Free Jerkbait by Mia Siegert Page B

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