October 12: Gabe

Morning breakfast has become quite a chore in the DeCarteret household. Dad leaves before sunup to avoid the inevitable awkward silences. James shovels cereal and toast into his mouth, washes it down with orange juice, and burps loudly. Mom stirs around the kitchen, struggling to keep his glass full and stashing power bars in his backpack. I sit across from him and pick at a blueberry muffin, trying to avoid eye contact and block out the sounds of him chewing.
“Today is the day,” Mom says and rubs her hand over James’s back.
“Yep,” he says without swallowing his food.
“Don’t forget we’ll be leaving after halftime.” She closes a box of cereal and puts it in the pantry. “We’ve got the church retreat this weekend.”
“I know,” James mumbles. Milk runs down his chin and I can’t take it anymore. I get up to throw my muffin away.
“Don’t waste that,” Mom takes it from me before I throw it into the trash can. “You need to be eating. You could stand to gain a few pounds.”
“Mother, I’ve been trying to gain weight since I was twelve.” I run my hands under the sink. “It’s not happening.”
She sighs and throws the half-eaten muffin in the trash. The way she is acting, you’d think she just buried her sister or something. And the muffin was staler than Aunt Susan anyway.
“And besides,” I pour a glass of apple juice. “I need to stay fit for the theater.”
She rubs her hands on her apron and shakes her head. “Not for much longer. You need to start thinking about what you’re going to after you graduate, Gabriel.”
“Theater.”
She spins around. “You can’t be serious.”
“Mom, I’ve been in plays since I was five.” I take a swig of the apple juice. “I have every musical theater vinyl ever made. For the past six years, I’ve only asked for Broadway tickets for Christmas- which Santa still hasn’t given me. I can recite every major Shakespearean monologue ever written. And I can’t go five minutes without bursting into song. What do you mean, I can’t be serious?”
“Theater is a hobby, Gabriel.” She purses her lips. “But once you are out of school, it will be time to get serious. You need to start thinking about a career.”
“Football is a hobby too, Mom,” I sneer.
“That is not the same thing.” She points her finger towards me. “Don’t you pull that, Gabriel.”
“Well, I’m only a junior Mom.” I tighten my grip on the glass in my hand to keep from throwing it at her. “And after that, I plan on going somewhere with a really good musical theater program.”
“Do you know how many people dream of being stars, Gabriel?” She steps towards me. “It’s just not realistic.”
“It is if you want it,” I assure her. “And I want it.”
She huffs. “Well I’m sure your father would agree when I say that we simply will not pay for some mediocre education in wants and wishes.” She puts her hands on her hips.
“You won’t have to.” I throw the glass in the sink. “I’ll do it myself.”
“Gabriel-“
“We’ve got to go.” James stands up from the table and puts his dishes in the sink. Clearly he’s heard enough. “I’ll see you at the game, Ma.”
He kisses her on the cheek and she squeezes his face between her tiny hands. She loves him; she really does. I envy him in this moment. I wonder what it is like to have your parents dote on you, love you just for being you.
Must be nice.
Mom looks at me. “You’ll be at the game, won’t you, Gabriel?” She raises an eyebrow and I decide not to test the waters anymore this morning.
“Wouldn’t miss it.” I grab my books and follow James out to the truck.
“Thanks,” I say once we are outside and out of earshot.
“Whatever,” he mumbles. To my surprise, he throws the keys at me. “Here.”
Sometimes I believe that James might actually have a soul, buried somewhere deep beneath the layers of tennis shoe laces and bacon. Somewhere inside of him, he possesses that twin psyche thing that they talk about on the Discovery Health Channel. Sometimes I think he cares a little bit. And then I remember that he’s throwing a party tonight after our parents leave for the retreat. He’s going to want me to keep my mouth shut.
“Just don’t kill me.” He smirks. “It’s game day.”

