Jerkbait (5 page)

7

O
ne of the things I loved best about acting class was that we always started at barre. A few of the “serious students” (aka the jerkoffs who thought musicals were a lesser art) complained, only wanting to perform in plays or on screen, but our teacher Ms. Price insisted that we needed to be well-rounded. She pointed out the choreography in stage plays such as
The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time
where the protagonist Christopher, a fifteen-year-old with autism, went through scene-by-scene doing impressive, gravity defying moves, getting flipped in the air by the company or walking across the walls. It was hard for the “serious students” to argue with such an award-winning play.

Doing warm ups in a class instead of with a Youtube video was invigorating. I always warmed up behind Craig. He was the best male dancer at Briar Rose and did cheer in fall. He always said his body craved ballet and it was almost physically painful to take a day off. I could believe it as I watched him, mimicking his movement as best as I could. Even though Heather taught me a lot, there were some limitations learning from someone with different anatomy than mine.

Convincing my parents I knew what I was doing when I registered for this acting class—more than halfway through our season and just after the new year—wasn’t easy. I’d lied my way through by saying they were easy electives to get As. Mom especially hated anything related to theatre. I think it made her sad. On the living room mantel was a picture of our Uncle Anthony framed in white gold. He died during a run of
Smokey Joe’s Cafe
. Cancer, she told us with glossy, hurt eyes. Apparently, he didn’t even tell Mom he was sick.

The exciting thing was that with each class, Ms. Price corrected my position less and less, complimenting me on my learning curve as she pushed me for just a bit more, a few straighter lines, putting her hand on the back of my calf as I raised it as high as I could, moving it away when my foot was head level. Only two weeks later, and I could do that on my own without assistance, and without holding the barre for support.

“You’ve really never had acting classes before?” Ms. Price asked skeptically, arms folded across her chest.
I wish,
I wanted to say, but I didn’t.

“Just these few weeks with you, but Heather’s taught me a lot,” I said as I lowered my leg. Across the room, Heather beamed at me. “She’s awesome.”

“Yes, she’s very good, but no formal training? From a professional?”

Heather’s smile faded just a hair. I rubbed the back of my neck. “Um. Youtube?”

“Amazing,” Ms. Price said, shaking her head in admiration. “Absolutely amazing. I wish I had you when you were a kid. You’d be on Broadway by now.”

My breath caught. I had to look at the floor. “
That’s an exaggeration.”

“No. That’s an understatement.” She smiled at me. “You really should audition for the spring musical. We’re doing
The Drowsy Chaperone.
”

“But hockey . . .”

“Doesn’t your season end in March if you make playoffs? February if you don’t?” Ms. Price grinned. “See? I do my homework.”

I felt a strange warmth in my eyes, like I could cry.
“You . . . really want me to audition?”

“I
need
you to.” Ms. Price pressed her hands on my shoulders. I had to take a slow, shaky breath as I met her eyes. Until a couple of weeks ago, Ms. Price only knew me from sometimes helping Heather out backstage with her makeup, an unofficial dresser. Now, she wanted me to audition? “Take a breather,” she said, giving a squeeze as if she could read my whirring mind. “Five minutes, okay?”

Mutely, I nodded and hopped in a seat a little way from the group as Ms. Price began discussing monologues and the order we’d do them in, whether we’d be singing if we were concentrating on musical theatre or doing something from a play.

I pressed the heels of my palms to my eyes and inhaled slowly. Ms. Price didn’t hand out compliments on a plate. I wasn’t sure what was more overwhelming: the fact I had the potential to be on a Broadway stage or that she actually saw something in me. Anger mixed in with that blissful revelation. If I didn’t play hockey, I could have had a chance. My parents knew since I was eight that I wouldn’t be the player Robbie was. I could have started acting younger. I could have been a star, just like Robbie. They kept that from me.

“You okay, Tristan?” Heather asked, sitting next to me.

“
Sort of. Just a bit overwhelmed.”

“I’m glad I was able to help you get noticed by Ms. Price,” she said with a smile. Then, she quickly added, “I asked her if we could do something together instead of monologues. She said to ask you about it. So, what do you say to a duet?”

“That sounds great, but I kind of prepared something.”

“Oh. Well, if you don’t want to . . .”

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” I said hurriedly. “I just wanted to give something a try. A test run in case I go on with the audition.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

“Maybe next time?”

“Maybe next time I’ll want to do a duet with Craig,” Heather said.

