Jerkbait (4 page)

“I don’t know if this is a great idea,” I said hurriedly. “I don’t want to just, like, invite the whole team without asking her.”

“So ask her,” Durrell said. “We’ll contribute pizza money and beer.”

“And wings. Can’t go without wings,” Beau added as he slipped into another shower stall. “Did I forget anything?”

“Chips,” Janek said. “And guacamole. And what are they called? The things that look like M&Ms?”

“Reese’s Pieces or Skittles?” Beau asked.

“Both,” Janek said. “Definitely both.”

Robbie gave me the corniest thumbs up he could muster, like he was saying,
Hey, you got your way,
even though he damn well knew I didn’t.

I hurried to change into a clean pair of underwear, nice jeans, and a dark, long-sleeved polo shirt. Tucked to the side was a spare change of clothes and board shorts, the things I always brought to Heather’s enormous house with its hot tub. Throwing my bag over my shoulder, I wove through the corridors until I got on the main concourse. The second Heather’s friends saw me—a group of about fifteen—they started cheering. I ducked my head, embarrassed.

When I was close enough, I said, “Great job, Keisha.”

Heather cut Keisha off before she could speak, “
I think you stole the show with your gymnastic prowess.”

“Gymnastics? I thought it was a touchdown,” Craig added.

I groaned. “Please don’t tell me it was that obvious?”

“Back of your jersey said T. BETTERBY.” Heather nudged me playfully. “You ready?”

“Uh, yeah. So about that,” I began slowly, clearing my throat. “I kind of messed up.”

“
What do you mean?” Heather’s eyes became harsh.

“I asked Robbie about coming, and Durrell heard, and Durrell thought it was an open invite so . . .” I shifted my weight and mumbled, “I think a bunch of the guys want to come over . . . like all of them.”

“Are you serious?” Heather gawked.

“They said they’d pay for pizza and beer and whatever,” I said hurriedly. “They’d hold good on that. I mean, I could tell them to get lost, but uh . . .”

Craig lifted his arms to the side like a cross and gazed at the ceiling. “OH, LAWDY, THANK YOU JAAAAYYYZUSSS!”

“Huh?
”

Craig simply beamed. “You’re telling me a bunch of gorgeous, ripped hockey studs are coming to Heather’s humble abode?”

“Gorgeous?” I snorted. “Most of them don’t have teeth.”

Craig seemed to think for a moment. “I can live with dentures.”

“Enough about dentures.” Heather beamed, though something didn’t quite seem sincere. “If they’re willing to pay for beer and pizza, I’m okay with it.”

I rubbed the back of my neck. “So, uh, I guess I’ll meet you guys there?”

“Absolutely. We need to get ready,” Heather said, wrapping an arm around Craig’s back and the other around Keisha’s shoulder. “Come on, dolls.”

Keisha looked over her shoulder at me and smiled. I half-waved, then hustled back to the locker room. The guys were already laughing about the party and how wild it’d be with all the theatre girls. Some were making bets on how many girls they’d make out with, and what about making out with two at a time? These bets were broken up with claps on my back, the guys telling me how awesome I was for organizing this.

Except it wasn’t awesome. At all. In fact, it kind of sucked.

“You ready to go?” Robbie asked by Raiden’s side.

No,
I thought as I led them out of the locker room and into the frigid night.

5

P
arties at Heather’s house had always been fun. Her mom worked graveyard shifts so nothing was off-limits: the pool, the hot tub, even the spare bedroom. The few times her mom got a night off, she sometimes joined us, jokingly asking which of the guys were straight and over eighteen. Awkward.

Almost as awkward as the way the team walked in, standing with their thumbs hooked in their pockets around the island in the kitchen, drinking beer that Beau got with his fake ID. Usually once I got to Heather’s, she’d turn on the hot tub, everyone would get in our bathing suits, and jump in. Sometimes there’d be a few make-outs, or tops might come off from quasi-drunken dares. But my teammates didn’t have bathing suits, so no way that was going to happen even though Craig slipped out and turned the jets on. Wishful thinking, I guess.

