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11

M
y 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 tried 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

W
hen 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.”

“Bullshit.” Dad’s voice always scared me when it dropped to this register. Sometimes it was followed by the fists Robbie inherited. “Where were you?”

I looked at the floor and inhaled slowly. As quietly as I could, I said, “At an audition.”

“What’d you say?”

I barely raised my voice.
“I was at an audition, for a musical.”

Mom burst to her feet. Her face was dark red. “You did
what?”
I took a step back. I’d expected a big reaction from Dad; Mom barely looked up from her mobile. Dad was the one who yelled at us, but that yelling was always related to hockey. Even he seemed taken aback by Mom’s outburst.

“I’m sorry,” I spluttered. “The show starts when the season’s over. I thought—”

“You thought what, Tristan?” Mom took a step toward me. Her mascara was wet around her eyes, making them darker. “You said acting was an easy elective.”

“It is. I just—”

“You’re just like him
,
” Mom murmured. I shrank back. Who was
him?
Uncle Anthony? But she broke from that reverie with a sneer. “What’s next? You’re going to tell us you’re a homo?”

My twin’s head snapped up. He stared at me wide-eyed.

“No!” I said, shaking my head. “No, Mom, I—”

“Is that it? Is that why you went over to Heather’s so often? Why you don’t have a girlfriend?”

“No!”

Mom advanced toward me until I was pressed against the wall with nowhere to turn. “What’s next? You want to be some sort of woman? You want to be Caitlyn Jenner?”

“That’s enough,” Dad said, rising to his feet.

Dad and Mom stared at each other before Mom sat down, folding her arms across her chest. Dad looked down at me. “So, you decided to audition for a play instead of come home with your brother?”

“
Yes, sir,” I whispered. I didn’t dare correct him with “musical.”

“You were supposed to watch Robbie.”

“I thought that was just overnight . . .”

Robbie’s shoulders started to shake. Before the knife incident, the last time I saw Robbie cry was when we were nine and our dog was hit by a car. Robbie cried for days then, and wouldn’t even consider getting another pet even though I wanted one. Now he was on the verge of a breakdown for the second time in a week.

Dad’s enormous fist snaked around my bicep. It hurt. He hauled me up the stairs. Immediately, Robbie was on his feet, chasing after us.

“Dad, don’t!”

The hair on the back of my neck stood up. Robbie was never the type to beg.

“It’s not Tristan’s fault! Me being a screw up has
nothing
to do with him!”

But Dad didn’t slow, dragging me behind him toward my room. I wondered if he was going to beat me, how he used to when he still thought I could be good and just wasn’t trying hard enough. The day he stopped doing that, I was almost disappointed. It meant he gave up on me.

Dad yanked me into my room. In the center of the floor was the ceiling fan, broken and bent, with bits of crumbled ceiling around it. I looked up to the hole and electrical wiring. “What happened?”

“Your brother tried to hang himself.”

The air to my windpipe cut off like Dad’s words had turned a tap. The room seemed engulfed in a silent explosion, something so big I became deaf. My throat burned.

An image came to my mind. Robbie on the top bunk with sheets around his neck, trembling before shoving himself off. I felt the cracking and collision as he hit the ground, the fan landing on top of him.

I doubled over, put a hand over my mouth. Dad was screaming at me, but I still felt deaf to everything except, “Your brother tried to hang himself.”

I didn’t even realize I was dragged back down the stairs and into the living room until Dad pushed me on the couch. My head hit the back. I trembled, pressing myself into the cushions. This couldn’t have been real. I just went out for an audition. I was only gone for a couple of hours. Maybe three, tops. Probably two.

This was preventable.

This was my fault.

Robbie stood by the couch, disheveled, body swallowed by his large, black hoodie. He held his forearm over his eyes to hide his tears.
Hockey players don’t cry.
Dad had drilled that into our heads since we were four. Robbie tried to sniff back his snot, then rubbed the back of his hoodie sleeve over his red nose to wipe it away.