I sighed. Heather could be impossible if she had an idea and it didn’t go to plan. Plus, she had great taste. “So, what’d you have in mind?”

“Well,” she said, eyes lighting up as she dug through her bag and handed me a copy of “Inside Out” from
A Gentleman’s Guide to Love and Murder
.

“
Okay,” I said, nodding more eagerly. My solo plans could wait a class—doing a romantic duet with Heather would be a bonus, even though Monty’s part was kind of small in that song

“Great!” she chirped as she sat next to me with her own sheet music, tapping on my thigh with her index finger as she silently mouthed the words. My eyes were glued to her fingers. In the background, Keisha started singing “Losing My Mind” from
Follies
but I couldn’t process her voice.

Heather’s fingers danced higher up my thigh. “If we kill it, I’ll bring you with me to a show
this weekend,” she whispered.

“Okay,” I whispered back, even though I wasn’t sure how I could convince my parents to let me go. But that didn’t matter. Not when we were going to go onstage, sheet music in hand, Ms. Price on the piano, and kill it. And, when it was finally our turn, belting and looking into each other’s eyes, voices clear and passionate, that’s exactly what we did. Killed it enough for a standing ovation and for Heather to throw her arms around my shoulders, letting me lift and twirl her before the bell rang. In the corner of my eye, I saw Keisha give the saddest smile I’ve ever seen before she got her purse and backpack and walked out.

“You were divine,” Heather whispered, fingers linking with mine.
“You made me sound amazing.”

“You were perfect,” I replied as I squeezed her hand, smiling as we walked together until we split ways for our next class. Maybe it was a matter of time before she’d suggest we change our Facebook statuses. Maybe it was a matter of time before she’d let me kiss her for real. Maybe it’d happen this weekend once I convinced my parents to let me go see a show with her instead of staying home with Robbie.

Maybe this would be it. Erase Durrell’s arm around Heather’s shoulder in the hot tub and replace it with mine. Think about our sides pressed together, Heather running her hands over years of hardened muscle. Like the time I once thought something would happen when Heather had a party over the summer, and I took off my shirt, and the girls kept wanting to feel my abs. Or like the time I thought something would happen when Heather rose her leg in arabesque and asked me to lift her and was so strong in her poise, it felt like she literally weighed nothing before she twisted her body over my shoulder, arms above her head, crotch too close to my face for me not to wonder if it was intentional and did anyone notice my hard on.

Maybe this was it.

8

“A
ll right, boys!” Coach Benoit said after setting up cones, dividing the ring in two. “We’re finishing off the long weekend with some speed. You don’t need to go one hundred percent fast one hundred percent of the time, but for this, you do. Anyone who isn’t on the verge of puking when they’re done will have to go again and again until they’re vomiting blood. Understood?”

Even though all the guys groaned, I couldn’t help but grin. Gameless weekends were the
best
. Especially the gameless weekends when Coach told us to take time off. He was always conservative when it came to preventing injury; it wasn’t worth wrecking some of the main prospects, i.e. Robbie.

Any break from hockey was nice, but this particular break corresponded with the miracle of Mom agreeing to watch Robbie so I could go into the city with Heather and see a show, her treat. In fact, they even said I could stay there for the weekend, like it was some sort of prize for good behavior. I was pretty sure the real reason was that they had made plans with Robbie, probably involving scouting, or a road trip to see the Devils take on the Sabres up in Buffalo.

That didn’t matter. They could do whatever the hell they wanted to if that meant going to Heather’s for the weekend and seeing a mysterious show, aka she hadn’t bought the tickets yet and would text me her decision.

This was probably the best practice of my life, even though I couldn’t wait for it to be over. Yesterday’s practice ended up with one-timers, today we’d be racing. I made it halfway through the one-timers yesterday before I got out. Durrell beat Robbie at the very end, at which point Robbie over-dramatically dropped his stick to the ice, pressed his hands to his face, and belted out, “WHYYYYY, GOD? WHYYYYYY????
AY DIO MIOOOOOOO!”

“All right, boys!” Coach yelled as he divided us in teams of two, starting with the goalies, then the defenders, and finally the forwards. When Robbie and Raiden started jawing each other, Coach shook his head. “Not today, boys. Margarine versus Butter.”

Immediately, I cringed. Admittedly, I was damn fast, and definitely had won my fair share of matches, but pitting me up against Robbie was just cruel. Especially when Raiden snickered, “Already know that outcome.”

