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  “Who tried what again?”

  I gazed at Heather. “You know.”

  “No. I don’t.”

  “Robbie,” I said.

  She took a few moments, then groaned. “You’re joking.”

  “Why would I joke about that?”

  “Why didn’t you text me?”

  “Because I can’t.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “You know when I had to cancel on seeing Phantom with you? I think I stopped him in time. He went like all crazy with a kitchen knife.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because you’ve been avoiding me.”

  “I haven’t—”

  “Yes. You have. Lunch—”

  “I want to sit with my boyfriend. Is that a crime?”

  “You wouldn’t even pull up a chair for me!” I closed my eyes. “I hate this. We’re supposed to be best friends, not like . . . this.”

  “We wouldn’t be like this if you’d actually talk to me.”

  “I’m telling you everything I can.”

  “Not everything.” Heather opened her locker and rummaged through it. Her lips pursed. “You didn’t even tell me you were auditioning. A text message the day of? Seriously?”

  I paused. “Is that what this is about? I didn’t think I needed to ask your permission.”

  “You don’t think I’d support you going for an ensemble role?”

  “I was nervous, okay?” I laughed uncomfortably. “My audition was so bad at the beginning. I picked the wrong song. Wrong genre, everything. She let me sing that, but had me stay in for fifteen minutes.”

  Heather’s lips twisted a bit. “You stayed for fifteen minutes at your audition?”

  “Yeah. I think it was pity.”

  Heather seemed to weigh a few ideas in her head. Then she flashed a warmer smile. “You know, you’re right. We really should fix this awkwardness between us. I’m willing to give you another chance to make it right.”

  I braved a smile and nodded. “That . . . uh. That sounds good.” Although I wasn’t entirely convinced that I was the one who needed to make things right.

  “We’ll be a dynamite duo in acting again.”

  “That sounds amazing.” My face lit up. “Really, whatever you want. Duets, dialogues, you name it.”

  Heather’s smile broadened. It drew me in, the way it always did. I leaned down to hug her. She hugged back with one arm, a little stiffly, then pulled away. “I gotta go.”

  “Yeah, sure, no problem.”

  I watched her hurry down the hall to Durrell. I smiled and waved; Durrell nodded his head. When Heather hugged him, she stood on her toes and whispered something in his ear. Durrell’s expression changed. Sort of like his eyes were narrowing at me.

  I headed in the direction of World Civilizations IV, but slowed by the theatre. Keisha stood outside the door, staring at a piece of paper. “Hey,” I greeted.

  Keisha whirled on me, wiping her eyes. My smile disappeared. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” she said with a forced laugh. “Just, uh, just saw the cast list. But forget that. I didn’t even get to say congratulations yet. Craig said you were auditioning for ensemble, so talk about a promotion.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Keisha stepped aside and pointed to the list.

  MAN IN CHAIR—JEFF CARSON

  THE CHAPERON—ELISA O’NEILL

  JANET—HEATHER STONE

  ROBERT—TRISTAN BETTERBY

  The rest of the cast list blurred as I took a step back.

  “Congratulations,” Keisha reiterated, smile warm and broad and encouraging.

  “I—how?” I asked, a little stunned.

  “You’re good,” Keisha said.

  “I don’t even tap—”

  “Yeah, but you play hockey. I mean, how incredible will it be to have a Robert who actually skates?”

  “You think that’s why I got the part?”

  “I think you got the part because you’re really good,” Keisha said.

  I looked down the list again, noticed how Craig booked Aldolpho—a nearly perfect cast with Aldolpho’s flamboyant characterization—then lower.

  “I don’t see your name,” I said.

  “Ensemble,” Keisha said softly. “Anyone not on this gets to be in the ensemble.”

  “Oh.” Suddenly, getting cast as Robert was a bit less exciting, especially as Keisha tried to hide her disappointment and the lingering hint of tears.

  “I just—” Keisha laughed uncomfortably. “It’s stupid, but I really wanted to be Janet.”

