Authors: Mia Siegert
20
S
ometimes, the Internet really sucked. Without having a face to directly confront, people typed all the stuff they wouldn’t dare say in person. Cyber-bullying and trolling is unavoidable to anyone who uses the Internet. Tumblr, Facebook, Twitter, Instagram. Parents and teachers always tell bullied kids to ignore it, but they don’t get that it’s impossible to ignore something in your face at every turn. They’re too old to understand that things now are different than when they were young and used America Online on 28.8 kb/s dial-up modems.
After we came home—me from my first rehearsal, Robbie from practice—we avoided going up to his room and using our computers. My bruises from the lunch fight starting to turn eggplant and yellow.
There were a few awkward moments of eye contact and fumbled half-starts, but we didn’t really talk. I didn’t tell Robbie that I was sorry; he didn’t tell me how he got the cut on his face. Neither one of us wanted to see the online damage that was undoubtedly waiting for us. We cleaned the house and made dinner without complaint, then stalled in the living room. Robbie agreed to watch
Into The Woods
with me since Mom and Dad were out, although he barely paid attention. When the movie was over, he grabbed the remote and put on the game—New Jersey Devils versus Tampa Bay Lightning—and I had to listen to him bitch after Stamkos got a power-play goal on a breakaway.
I got out
Othello
from my backpack and started to do my reading for next week. By the time the game was over and Robbie’s voice was hoarse from screaming at the refs, I’d read through most of
Othello
, and wasn’t in the mood to see another game when Robbie said he wanted to see what happened on the west coast.
“You sure you don’t want to see it?” Robbie asked, almost pleading. “San Jose Sharks versus the Minnesota Wild.”
“Not really,” I admitted. Robbie looked down. I probably shouldn’t have said that, especially after what he sacrificed for me, but I had to be honest. I liked hockey, but I didn’t love it. Robbie didn’t just love hockey; he breathed it.
I walked up to Robbie’s room and sat at the table. Sooner or later, I’d need to address the inevitable. I ignored the number of notifications on my own Facebook page as I typed in my twin’s name. My stomach twisted when the page loaded. Robbie’s entire timeline was filled with questions and comments:
are you really gay?
did u just say that so tristan wudnt get picked on?
r u a fag?
What the hell was up with lunch???????
call me.
faggot
I’ll always support you, no matter who or what you are. <3
we need to talk. Call me.
no fags on the hockey team
call me.
WTF!?!??!?!?!?!?!
I alaways kenw you were gya!1
BIG HUGS
You need Jesus. I’ll pray for you. It’s not too late.
soap on a rope lawlz
There wasn’t a single post from Raiden, which was weird since he always spammed Robbie’s Facebook with Imgur memes and Youtube videos.
Even though none of those messages were directed at me, I felt hollow.
My own Facebook was getting bombarded with comments, too, though not on the same scale. There was a sweet one from Keisha:
Just wanted to send hugs to you and Robbie and say hang in there. Tell him I said yay for gay! =)
Maybe it was just in my head, but lately it seemed like she had been going out of her way to talk to me.
Other students posted links to musical parody videos on Youtube that were pretty funny, like “If You Were Gay” from
Avenue Q,
but some of the others weren’t so great. I deleted all of the comments that made fun of me for liking “kiddie musicals,” and deleted the ones that made fun of me with the straight twin/gay twin crap, but for each one I deleted, it seemed like three more would appear, some even with a hashtag
#
freedomofspeech, #nohomo, or a super offensive “no offense but.” I wondered if I should have been deleting people from Facebook rather than deleting comments, but I didn’t want to seem unpopular. Facebook friends showed social hierarchy. No one took anybody seriously if they had under four hundred friends. Even three hundred and ninety-nine friends wasn’t good enough.
I quickly typed a status:
My brother is the bravest person I know.
I waited a moment before deleting what I typed without posting it.
“How bad is it?” Robbie asked from the doorway holding an ice pack. I hadn’t even heard him come up the stairs. Before I had the chance to answer, Robbie rubbed his forehead and said, “Never mind. I’ll see for myself.”
“Don’t,” I said, surprised I found my voice. “Give me your password and I’ll take care of it.”
Robbie hesitated and rubbed his hands together. “They’ll say I’m a pussy if you delete posts.”
“They’re going to say stuff anyway.”