I stood near the sliding glass door, watching steam rise from the hot tub. Small snowflakes dropped from the sky; it was pretty.

Heather handed me a bottle of Smirnoff Ice Raspberry Burst. I didn’t like beer, but malt tasted pretty close to soda. Especially the Raspberry kind. Grape was just vile. I opened the top and took a sip as Heather filled a cooler with other bottles.

“What’s with the pussy drink?” Ray-Ray asked, sipping from a can of Moosehead. Because, really, what else would a bunch of hockey players drink?

“It’s just . . . something we do,” I mumbled, torn between putting the drink down or downing it fast. But, to my surprise, Durrell moved in.

“Mind if I give it a try?” he asked Heather. Smooth.

She grinned as she opened a bottle and handed it over. “It’s cheesy, but I really do like it.”

“I can see why.” He grinned and she laughed. I looked around the kitchen—my brother wasn’t in here. So much for Durrell coming in solidarity with my brother.

Music started blasting. I recognized the song as Garrix’s “Animals,” which we always played in warm-ups to get us pumped. Heather’s face gave the faintest twitch, but she said nothing.

There was commotion in the next room. I ducked my head in. A bunch of the guys sat around her 65” TV playing a copy of NHL 16 that Smitty always kept in his bag on Heather’s XBox. A few of the acting kids crowded around them, Ray-Ray already making out with a girl I barely knew named Tina, while Beau’s girlfriend—he must have picked her up on the way over—rubbed his shoulders as he played against Janek.

My brother was on the couch next to Raiden, chucking Doritos at Janek’s head any time he made a mistake in the game.

“That’s what you get for playing as the Rangers!” Robbie taunted, breaking into laughter when Janek turned his head, catching a chip in his mouth.

“Hugh five!” Raiden said to Robbie as they slapped their hands. I’m not sure why they started saying Hugh Five instead of High Five, but it stuck enough for everyone in the locker room to pick it up, even Coach Benoit. I thought it was kind of stupid, but I thought almost anything my brother came up with was stupid. Especially if it was something my brother came up
with
Raiden. Then it was extra stupid.

“Hey, T,” Durrell said as he walked next to me, bottle of Amstel Light in his hand. Talk about being pretty quick to ditch the Smirnoff Ice.

“Hey. Where’d Heather go?”

“She went to change into a bathing suit. Something about a hot tub.” Durrell leaned against the counter. “You want to join us?”

“Do you even have a bathing suit?” I asked skeptically.

“Underwear’s close enough. Figure that’s enough to stay modest, not that I care.” I hesitated enough for Durrell to pick up on it. “Hey, I know you two are kinda tight. You okay with this?”

“With what?”

“With me getting to know Heather. She’s really cool.”

I wanted to say no. I really did. Instead, I said, “Hot tub sounds great. Give me a few to change.”

“Cool. We’ll save you a spot, T.”

“Great,” I muttered, trying to sound enthusiastic as I walked up the steps to Heather’s room where I stashed my hockey bag. I rifled through it for my board shorts and changed into them, deciding whether I was going to ditch my shirt or not. I pulled it off and looked in the mirror. Not bad. Not that Heather ever noticed.

When I stepped into the hallway, I almost collided with my brother and Raiden.

“What are you doing up here?” Robbie asked, eyebrow raising.

“Could ask you the same thing,” I retorted, noticing the pipe in Raiden’s hand. “You can’t just smoke up in Heather’s house.”

“We’re not going to smoke up,” Raiden said with a buzzed slur, arm draped around Robbie’s shoulder. “We’re totally going to watch
Lifetime
movies and cuddle.”

“Totally,” Robbie said, unable to keep a straight face as he nudged Raiden with his hip. “Because Raid’s all about having a good cry.”

“Totally good cry.”

They moved around me, peering into rooms before turning into the guest room. They closed the door behind them. There was the loud click of the lock.

So much for not smoking up.

I walked down the steps and out the sliding door, shivering in the frigid air. True to his word, there was a space for me between Durrell and Keisha; Heather sat on Durrell’s other side, Craig next to her.

“Oh, thank GOD you’re here,” Craig said, snorting. “There was a severe lack of penis.”

