auditioning for before you start?”

  “I didn’t realize this was going to be recorded.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “I . . . no.” I gazed into the eye of the camera. “I’m, uh, I’m Tristan Betterby and I’ll be singing ‘Pity the Child’ from Chess.”

  Ms. Price quirked her brow. “You do know The Drowsy Chaperone’s a comedy, right?”

  My face darkened, fingers curling against my palm. Talk about a stupid choice of song. After all, Craig did something campy and fun. Probably everyone was doing something campy and fun. It was just that “Pity the Child” meant something to me. The first time I watched the 2008 live recording, I became speechless when Adam Pascal sang. The kind of raw talent that earned him the lead in Rent even though he had no formal training. I thought maybe it’d be a good luck charm.

  “I’ve never auditioned before,” I mumbled.

  “Don’t worry about it. I don’t want you to get nervous,” Ms. Price said.

  Little late for that.

  When I heard the piano, I had to take a moment’s pause. My voice started low, maybe a touch shaky. The red glare of the camera pierced my eyes, expanding until I couldn’t see anything else. I was deaf to my words, hearing only a loud, static hum. A sudden bitterness burst forth with each unheard accusation. Once I hit the final “Who?” the static cleared. My own voice, crystal clear, pitch perfect, rang out as I hung desperately onto the last note.

  The pianist stared at me, as did Ms. Price.

  “Holy shit,” Ms. Price said. “You did half of that acapella.”

  What?

  My cheeks were wet. I turned my head and used my sleeve to wipe away tears I hadn’t realized were there. Had the pianist stopped? Had I gone past my twenty measures and continued, lost in the moment?

  I swallowed hard, unable to remember a single thing about my song. How it sounded, if I had conviction. Anything except that last note. “Was it . . . was it okay?”

  “Not only did you sing it acapella, but you held the end note for twenty-three beats,” Ms. Price said. “Twenty-three beats. You seriously haven’t studied with anyone before? Anyone?”

  “Just, uh . . . just what I told you. With Heather.”

  “It’s like you’re Adam Pascal the second.” And, for a moment, I felt the same sort of swelling pride and incoherence Robbie did whenever he was referred to Wayne Gretzky. Ms. Price folded her arms and continued, “You know, when Adam Pascal started, he got a lot of criticism for his notes. His voice was weak except for the gravel. But that’s something he worked on. That’s something you can work on.” She took a breath, head cocked to the side as if she was debating. “I want to make a few phone calls. See if I can get you some additional training.”

  “I uh . . . my parents are making me do hockey.”

  “You don’t do hockey year round, do you?”

  I looked at the card and swallowed. “How much is it going to cost me?”

  Ms. Price almost laughed. “Oh. Oh, no, Tristan. This would be pro bono. Just like dance lessons at my studio.”

  I spluttered a bit. “My parents are kinda crazy and not supportive of this stuff, but I want to take you up on that. I mean, if you’re serious. Just . . . might have to wait until the semester’s over. Is that too late?”

  “I’m pretty sure I’ve got a few friends who would wait for the chance to train a voice like yours. And I’d love to get you in my studio dancing with Craig.”

  “You teach Craig outside of school?”

  “Who do you think got him enrolled here?” Ms. Price then asked, “I don’t mean to embarrass you, but are you wearing a belt?”

  I shook my head and glanced to my jeans. “No, I didn’t wear—”

  “I mean a dance belt. Not a belt-belt.”

  “What’s a dance belt?”

  “If I didn’t know you hadn’t had any formal training before, now I would.” Ms. Price scribbled down a list and handed it to me. “Before you work with me, make sure you get the following.” I looked over it: three dance belts, two jazz pants, five white T-shirt, two black shorts.

  I shook my head. “I can’t believe you’re offering to help me for free. This is just . . .” I couldn’t help it. I pressed my hand to my face as I tr
ied not to cry. It was happening so fast. It was overwhelming.

  Arms wrapped around me. Ms. Price squeezed me close, giving me the contact I craved. “You might have had a late start, but it’s not too late. Don’t waste this chance.”

  “I won’t. I swear, I won’t.”

  “Then we’re even.”

  In the lobby, everyone started cheering, led by Craig, now dressed in outdoor winter clothes. “Holy CRAP. Tristan, that was amazeballs.”

  “You heard me?”

  “Everyone did.”

  I looked around the hall. I recognized almost everyone from theatre, but I didn’t see Heather. “I chose the wrong song.”

  “She had you stay in for fifteen minutes. You booked a lead.”

  “No way,” I said, shaking my head. “She was being nice.”

  “People don’t do nice in theatre,” Craig said with a little grin, looping his arm around my back after I put on my coat. “Seriously, that was awesome.”

  Awesome—a word associated with Robbie.

  Awesome—a word never associated with me. At least not until now.

  Awesome—my new favorite word in the dictionary.

  Awesome—me.

  12

  When I got home and walked through the front door, the air was thick. Hard to breathe, like walking past a smoker. The thud-thud of my heartbeat pounded in my ears. I moved toward the stairs and glanced at the living room. Mom and Dad were sitting in their chairs. Mom had a box of tissues on her lap and a plastic grocery bag filled with used ones to her side. Robbie sat on the couch across from them, hugging his knees to his chest, hiding his face.

  “Tristan,” Dad said, his voice a low growl, “come in here.”

  I stopped just outside the room, not setting foot on the living room’s cream carpet. When Robbie and I were kids we used to play “the floor is lava.” Did we get along then? We must have, but I couldn’t remember.

  Mom asked, “Where were you?”

  I shifted, waiting to see whether Mom wanted an answer or not, before saying, “Study group.”