“It’s not Tristan’s fault.” I wanted him to be quiet. Defending me made me feel even worse. “I messed up. I screwed up.”

“Robbie, just shut up,” Dad snarled, though it wasn’t the sort of yell that came with anger. It was the kind that was born from terror. Dad was afraid. Afraid of what Robbie might do, what he could have done.

Dad turned his fury on me. “You can say goodbye to hanging out with your friends for a while.”

“And you’re not doing musicals under this roof,” Mom added.

My twin tried again. “Mom, Dad, don’t—”

“Shut up, Robbie. Just . . . shut up.” Dad suddenly choked. I’d never seen him so close to tears. Robbie was their child, their special child. Their favorite son. Were they like this when Robbie came out breach at birth? Or was it only after they realized just how promising Robbie’s future was? Every little change was monumental in their eyes, from his bleached hair to his fake lip piercing, which Grandpa had said looked like a fish caught on some jerkbait. “That’s the point,” Robbie had told him.

Dad exhaled. He glanced at Mom, who glared daggers at me. “While your mother and I take care of the mess, you’re to clean the rest of the house downstairs, Tristan. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

Mom picked up the tissue box and carried it with her. She left the grocery bag with used tissues behind. The sound of their upstairs door closing didn’t mute anything as they began to scream.

“It’s not like Tristan’s going to end up like Anthony,” my dad yelled.

“Yes, he will!”

“Even if he was, it wouldn’t matter! As long as it’s not Robbie.”

“Oh, so just because Tristan won’t be drafted it doesn’t matter? You’re a real bastard.”

“Go to hell!”

I stood next to my twin in silence. A tear rolled down my cheek before I could wipe it away. Robbie looked at the ceiling, narrowed his eyes, and stuck his middle finger up.

I trudged to the kitchen where our supply closet was. Robbie’s footsteps tapped behind me. “You want to help or are you going to call me queer, too?” I mumbled, unsure how I could apologize to Robbie for my negligence. It felt like I was only now regaining my hearing after the explosion and looking at the bloody carnage around me.

Robbie reached around me from behind with a sudden, tight hold. At first, I jerked, hands gripping onto his wrists. He was going to strangle me. Choke me until I passed out.

But Robbie’s hands didn’t move near my neck. They hugged my stomach. He rested his head on the back of my shoulders. My shirt became wet. He started to shake, hard.

“Robbie?” I whispered, afraid to move.

“I’m so . . . so sorry, Tristan,”
Robbie murmured. “That’s so shitty of them.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“It
does
matter,” he insisted. He stalled and squeezed
tighter
. “If you’re gay—”

“I’m not,” I said as I pulled from his grasp and faced him. “I just like musicals. That doesn’t mean I’m gay.”

“You’
re sure?”

“You really think there aren’t hetero men who like musicals?”

“No, I just—” Robbie bit his lip. Frustrated with words he couldn’t formulate, he grabbed the mop and bucket. At a time like this, that telekinetic stuff so many identical twins talk about would be helpful.

We cleaned in silence for several minutes. Finally, I asked, “Why’d you do it?”

Robbie kept his eyes low. “Sometimes you get an idea in your head and you don’t think about consequences.” He pulled the neck of his hoodie down enough for me to see the bruising and raw skin around his neck. I finally processed the cuts on his face and purple swelling around his eyes, probably from where the fan came crashing down.

“Dad hasn’t decided what my excuse to Coach is this time. Probably something heroic, like me falling down while shoving a little kid out of the way of a moving car.”

Robbie looked like he was waiting for me to say something, but I kept my mouth shut. Nothing I could say would be worthwhile. Nothing would take back the horrible mistake I had
made.

As we cleaned, we listened to the sounds of our parents rearranging furniture. I wondered what the room would look like, what we were doomed for next. Would everything look the same as it was? The only thing I was sure about was that this time I’d take it with my head down.