Next to me, Durrell stiffened. I looked at Craig, gesturing for him to cut it out. He ignored me. “Seriously, I haven’t gotten some in like . . . two weeks.”

“A new record. You must be proud,” Heather taunted.

“
You’re acting like that’s a bad thing,” Craig said, voice rising in a sing-song.

“It kind of is,” Durrell said, pulling a face. “Seriously, don’t you have any self-respect?”

“Like the hockey guys aren’t hooking up whenever they can?” Craig brushed him off. “I’m pretty sure Raymond’s shoving his tongue down as many girls’ throats as he can.”

“That’s because Ray-Ray’s an idiot,” Durrell reasoned. When Craig groaned, Durrell continued, “No, seriously. He’s really stupid. The bulk of us aren’t, though. I mean, Tristan’s got his head on straight.”

“Don’t,” I cut in sharply. Last thing I needed was Heather to go off in a peel about me still having my V-card.

Durrell nodded, picking up on it, changing the topic, “Beau’s always got a steady girlfriend. No one’s really flaunting anything, you know?”

“What exactly do you mean by ‘flaunting’?” Craig asked.

“Well . . . you know.”

Craig’s eyes narrowed. “Actually, I don’t. How about you elaborate?”

“You’re going to twist my words and try to make me sound homophobic.”

“I don’t think I need to twist your words. I think I read you loud and clear.” Craig stood up with a tight-lipped smile and got out of the hot tub. “I think I’ve overstayed my welcome.” He hurried back into the house. I wasn’t sure whether I should follow him or stay with Heather and Durrell and the others.

Keisha shot Durrell an angry look. “I dare you to tell any of your teammates that they should have integrity.” Then she climbed out of the hot tub and hustled into the house after Craig.

“Ignore them,” Heather said, turning to face Durrell. “They’re drama queens.”

“Craig looked really hurt,” I said loudly. But Heather ignored me as she brushed a wet strand of hair out of her eyes. I cleared my throat. “We should check on him.”

“You do that,” she said, not even looking at me.

“I said
we.”

“I know.”

I hesitated before climbing out of the hot tub and into her house, for a moment tempted to turn the lock on the sliding door when Durrell put his arm around Heather’s shoulder.

I walked through the house, but most of the theatre kids had left. Peering out the front door, I couldn’t see Craig’s car. I couldn’t blame them. Leaving sounded like a great idea. I walked up the steps and down the hall to Heather’s room. After changing in my regular clothes, I went to the guest room then knocked on the door. “Hey, Robbie? You still in there?”

There was a scuffling before the door unlocked and Robbie poked his head out. Surprisingly, he didn’t smell like weed. “What?”

“Let’s go.”

“Are you serious? We just got here.”

“Yeah, but this party sucks.”

“I already was nice enough to come here instead of Durrell’s.”

“But—”

“I’ll get you when I’m ready. Jesus Christ, can’t you just fuck off for a while?”

And, with that, Robbie slammed the door in my face.

I stood outside the door for several minutes before I trudged down the steps with my hockey bag, curling up on one of Heather’s chairs, listening to the guys holler over NHL 16 until I fell asleep.

6

I
t was hard to write or concentrate on anything with Robbie close enough for our breath to sometimes synchronize. I opened a Word doc, fingers hovering above my keyboard. It had been a while since I’d written anything, but I usually got the itch whenever shit hit the fan, or when I was annoyed with Robbie. I gazed at the screen and typed:

There were creatures that lived in caves on the beach. Their skin was slick and gray like dolphins, even though they had legs and couldn’t swim.

I tried to continue, but Robbie’s presence grew, distracting me, getting closer, like the table was shrinking. My room was no longer my room. Even Robbie’s smell was stronger than mine, invading the air. His stuff pushed into mine, bigger and messier. His problems were bigger and messier too. The silent suicide attempt clung like a leech on my right to brood and figure out my own shit.

The bunk bed took up almost the whole wall, covering my few posters. While Robbie had hockey posters, mostly of the different players on the New Jersey Devils, I had two prints of abstract paintings and one poster of Patina Miller that Heather gave me for my eighteenth birthday. Only now that it was gone did I realize I needed one space to exist independently of him.

