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“Jeez . . .” I sat at my computer.

Robbie twisted in his computer chair to face me.
“Don’t let it get to you. For what it’s worth, I think she’s attractive
. . .
you know . . . for a girl.”

A smile cracked on my brother’s face, enough to make me laugh. He got to his feet, stretched, and walked to his mattress.

“Go upload your stupid photos to Facebook and tag her, then get the lights. I’m tired as hell.”

“About the party,” I began. “Are you okay?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, is everything cool?”

Robbie got on his mattress and under the covers.
“Yeah. It’s cool.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. I’m sure.”

My shoulders relaxed. I’d rather a false alarm than the alternative.

By the time I uploaded and tagged my photos and liked every one that Keisha uploaded except the ones with Heather and Durrell, almost two hours had passed. Robbie was still, probably asleep. I got into bed.

If I were just a little bit braver, I would have kissed Keisha on the lips. Kissing Keisha properly would have to wait. She seemed to like the romantic, mushy stuff, and I kind of liked that, too. Maybe I’d take her out to some retro ice skating park with music from the 70s, 80s, and 90s. I didn’t know if she skated, but if she didn’t, it’d be a good excuse to have my arm around her for support and I could show off. I might have been crap next to my brother, but I’d be good to her.

Finally, things were going right.

25

I
woke up to muffled screaming. For a few disoriented moments, I stayed on my mattress, not wanting to get up. Monday mornings were always the worst. A cold breeze came in from our window. I stood up, groggily stepped over the mattress, and tugged at the wood. It wouldn’t budge. “Hey Robbie, help me get this thing shut?”

Silence.

I looked behind my shoulder; the mattress next to mine was empty. From downstairs, there was more screaming: louder, less muted.

I didn’t stay in my room another second. My socks skidded on the floor when I sprinted out of my room and to the stairs, still in my sweatshirt and pajama bottoms. The clock chimed six times as I ran down the steps, echoing through the long hallway.

But when I got downstairs, shouting, “Where’s Robbie?” he was right there. On the couch, arms folded across his chest. At first glance, he looked normal, but a closer look showed that his clothes were filthy, face scratched up and bruised.

“
What’s going on?” I demanded. “Robbie, what happened?!”

Mom and Dad whirled on me, stunned. Like they forgot I lived in the house. They didn’t need to answer. Their expressions said everything I needed to know.

Robbie tried it
again.

As if two suicide attempts weren’t bad enough, now there was a third. If statistics on suicide were accurate, soon there would be a fourth, and a fifth, until finally he’d take it too far and there wouldn’t be a next time.

My veins throbbed by my temple, skin burning hot from anger. We shared the same room, mattresses right next to each other on the goddamn floor. Last night, we had a great time. Why didn’t he wake me up?

My body seized with hurt. This was just proof that Robbie and I would never be close. We weren’t born close, so why should we get close now? The first time he tried to kill himself, I was numb. The second time he tried, I went to an audition and came back guilty as hell. My parents made me think I was the reason he couldn’t cope. Robbie didn’t try to commit suicide because of me. I had nothing to do with it.

Mom rubbed the bridge of her nose. She looked so weary and old. “The Dean is going to come here this afternoon so we can discuss a leave of absence.”

“Car accident,” Dad said wearily. “If she asks, it was a car accident.”

“That’d be telling the truth,” my twin muttered.

Unbelievable . . .

“Are you going to send Robbie to a psychiatric hospital?” I demanded.

“No.” Mom looked at Dad, then said, “We’re pulling both of you from school to focus on playoffs.”

“Are you serious?” I gawked. “I don’t even play hockey anymore!”

“You need to watch your brother.”

“I’m eighteen. You can’t make me.”

“Actually, we can until you finish the school year, unless you want to drop out, stay in a homeless shelter, and be cut off financially.”

I’d had enough. If I was going to get grounded by proxy anyway, I would at least take the opportunity to speak my mind.

Mom asked, “Something you want to say, or are we clear?”

She hated questions. She hated when we answered questions. She hated when we asked them. I looked her dead in the eye.

“Yeah, actually.” I clenched my fists. “What the hell is wrong with you? Why would you only take Robbie to the hospital once even though he’s tried
three
times? Are appearances worth more than his life? He needs to be committed, or in therapy, or something!”