Robbie sighed. I thought he might tell me off, but instead he said, “
Margarine sixteen. No space. Lowercase. For my password, I mean.” He sat on his mattress and flipped through his phone.
I typed in
margarine16
and my throat tightened.
There were hundreds of notifications and private messages. I started with his timeline, changing the setting so that only Robbie would be able to post on it. Then I deleted every single hostile post, leaving up the few ones of support, pressing the “Like” button on those. Like Keisha—who already left a note on my Facebook—who wrote:
You should check out something like You Can Play or It Gets Better. I can help you if you want.
I moved to the private messages next.
One from Durrell immediately popped up.
Dude, I’m so sorry. I wouldn’t have said that crap about T if I knew. No promises but I’ll try to get the guys to back off you, aiight? Be strong, bro.
I frowned.
That
was the Durrell I knew. The one who was so cool. Not the monster who hazed me after stealing my best friend. Although I shouldn’t have, I scrolled up through the message to see if there was anything else about me. There wasn’t. They talked about hockey, plans, scouts, college versus juniors, and sometimes a few directions to parties.
Behind me, I heard Robbie hurl his phone at his mattress. I turned around on the computer chair. “Raiden,” he said, answering my unspoken question.
“What’d he say?”
“Nothing. Literally,” he mumbled. “Won’t return any of my texts.” He got to his feet. “I’m taking a shower.”
I waited for Robbie to leave the room before I scrolled through his Facebook inbox. It wasn’t hard to find a convo with Raiden.
Robbie: What up beauty? ;)
Raiden: omg think im still drnk hahahaa
Robbie: LOL!! Yeah, me too. I dunno about you but no regrets here. ;)
Raiden: huh? y regrets when we were waisted?
Robbie: . . . oh. Yeah. i guess that was stupid of me to write.
Robbie’s text deteriorated with each message. I read everything, scrolling through Imgur memes and Youtube videos until a new message at the bottom popped up, written in perfect text:
Raiden: I deserved to know.
Even though it was hard to let things be, I made myself log out of Robbie’s Facebook after one last glance. I couldn’t prevent future messages, but at least his wall would be spared. Then I went into Word so I could try to write something. I only gazed at the unfinished dolphin story. I couldn’t concentrate. By the time Robbie returned from a shower, I hoped the worst would be gone. Especially as he logged on to his computer.
Periodically, I’d glance at Robbie’s computer wondering what he was doing, or how much worse his Facebook page had become since he came out. But Robbie wasn’t in Facebook. He was in some chat room.
“Do you mind?” Robbie said, not looking away from his screen. Embarrassed at being caught, I looked away from his monitor, but not for long.
When Robbie got up to go to the bathroom, I leaned sideways to look at his screen. He was in a chat room for depression. A private window was centered on the screen. I knew I shouldn’t, but I was curious about what my brother was doing to cope. I scrolled to the top of the conversation and began to read.
Jimmy2416: hey wanna chat?
hockeylover15: Sure. ASL or something, right?
Jimmy2415: LOL do people still ask that?
hockeylover15: No idea. I haven’t used IM in years.
Jimmy2416: LOL ok 24/m/pa you?
hockeylover15: 18/M/NJ
Jimmy2416: ur profile says ur 15
Jimmy2416: ?
hockeylover15: Oh yeah. That’s when I made my account. Guess I haven’t updated in awhile.
Jimmy2416: riiiight. u in high school or college then?
hockeylover15: High school. I’m a senior.
Jimmy2416: cool
Jimmy2416: gotta pic?
I felt breath by my ear and turned around. Robbie glowered over me. “Uh . . . sorry,” I mumbled and moved back to my computer. “I didn’t see that much. Honest.”
“You shouldn’t have seen anything,” he said bitterly.
“I’m sorry.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “So, what’s up with the depressed chat room?”
Robbie put his headphones on and blasted Robyn.
Translation: Screw you.
I kind of deserved that.
“Hey Robbie?” He didn’t hear me. I cleared my throat and more loudly said, “Robbie?”
“
What?”
He snapped as he pulled them off. Now, Ani DiFranco blasted through his headphones. If he was listening to her, he was definitely angry. I shrank back in my seat as Robbie glowered at me. I was pushing it too far. I knew I was. He made a huge sacrifice for me, and I couldn’t leave it alone. Like scratching at a scab.
I braced myself for a punch and stammered, “What do you think’s going to happen at school on Monday?”