Forcing myself to stare at my computer screen, I tried to continue. There now was a smaller house of the dolphin people, all little orphans who had to be the adults in their little hut, lying horizontally on their beds so all of them would fit. They rotated positions because the littlest dolphin person who slept on the bed wet himself whenever he had nightmares, which was almost nightly.

“
What are you writing?”

Robbie leaned to the side, trying to peer at my computer. His headphones hung around his neck, Tori Amos’s voice now distinguishable through the speakers.

“Stuff,” I answered curtly, index finger hovering over the mouse, wondering if I should minimize the window.

“Can I see?”

“There’s nothing to see.”

“Looks like something.”

I started to type again. I only made it through half a paragraph with Robbie’s gaze on me. He was hesitating, like he wanted to say something but was figuring out how to make it not sound stupid. I let him struggle a bit longer. Having the upper hand, even for just a few minutes, was small revenge, but I’d take it.

Finally, Robbie said, “
Remember last year in English when we all had to write short stories?”

Of course I remembered. The teachers saved creative writing for the end of the year when everyone was lethargic and reading books seemed unbearable. It made the month on Charles Dickens’s
Great Expectations
more bearable. “Yeah, why?”

“Do you still have that story you wrote? The one that was like
Inception
meets
Being John Malkovich?”

Red warning lights went off in my head. Robbie didn’t do nice, and he didn’t do nostalgic either. Even if he changed over the past year, he couldn’t have changed
that
much. This had to be a set up, but I wasn’t sure for what. And that scared the hell out of me.

See, “Trapped in Stardust” was a short story I wrote last year. It was about two juniors, Jeremy and Melissa, who are best friends. Jeremy is in love with Melissa, but she’s in love with a superhero named Stardust. Jeremy decides that the only way to get Melissa’s attention is to kill Stardust, but he accidentally gets sucked into Stardust’s body. He thinks it’s pretty cool at first since he gets to make out with Melissa a lot, but then, realizing he can’t control Stardust’s body, comes to loathe being intimate with Melissa while she loved somebody else. I got a B+ on it because our teacher Miss Maroney, who self-published a paranormal romance trilogy about a stripper and a figure-skating werewolf—I shit you not—said Melissa should have realized that it was Jeremy at the end and fallen in love with him, breaking the spell that got him trapped in Stardust’s body.

But it wasn’t like that in real life. Best friends never fell in love. Couples who were best friends only became best friends
after
they got together.

Robbie asked, “Can you email it to me? I want to read it again.”

“Why?”

“Because it was good.”

“Not good enough for an A,” I muttered.

“Because Miss Maroney’s a stupid bitch,” Robbie snorted. I forgot he had bad turf with her as well. When we got our short story assignment, for once Robbie seemed excited about doing his homework. So excited that he actually would knock on my door to ask me about plot devices and generic grammar. He actually thanked me. When Robbie’s name was called, he got to his feet, story in hand, and cleared his throat. In a horrible English accent, he said, “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Robert Betterby and I’d like to present my story, ‘Michael Bay is a Douchebag.’” I could barely hear Robbie’s voice over the other students’ laughter. In his story, Quentin Tarantino and Martin Scorsese are the bosses of the notorious director mafia. To save the IQs of future generations, Tarantino and Scorsese decide that they need to burn Michael Bay’s scripts and hire Matt Stone and Trey Parker as their hit men. It featured Optimus Prime, Captain America, an appearance from Rainbow Dash
,
a voiceover by James Earl Jones, and the accidental death of Tarantino and Scorsese by “
divine intervention
”—in this case, Matt Stone and Trey Parker’s lethal farts (no, really). It ended with Michael Bay announcing that he’d be doing a remake of
Fried Green Tomatoes—
now enhanced with
EXPLOSIONS!
BOOM-O!

Robbie got a standing ovation, a “see me after class
,
” and four days of detention after he told Miss Maroney that she wasn’t qualified to critique him if she couldn’t get a traditional publisher to pick up her shitty figure skating werewolf trilogy.