  “Janet?” That was a surprise. “I didn’t think she was your type of character at all.”

  “Clearly she’s not since I wasn’t cast as her.”

  “I didn’t mean that—”

  “I didn’t mean it like that either, I swear,” Keisha said quickly. “Just . . . sometimes I wonder.” She looked at me. “You’d tell it to me straight if I asked you something, right?”

  “If I can, I mean.”

  “It’s just because of talent, right?” Her face was strained. “I mean, you don’t think that I didn’t get Janet because I’m black, right?”

  I shook my head. “No. Ms. Price is cool. I don’t think . . . I really don’t think she’d turn you down because of that.”

  “So, I wasn’t good enough.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “I know. Heather was better. She got cast as Janet. I made ensemble. It doesn’t mean my career’s over.”

  “For what it’s worth, I think you’re a hell of a singer.”

  Keisha gave me a closed-lipped smile. “Heather’s lucky to have you as her leading man.”

  She turned from me, hustling down the hallway. I was taken aback. What was that about? I looked at the board and frowned. Was me liking Heather really that obvious? And why would Keisha care? Keisha couldn’t like me. We barely knew each other.

  Still, as I left for my first class, my chest ached a bit. Something was wrong about all of this. More wrong since I didn’t know what exactly was so wrong, or why it felt so wrong, and that wrongness bothered me throughout my classes, through acting, through lunch, through the end of the day, and through hockey practice. That sort of wrongness that didn’t quite fade.

  15

  Robbie and I headed to Heather’s house as soon as we got off the team bus after a great away-win. Robbie absolutely slaughtered the Bricktown Bulldogs, getting a hat trick in the first period—but, alas, no hats on the ice, with the whole away high school hockey thing—then a fourth goal in the third period. I actually got an assist on his second goal, too. For once, I kind of felt bad that we weren’t going to be able to hang out with the guys, especially since Robbie looked so happy.

  Durrell drove Heather in his car while I followed in mine with Robbie, taking the roads slowly. The snow had melted quickly, too quickly, and the rapid change in temperature made the streets extra slippery. We crossed the soggy lawn to where Heather and Durrell stood on the porch by the front door. “You know why the rest of the guys didn’t come?” Robbie asked. “A bunch of them were free. And I mean, I’m sure they would have paid for beer and pizza.”

  “They weren’t invited, and I didn’t feel like beer and pizza,” Heather said as she led us into the kitchen, pulling out bags of Doritos and cans of Pepsi. “Private party.”

  From behind me, I thought I heard Robbie. Memo to self: never hang with Tristan’s lame ass friends. At least not without Raiden.

  “What about my friends?” I asked him, a little defensively.

  Robbie quirked his brow. “I didn’t say anything.”

  “You just said—” I cut myself off. Heather and Durrell looked just as confused as Robbie. I must have imagined it.

  After stocking up on Pepsi and Dor
itos, we tromped up the steps to Heather’s guest room with the two double beds. I hopped on one and looked at Heather. She sat on the other with Durrell. Robbie stared at the bed I was sitting on, swallowed, and sat on the floor, putting as much distance between the bed and himself.

  “Figure we could all watch a movie,” Heather said as she flipped through Netflix with her remote. She lingered over Mean Girls for a few seconds, then clicked through the dramas until she landed on The Virgin Suicides.

  My chest tightened. My mind went to Robbie holding his hands over his mouth, foamy vomit spilling between his fingers. Then a grainy, flickering vision of him falling with a broken ceiling fan crashing down, like it was a film reel.

  I asked, “Is there anything else we can put on? Something that’s not a million years old and morbid?”

  “I’ve been dying to watch it again. It’s such a great movie,” she said. I glanced at Durrell. I couldn’t remind Heather about Robbie’s suicide attempts, not with him there, not when she wasn’t supposed to know.

  We locked eyes. My stomach sank. This was a test, something to see if I could make it up to her. So I said nothing.