Robbie looked at the computer again. He rubbed the back of his neck, then scratched through his bleached hair, more subdued. “You probably don’t have to worry. Straight dude who likes musicals is a lot less interesting than the gay hockey prospect.”
I felt awful for Robbie, and wanted to talk to him more, or something, but I said nothing. Speaking would cheapen that sacrifice. Whatever I said would never be able to equal the kindness he gave me at lunch. I saw Robbie glance at me from the corner of his eye, like he was waiting, hoping, praying, that I’d say something, but I was still mute. I couldn’t give him what he wanted. I didn’t know how.
Robbie needed help. Robbie was alone, and was pleading for help. And maybe he was pleading for help from me. Or maybe that was me just hoping he was. Wishing that maybe, somehow, through this mess, someone would think I was important, or worth getting to know. That maybe the favorite son would realize the forgotten son was a decent guy. That someone was actually grateful for me.
But that wouldn’t ever happen. Not when I couldn’t defend myself against a bully and had nothing to offer my brother in exchange for his sacrifice. He wouldn’t be grateful because there was nothing to be grateful for. I would continue to live in his shadow, a disgrace.
21
O
n Monday morning before homeroom, Eric’s group approached. I turned to my locker and watched them out of the corner of my eye. Eric’s fists were balled. Praying they would pass me, I continued turning the lock. I had to pretend I wasn’t scared or else whatever beating I was bound to get would be multiplied.
There was a
clang-bam-bang
, the sound of a body colliding with metal. I turned. Robbie was pinned by Eric. Robbie used his tongue to play with his fake lip piercing, turning the ball on the end of the ring around.
“Heh,” he said with a smirk, lips curling up. “That all you got, bitch?”
In that moment, I was convinced that Robbie was insane and I’d be peeling him off the ground. Yet, Eric released his shoulders abruptly and shoved past him muttering, “Homo.” Further down the hall, I locked eyes with Durrell for a moment before he turned away.
“You okay?” I ventured to ask my brother.
Robbie didn’t answer. He watched them walk away and rubbed his shoulder with his knuckles. His middle finger raised.
“Robbie?” I tried again.
But Robbie was gazing into the distance the same way I did when I got lost in musicals and short stories. Maybe he just didn’t hear me. Finally, without looking at me, he said, “I have to be.”
The bell rang, and Robbie walked ahead of me to World Civilizations. I jogged to catch up with him. This was just the beginning of a long road we’d be traveling on, but Robbie didn’t want a traveling companion. Robbie wanted to go solo.
I didn’t
see Robbie in the cafeteria at lunch. There was an empty chair next to Raiden, like no one wanted to touch it. Robbie’s presence was a ghost.
I kind of wished he was at the cafeteria. Eating alone really sucked, especially now. I spent half of lunch reading Louise Erdrich’s
The Round House
before noticing something in the corner of my eye. A bit of blue jeans. I looked up. It was Keisha.
I closed my book. “Hey. What’s up?”
“Nothing. I—” Keisha frowned a little. “I’m having a birthday party. Never got a sweet sixteen so I figured spectacular seventeen would do. I wanted to invite you. Robbie, too.”
“You seriously want to invite us? What about Heather and Durrell and—”
“Screw them,” she said. “Seriously, it’s
my
party. Not theirs. And I want you both there.” She paused then. “
But if you think Robbie would get teased and try to, you know, hurt himself again—”
My body turned to stone. “Who told you that?”
“Heather. Why?” Keisha looked at me then put her hand on her mouth. “I wasn’t supposed to know, was I?”
“No one’s supposed to know.” My fingers curled over my knees. “If it affects his
draftability,
my parents will literally kill me.
Literally.
God, he’d probably actually go through with it if he didn’t get drafted. Shit.”
Keisha looked at the ground. The whites in her eyes glistened. My stomach ached. I didn’t want to make her cry. “I didn’t mean to yell. I just . . . Robbie’s given up so much for me.”
“
I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sorry. I just—I just wanted you to come to my party. And Robbie, too, of course. I mean, I don’t know. I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t have said anything.”
I didn’t know how to reply, or how I was supposed to feel. Keisha probably would get ripped on just for talking to me, even in passing, or standing at my table twisting her thick hair like she didn’t know whether she was breaking some unspoken rule—never talk with a friend’s former friend.