But that was last year when Robbie was loud and reeked confidence. When he tormented anyone who stood in his path. Before he thought wearing a fake lip piercing was cool, became mostly silent, and overdosed on leftover Percocet.

“Are you going to take her advice? Make it the happy love story?” Robbie asked, pushing the silver ball on his fake lip ring around until it clicked against his teeth.

“No. Best friends don’t get together in real life.”

“Like you and Heather?”

Without answering, I turned back to the computer, biting back a scowl. I knew there was a catch. Robbie wasn’t interested in my writing; he was just looking for another chance to rip on me. With enough ammunition, it’d spread around the locker room, spill into the halls.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” Robbie said with glee. “That it was about you two?”

I reached for my headphones. Three years ago, Heather and I were acting out a scene when she said, “There’s this thing I learned in acting class today. A fake kiss. Just put your hand up in front of your mouth.” We only did it once. I kind of wanted to do it again, without hands, but didn’t ask. She never brought it up again.

Only a few minutes passed before Robbie tapped me on the shoulder
again
. I took off my headphones. “What?”

“Is it harder to write fan-fiction or original fiction?”

“Excuse me?” I questioned, enunciating my words slowly although my heart rate slightly quickened. How did Robbie even know what fanfic was? This was bad. Really bad. I sometimes wrote stories with Heather when we were chatting on Skype and her voice teacher wanted to give her a rest. Well, really, it started as roleplaying—her typing a paragraph and me responding as another character, then Heather asking me to edit it into a story for her, upping the drama and tension and sometimes sex.

Robbie couldn’t know about that, could he?

“Is it easier to write your stuff on your own, or the fanfic stuff with Heather?”

He turned his computer screen toward me. Indeed it was there, an account that Heather created on Archive of Our Own where she posted our stories. There wasn’t much. Just a little something here and there about
Doctor Who
or
Sherlock
or whatever Heather’s current obsession was that she got me hooked on
.
I pictured my twin’s old personality telling everybody at school at lunchtime, goading everyone to join in, being pegged with Heather as losers. Although probably people would let Heather be; Heather was a girl, and girls were allowed to write fanfic, especially when they had promising acting careers. But guys? Yeah, right. Especially if those guys played hockey, even reluctantly.

Cautiously, I asked, “How’d you know about that?”

“A year or two ago, Heather was talking about something on Facebook she was writing with ‘a friend.’ Linked up her site and saw stuff was written by GlitterB0mb and Silenced1. Kind of figured that was you. I looked at your profile and stories. The ones you write on your own are way better. I’ve been meaning to bring it up for a while but kept forgetting.”

I didn’t know what sort of excuse I could use to keep Robbie from teasing me. He’d rip on me no matter what the fandom was. “Don’t tell anyone,” I said, mind racing to think of what I had to bribe him.

Robbie’s brow raised.
“Why wouldn’t I? It’s good.”

What?

“Seriously I wish I could write like half as good as you. Your Batman thing was fucking awesome.”

“Stop messing with me.”

“I’m not,” Robbie said. “Seriously, the guys would go nuts over this. It’s really freaking good.” His eyes lowered and he fidgeted with his headphones. “You’re lucky you’re smart enough to do college. If I don’t get drafted, I’m screwed.”

“You’re gonna be in Juniors once you commit to a team. And you’re
definitely
getting drafted.”

“But I wasn’t drafted to a Junior team,” Robbie protested.

“Neither was I.”

Robbie bit his lip and put his headphones back on. Like he wasn’t sure whether I insulted him.

I turned to my screen, though I kept glancing at my twin, who now was watching hockey fights on Youtube. The profile of his shadow took up half of the wall, making the room feel even tinier. I didn’t trust any compliment that came out of his mouth, although these few were different. He’d never mentioned any interest in college hockey before. Not that I could remember. And he never acknowledged me being smart. Maybe he was just trying to make our living situation less awkward now that I was pretty much his babysitter. I’d never be able to figure Robbie out. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to. Sometimes people just weren’t meant to be close. We fell under that category, and I kept trying to believe that I was okay with it.

Spoiler alert: I wasn’t.