  The movie started. My attention moved to Robbie, who gripped his Pepsi tightly. After the first daughter committed suicide by jumping out of a window onto a spiked fence, his hand began to shake. My heart rate sped up.

  “We could change movies. This one’s kind of dragging,” I said, trying to meet Heather’s eye.

  “It gets so good, though,” Heather answered, not budging.

  When the movie got to the part where the girls picked out fabric to make their prom dresses, Heather said, “You know, the man who lived here before us committed suicide.”

  “Seriously?” Durrell asked, bewildered, maybe a little freaked out. I was caught off-guard too. Heather never mentioned this to me before. Not once.

  “She’s joking,” I said, sitting up a bit straighter. I don’t know why she was being this insensitive. Did Durrell’s presence make her stupid?

  “It’s true,” she insisted. “It’s why we got the house so cheap. Hanged himself right here.” Heather climbed on the twin beds, reached her hand to the ceiling, and touched the paint. Stroked it gently, like with a doting pet. She came back down and snuggled up to Durrell.

  I turned away from her, then froze. Robbie was staring at the ceiling. Immediately, I moved from the bed to sit on the floor next to my brother. For a moment, I thought about touching his shoulder or patting his back, but I didn’t. He’d take it the wrong way. Like I was patronizing him in one of those Public Service Announcements.

  “You okay?” I whispered. Robbie’s head snapped down. His pupils were dilated and hazy. “We can turn it off if you want. Put on something else.”

  He blinked, then smiled and shook his head. “No, it’s cool. I want to know what happens.”

  “You sure? I’m not really enjoying it.”

  “I told you, I want to see what happens.”

  I looked back at Heather and Durrell, ready to insist we put on another movie, but stiffened. They were making out like we weren’t even there, Heather straddling his lap as Durrell gripped her hips.

  I grabbed the remote and hit stop. “If there’s no objection, I’m putting on something else.”

  Heather and Durrell said nothing; they were still making out. Her shirt was snaking up in the back. I could see the red band of her bra.

  “Do you guys want to order a pizza or anything? Chinese?” I asked, raising my voice. Heather opened her eye, glanced at me, then closed them to keep making out with Durrell. My chest felt like an anchor pulling my shoulders down.

  It sucked being a third wheel, even though Robbie was there as well. Guess we were both just spare tires. Training wheels.

  I nudged Robbie with my elbow and gestured with my head to the door. He looked at me. You sure?

  Positive, I answered.

  Quietly, we got up and walked out of the house. We crossed the lawn, our Converse sneakers getting soggy with each step. The temperature was dropping. It’d freeze overnight.

  Robbie shoved his hands deep in the pockets of his hoodie after he got in the car. “I know she’s your friend and all, but what a bitch. The making out in front of you and stuff,” Robbie said. “I mean, even if she didn’t know you had a complete boner for her, talk about needing to get a room. And what the hell’s up with Durrell? Usually he’s not such a douche canoe.”

  “I don’t want to talk about this.”

  “But—”

  “I said, I don’t want to talk about it!” I snapped as I pulled onto the road. “None of this would have happened if you weren’t a dick and didn’t try to kill yourself.”

  I regretted the words the moment they came out. My resentment was a time bomb, years of holding back the words I wished to yell at Robbie. Words I never said out of the fear of him kicking the crap out of me. “I mean, why would you even want to kill yourself? You have everything!”

  “Because I panicked and couldn’t stop, okay!”

  I hit the brakes so hard we jerked forward against our seat belts. I hadn’t expected him to answer me, and certainly hadn’t expected him to say something like that. The hell did Robbie mean? Robbie was fearless.

  “Pull over,” Robbie said. I hesitated. “Seriously. Pull over.”

  I moved the car to the side of the road and parked. Robbie got out and I followed him. He walked quickly, hands shoved deep in his hoodie’s pockets. I followed him down a smooth path to the town park. We climbed up the steps to the ga­zebo. Robbie sat down. Hesitantly, I sat next to him. My twin rubbed his knees. “I hate being an outsider. It stresses me out. You’re lucky with your theatre friends. You’re all close and everything, you know?”