“I want to go,” I said gently and looked Keisha in the eyes. I squeezed her hand, looked at her chipped, purple nail polish. “I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone this, but my parents want me to monitor Robbie at all times. If I can talk him into going, we’ll be there. I’m not sure I can, but I’ll try.”
“I hope you can.” She looked over her shoulder and pulled her hand away abruptly. “I need to go.”
Hurriedly, Keisha scooted back to Durrell’s table and sat next to Heather. Heather turned to her and said something that made Keisha wilt. My fists clenched under the table.
I thought about Keisha, and her fears of being rejected by her friends. Fears of becoming an outcast, just like my twin. Keisha lacked courage, but was kind. She didn’t belong in that group. She didn’t belong with Heather.
After finishing my homework that evening, I went through her Facebook. I read her interests section. She liked horses,
Harry Potter,
and astronomy. I thought for a long time about what I could buy her, but she probably was the type who bought anything she’d want. Material possessions wouldn’t mean that much to her. Handmade, though . . .
I pulled up Word. It was hard to ignore the unfinished story about the dolphin people. That was the wrong sort of story to give her. I needed to make something special. Something with fluff. I began to write:
It was late August when Sagittarius leapt from the skies to Earth. When standing in the clouds, he noticed a girl on land. She sat on a rock near a waterfall, playing a pan flute. The music was intoxicating. Sagittarius had thought he had loved once before, but the lady centaurs never had a song with that much emotion, or that much beauty.
Fearlessly, Sagittarius landed near the woman. He opened his mouth to speak, but the woman was terrified of his half-human, half-horse body. “Please, don’t be frightened,” he begged. “I came from the skies because you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. I’m in love with you.”
“But you can’t be.”
“But I am.”
“But how could I love half a man?”
Crushed, Sagittarius galloped away, head bowed down in shame, trying to tune out the sound of her voice crying, “Wait! Please, come back.”
But he didn’t turn back. He became ashamed, ashamed of the creature he was. No. The woman could not love a beast. She was too divine.
Sagittarius dipped his fingers into the trickle of a creek and withdrew a sword made of water, slicing the blade through his body. Cut in two, he now was freed from his body. The human half used his arms to crawl on the ground, delighted that now he wasn’t a creature, a beast, but although he had his mind, he no longer had his heart. His heart was in the horse half, a headless body that galloped over the hills, down ravines, unable to whinny, unable to do anything but obey his heart’s desire and run.
It took ten days for the woman with her flute to find Sagittarius’s human half on the ground, a trail of dried blood behind him. She turned him over and looked at his broken face. “Will you love me now, even if I have no heart?” he asked, but his voice lacked emotion.
The woman began to weep, grieved, wishing to undo her harsh words, for now this half-man—all human—had no heart, no emotion, nothing but the memory of being in love and needing to remain in love. She lifted Sagittarius’ emotionless torso and carried him across the Earth, trying to find the rest of his body. To find his heart, his feelings, his love.
Finally, they saw the body lying down. Without a mind, the horse body ran itself to the point of breaking all four of his legs, quivering, belly rising and falling in shakes. Without a heart, Sagittarius had no sympathy for his other self—
find me another body, then I can love you properly.
But the girl had to remedy this. She cried as she placed the bodies together, sewing their skins together with thread from the long grasses. When she tied the last knot, Sagittarius started to weep, for with a heart, he felt pain at his broken body, his suffering legs that now were unable to move.
“I do love you,” the girl said, handing him her flute as they kissed. The magic of their kiss formed a gateway to the skies, and without gravity holding him down, Sagittarius lifted into the sky. The girl held onto his tail as long as she could until the hairs snapped and she fell to the ground, crashing into the Earth, and became a waterfall.
I printed out the story and had to dog-ear the pages since our stapler was gone. I’m not sure what my parents thought Robbie would do with a stapler, and didn’t ask either. At the top, I wrote, “Happy birthday, Keisha,”
with a smiley face and signed with nothing special—just a dash and my name,
Tristan.
Boring, plain. Nothing memorable. But this wasn’t about being memorable. This was about a gift for someone who was kind. Someone who was a friend.
I folded up the story in an envelope, licked it shut, and doodled a little birthday cake on the front. Then I put the letter in my backpack. I’d give it to her tomorrow, or slip it in her locker if I didn’t see her. I hoped she’d like it.