“Are you done?” Mom said in the way that meant discussion over.

“You and Dad,
especially
Dad, blamed
me
for Robbie trying to kill himself. What kind of demented parents blame their own child for something like that?”

“
Tristan—”

“It wasn’t my fault that Robbie tried to hang himself. I had
nothing
to do with it!
Nothing!
I went to one stupid audition. I didn’t tell him to tie a noose around his neck!”

“That’s unfair—”

But I couldn’t stop. The brakes on my verbal locomotive wouldn’t slow down. “If you don’t acknowledge me as your son, then don’t make me a scapegoat for your own shortcomings as parents!”

“Tristan, that’s enough!” Dad yelled. “You’re completely out of line taking this out on your mother.”

“I’m out of line? Pot calling the kettle black? When the hell have you ever treated me like a son? When have you
ever
done anything for me?” I faced Mom. “Like you calling me a faggot because I like musicals and want to act. Or you judging Keisha because she’s black.”

Mom became pale. “I’m not racist or homophobic—”

“Maybe you’re not if it’s someone else’s kid!” I snarled. “You know what I was doing after school while Robbie was at hockey practice? I was at rehearsals. Because that audition I did? Yeah. I booked a lead in the spring musical.”

“Tristan—”

“Seriously, what’s wrong with you two? Are you guys trying to win the worst parents of the year award? Because if you are, congratulations. I think you’re in the lead.”

Dad bunched his fists up like he was about to strike me. In his eyes, I didn’t see anger. I saw guilt and the threat of tears. “One more outburst, and—”

I laughed. “And what? What else could you possibly take from me?” I started up the steps, but only made it halfway before I stopped and turned around. I leaned on the banister to glare at my twin. He gazed at me, eyes shiny with tears.

Looking him dead in the eye, I said, “I never thought I’d actually hate you.”

I stormed up to the room, slammed the door, then waited. There was only silence. I pressed my ear to the door. Not a peep.

They weren’t coming.

I fell on my mattress, buried my face in my pillow, and began to cry. They didn’t care enough to follow me and see if I was okay, or even to punish me.

I screamed into my pillow, but I didn’t feel better. Screamed again; still nothing. Although I didn’t want to kill myself, at that moment I didn’t want to live. What was the point? I was eighteen, and I was still a prisoner.

I pulled the covers over my head, closed my eyes, and tried to force myself to sleep but I kept turning and shifting uncomfortably. I must have passed out at some point because the next time I opened my eyes, I felt someone watching. “Go away, Robbie.”

“It’s Dad.”

I pulled the covers down from my face and rubbed dried snot off of my nostrils. “What do you want?”

Dad sighed, “Mind if I come in?” He didn’t wait for me to answer before he stepped in and closed the door behind him. “I know this isn’t fair for you. Your mom, too. Especially her. You really shook her up with the homophobic and racist thing.”

“Good.”

Dad hesitated. “Look. We’re a small family. Your mom and I can only do so much. Robbie needs all the support he can get.”

I stared at my dad incredulously. Did he really talk about Robbie’s potential career as being a priority for
me?
That I needed to sacrifice even more? “Then send him to a therapist and leave me alone.”

“He can’t go.”

“He can’t play if he, you know, kills himself.”

“He can’t play if he doesn’t get drafted. And he won’t get drafted if . . .” Dad’s voice trailed off. “No team’s going to want a liability. If they think he’s too depressed to function . . .” He looked me straight in the eye. “He’s only got one shot to make it, Tristan. We all need to make sacrifices and this . . . it’s just until the draft. Then he can get a therapist. If you’re becoming an actor, you’ve got the rest of your life.”

“Actually, I don’t,” I snapped. “Dancers only have so many years. If my voice isn’t strong enough—” I couldn’t finish. I hugged my pillow to my chest.

“Is there anything we can do to make it up to you?”

“Yeah. You can put me up for adoption,” I muttered.

“Do you want to go get some lunch? I could take you and Robbie to get Chinese. Buy you guys some DVDs at the mall.”

“Buy
us
some DVDs, yeah. That’s making it up to
me
.” I set my pillow down. “I want to do the musical.”

“You need to watch Robbie.”