“Knock it off,” Robbie said, shoving him. “He’s fast.”

“But you’re faster.”

Coach blew his whistle, instructing us to get set. I watched Janek and Ray-Ray line up, crouched forward with their sticks and heavy goalie pads. When Coach blew his whistle and they were off, we couldn’t keep from laughing and cheering. There was always something hilarious about goalies whenever they raced, or fought, or did anything “fast.” Especially when those goalies were Janek and Ray-Ray. Maybe from all the pucks they take to the head, or the absolute joy they had in taking off, skidding wildly around the ends of the ring. Ray-Ray hustled to pull ahead of Janek, skating backwards for the last few steps as he gestured toward his crotch and yelled, “Suck it!”

Coach blew the whistle again, not giving anyone time to celebrate as our next duo took off—Durrell against Smitty—then the next and the next. Robbie and I were dead last. As the pair before us moved out and we took our spots, I glanced at my twin. We had an identical stance. I crouched forward, toe digging into the ice. If I wasn’t prepared to spring, I wouldn’t stand a chance.

The second the whistle came, we were flying. We pumped our arms for more momentum as our legs shoved off in fast, hard skates. Our bodies fell in near perfect alignment. Our teammates screamed and I pressed on, ignoring the sting in my lungs as I leaned into the corner, sliding fast on the last stretch back as everyone cheered wildly. My heart pounded faster than from adrenaline alone. Robbie wasn’t in my line of sight.

As I skated hard, maybe eleven strides from the finish, I saw it. A flash of jersey fabric. Robbie came out of nowhere, charging on the end rush. I kept my head low, my lungs burning as I stretched out, elongating my body, and crossed the finish line a step-and-a-half before Robbie. I doubled over, hands pressed to my thighs as I tried to catch my breath, grinning ear to ear.

“Damn it!” Robbie swore, slamming down his stick hard enough for it to snap.

My grin disappeared. I shrank back until Coach Benoit said, “Good job, Butter.”

“Man, if I were a fraction as fast as you,” Beau said, shaking his head with rare admiration. A compliment from the team captain always felt good, even if it came at Robbie’s expense.

“All right, boys. We’re done. Have a good weekend, and don’t do anything stupid. I’m looking at you, Ray-Ray,” Coach said, clapping his hands. But, before we could move, he added, “Margarine, stay here.”

I glanced at my brother, who hung his head. Raiden tapped Robbie’s shin with his stick as he passed, a sympathetic frown on his face. As I skated to the tunnel, I heard Coach’s voice. “You skated like shit.”

“I tried, Coach.”

Queasiness settled in my stomach. I knew I shouldn’t have been listening, but I stalled in the tunnel.

Coach’s tone became harsher. “No room for trying. Only doing.”

“I thought I did.”

“You want to be drafted? You want to be the best forward on the team?”

“It was one stupid exercise. It wasn’t like it was a game.”

“You want that stupid exercise to give your competition ammunition?”

“Ray-Ray freaking
moonwalked
over the finish.”

“Ray-Ray’s an idiot. What if a scout was watching? You need to be one hundred percent all the time. No time to be some weak-ass pansy. Give in a little, and they’ll make you bend over and take it. Understood?”

Robbie shrunk. “Yes, Coach.”

“What aren’t you going to do?”

“Bend over and take it.”

“Again. Louder.
”

My brother’s voice became terse. “I’m not going to bend over and take it.”

Coach Benoit nodded. “Forty laps as fast as possible. Then you can shower up. Maybe next time you’ll actually win.”

I hustled into the locker room so they wouldn’t know I was listening. I changed and scooted off into the shower. Most of the guys had already left practice. By the time I came out, Robbie was sitting on the bench with his head in his hands. He was fully dressed, except for his helmet. His body was drenched in sweat, hair flat against his scalp. Robbie’s shoulders curled in. I smoothed out my polo shirt and sat next to him on the bench. “What’s wrong?”

Robbie got to his feet. He pulled off his jersey. “Let’s go home.”

“Is Coach still pissed that I beat you?”

“Really, Tristan?
Really?”

I shut up. Fine. It didn’t matter. If he didn’t want an ounce of empathy, I wouldn’t give it to him.

So, why was that getting harder to accept?

We left the locker room and headed out to the parking lot. Snow dusted the sidewalk. As I got into the driver’s side, my phone buzzed with a text message from Heather. One acronym:
POTO.