Free Jerkbait by Mia Siegert Page A

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