“So you want me to chauffeur him to and from practice and won’t let me go to my rehearsals, which, by the way, are at the same time.”

“He’s been a mess without you on the ice.”

“
He’s not a mess because of me. He’s a mess because the guys are beating the shit out of him for being gay.”

As soon as the words left my mouth, I knew I fucked up. Big time. Dad stared at me. I couldn’t read his expression. He took a few strides across the room to the closed door, opened it, and peered out. He shut it softly and sat on the mattress next to me.

I pressed my head in my hands. Outing someone was about the worst thing a person could do. It was Robbie’s life to share, not mine.

“Robbie’s gay?” Dad asked after several minutes. “Did he tell you?”

“He told everyone. He was trying to protect me from some of the football players.” I bit my lip. “. . . please don’t tell him I told you that. Or tell Mom.”

“Damn.” Dad swore. “Okay. Okay. So he said that to protect you. I can work with that. I’ll contact the scouts and say it was in solidarity with you—”

I faced my Dad, jaw dropped. “You’re going to say it’s a lie?”

“He’s got one shot,” Dad said. “Once he makes it big, he can do what he wants. We’ll just say you’re gay. With you acting and quitting hockey, scouts would believe that. Robbie’ll be the hero that way. Hell, his stock would probably go through the roof.”

I got to my feet. “Get out.”

Dad gazed at me, stunned. “But—”

“Get out,” I reiterated with a growl.

He got to his feet. Then said, “I’ll reimburse you for doing this—”

“I said, get out.”

“Dance clothes? Equipment? Shoes? Lessons once the season’s over?”

“Get out!” I yelled, pulling open the door. If there was one thing I knew, it was that I wouldn’t ever give Dad the satisfaction of buying me over. “Get OUT!”

“Equipment, clothes, shoes, lessons once the season’s over, and in the interim, I’ll buy you Broadway tickets.”

. . . except possibly that.

My lips tugged down. This had nothing to do with giving my parents satisfaction—but they owed me. Dance shoes were expensive. Dance clothes were expensive. Dance belts were expensive. Lessons were expensive. And Broadway shows were expensive.

“I still want to go to rehearsal,” I said.

“Not happening, Tristan.”

My lips pressed in a thin line. No, missing my chance was what’s
not happening.
I could possibly sneak over to rehearsal while Robbie was in practice. Robbie owed me that much. I’d
make
him owe me.

“I’ll write a list of what I need.”

“
Done.”

“And I want one show a week.”

“That’s way too much.”

“Let me go into the city by myself then.”

“You need to stay with Robbie.”

“So you’re saying Robbie’s coming with me to see musicals?”

Dad’s forced smile disappeared. “
Every month for the rest of the season.”

“You want me to pretend I’m gay instead of my brother so he can get drafted
knowing
that Mom will treat me like hell?”

“She won’t. If anything, she’ll treat you better for what you’re doing.”

“How would—oh my god, Dad. You can’t tell her.”

“It’s going to come out sooner or later. Better from me than the press.”

I slumped low. No. It wouldn’t be better from Dad than the press. It wouldn’t be better unless it came from Robbie’s lips.

“It’ll be fine,” Dad said.
“And you’ll get the benefit of a show every month.”

“Every week,” I mumbled. “To compensate for Robbie never speaking to me again.”

Dad shifted his weight and sighed. “Every week unless there’s a big game.” He pulled out his iPhone and handed it to me. “Write a list of the dance supplies you need.”

Reluctantly, I wrote out a list, everything from dance belts to tap shoes, to leg warmers. By the time I was done with essentials, there must have been over a thousand dollars worth of stuff on it. Good tap shoes usually ran at least three hundred dollars alone. I then wrote down as many extras as possible, from character shoes to unitards to stage makeup. Anything I could think of. I handed it to Dad. He didn’t even flinch. “I’ll order it right now. Glad we could get this all resolved.”

But it wasn’t all resolved. I’d just sold myself out.

“Why don’t you see if there’s something Wednesday night you want to see? We’ll go right after practice. You, me, and Robbie.”

The idea of spending time with Robbie right now wasn’t appealing. At all. Or Dad. Especially both of them. But I wanted to see a show, and I was going to hold Dad to this. “I get to choose it without complaint, right?”