  I didn’t understand what he meant. “You have way more friends than me.”

  Robbie snorted. “Everyone’s ‘friends’ when they’re on a team together. It’s like the army. You can’t hate your squad because they’re the ones saving your ass. But there’s only so much space. Only so many jobs. You’ve got friends outside of hockey. I don’t. You’re lucky.”

  I rubbed the back of my neck. “I didn’t realize you felt that alienated.” He looked at me, almost hopefully. Like he was beckoning me to go on. “You seem happy enough.” Although right after I said it, Robbie didn’t seem happy. In fact, he hadn’t seemed happy for a long time. I couldn’t remember the last time he laughed. Truly laughed, not the fake laughs he forced out, part of the Robbie Betterby Hockey Star routine.

  “If I wasn’t expected to draft high, it’d be different.” Robbie looked at his feet. “I have to keep a low profile.”

  Low profile?

  I waited for my brother to elaborate, but he didn’t. I shook my head. “I don’t understand.”

  Robbie folded his arms across his chest and tilted his head back. “No one wants to hang around depressed people and get sucked into their mess. People who say they do lie, or they’ve got something seriously wrong in their brain. I mean, seriously, why would you go out of your way to hang out with someone who was completely miserable all the time? There’s, like, obligation to watch out for your teammates and shit. If the guys got worried and started asking questions, I don’t think I could lie. Just easier to keep it to myself, you know?”

  What lie? What stuff?

  Figuring out Robbie was nothing I ever attempted to do in the past. Before, he was just a hockey player. A damned good one who reeked confidence. Now, he was struggling to speak.

  Thick clouds covered the stars and moon. The air was thick and heavy. It’d rain later. Almost inaudibly, Robbie said, “You have no clue how much I hate myself.”

  His words cut into me like the blade of a silent samurai. I felt the threatening prickle of unexpected tears in my eyes.

  “Why?” I wanted to know. No, needed to know. How could someone who had our pare
nts’ undivided attention, the hockey team’s most promising prospect, hate himself enough to want to die?

  Robbie bit his lower lip, hung onto the fake piercing, like it’d make talking easier. Just like he was a fish caught on some jerkbait. I wanted to reel him in, but he kept fighting the line.

  I asked again, “Why’d you try to kill yourself?”

  Robbie took a long time to answer. “I don’t know.” Then, in a whirlwind, he said, “It was stupid. People do stupid shit when they’re depressed. Even Raiden.”

  Raiden?

  “Is that what’s getting you?” I asked. “Are you worried that he’s not going to get drafted or something? Or that he’d go to a division rival?”

  “You really have no clue, do you?”

  I would if you told me anything, I barely refrained from saying.

  Robbie got to his feet. “Come on, let’s go home. I’ve got something for you, anyway.”

  “What? Like a present?”

  “Sort of. More like an ‘I’m sorry for ruining your Broadway trip and accidentally getting Heather and Durrell together.’” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I found a torrent of some twenty-fifth anniversary of The Phantom of the Opera or some shit. Figured if you weren’t there, you could at least see it.”

  He took off before I could confirm what I heard, or thank him. I hustled to catch up. Despite the threat of rain that would turn the snow to slush, the night felt almost refreshing. I never had a serious talk with my twin before. The closest we came was a year or two ago at dinner when he started talking about Tori Amos and Fiona Apple and how sad it was that so many recorded female vocalists were rape victims, since people capitalized off of women’s trauma and misery. “Men are pigs,” he had said, disgusted. “If I ever end up like that, just kill me.” I’d asked him to pass the salt.

  Now, we walked with our strides in almost perfect alignment. It was strange to remotely empathize with him, but I wasn’t dumb enough to think one serious talk after eighteen years of not speaking would make us similar. We weren’t. But maybe it’d teach us how to communicate. Maybe we’d understand each other the way twins were supposed to.