School is most definitely bustling with game day spirit. Everyone is wearing their school t-shirts for whatever club they are in or team they are on. I personally am rocking the red V-neck theater shirt that Mrs. Mashburn finally let the theater kids order. It hangs loosely under my favorite brown vest. Despite my school’s lack of spirit for me, I’ve got no choice but to show Boomer pride. So I wear my shirt with pride and dark skinny jeans.
My friends are waiting by our stairs, running lines for the fall play. Jessica stands up and twirls when she sees me. She’s wearing a long skirt that flows around her legs.
“Caramel macchiato with extra caramel,” she holds a paper cup in front of me.
“Thanks, Jess.” I take the hot cup from her. “You’re a lifesaver.”
“Hey Gabe,” Cameron mumbles without looking up from his script. “Why can’t I just get that freaking line?”
“Because you’re excited about game day?” I say sarcastically.
The others laugh. Alana rolls her eyes. “Please, the only good thing about this shirt is that it makes my boobs look great.”
“At least we got somewhat cute shirts this year,” Jessica says. “Last year’s shirts were dreadful.”
“Gabe, you want to run lines really quick?” Cameron finally looks up from his script book.
I shake my head. “I wish I could, but the studio is calling me. It’s Friday, remember? And I’m still on camera duty.”
“Of course,” Cameron nods.
“But thank you for the java.” I lift my cup towards Jessica. “I’ll see you guys after break.”
Doing the morning announcements with Ruby has become a routine. She is nice and fun. I understand why everyone likes her. At the same time, I am slowly realizing that Ruby hates herself. And I am determined to understand why.
We leave the studio together and she sips the rest of my macchiato. She asks me about the football game, and I promise her that I will be there to cheer her on.
“The field is my stage,” she tells me.
“And I support all of the arts,” I assure her.
What is not an art, is Pre-calculus. It is more like a slow-acting poison that takes the life out of you, breath by agonizing breath. And I am positive that Mr. Evans is trying to kill me with his monotonous lectures. When he passes back our quiz grades, my paper looks like it has been slit open by a scalpel. All I see through the blood-red ink is ‘you suck.’ He might as well fail me now. I crumple the quiz up and throw it away, promising myself that I will study pre-calculus half as much as I study my lines. There is no room for failure in the theater.
Or in the ever-torturous DeCarteret household.

When I get to Ms. McConnell’s office for third period, I can tell she’s already had a rough morning. She sits at her desk with her head resting in her hands. I knock softly on the door and she perks up.
“Gabe,” she sighs. “You scared me.”
“Sorry about that.” I smile. “Is everything alright?”
“Yes, everything is fine.” She takes a sip from her mug of coffee. “I’ve got a few phone calls to make. If you want to just get a jumpstart on your homework or something, that’d be fine.”
I nod. “I’ve got lines to memorize.”
“Perfect.”
I leave her to her phone calls and take a seat at my desk. While I run through my lines, I overhear several of her conversations.
“I know Manuel wants to go, Judith. It’s just a matter of getting the money. I’ll pay for it myself if I have to….”
“Yes, she’s doing fine, Misses Rhodes…. I understand your concerns, but she is going to all of her classes and….”
“Moving into a new home can be very hard on young teens, Mister Reid. I’m sure that working with the football team is a great way for Alex to get adjusted…”
I try to block it out, but I’m nosey and I can’t help it. I blame my mother; she is always sticking her nose in other peoples’ business at church. She’s a therapist, for God’s sake. She loves other peoples’ problems. And I’ve got a knack for them myself.
“Excuse me,” a man’s voice shakes me from my reading and eavesdropping. He is tall, older, with an expensive brown suit on. “I’m looking for Miss McConnell.”
“What’s your name?” I sit up and put my hands on the computer keyboard to seem more professional.
His voice is shaky. “John. John Phillips.”
“Just a second,” I hop out of my seat and knock on Ms. McConnell’s door. “Someone is here to see you.”
“Who?” She looks up from her computer.
I shrug. “John Phillips?”
“Oh,” she seems to recognize the name. “Tell him to come in.”
I turn to the man with the expensive suit and the shaky voice. “You can go ahead.” I smile, but he doesn’t smile back.
When he gets into her office, I settle back into my eavesdropping chair and listen. From what I can hear, Mr. Phillips is Brian Phillips’ dad. And he is saying something about Brian’s mom wanting to visit them from rehab. Rehab? Who knew Brian’s mom was in rehab? I must have just heard it wrong.
“She is going to be released in a couple of weeks. I’m not sure where she will go after that.” Mr. Phillips’ voice doesn’t stop shaking. “He hasn’t seen her in nearly seven years.”
I definitely didn’t hear it wrong. I guess addictions run in the Phillips family. I decide that I don’t want to hear any more of this conversation. I put my headphones on and turn my iPod up. I don’t cut it off until the bell rings and I see Mr. Phillips follow Ms. McConnell out into the lobby. I stuff my iPod in my book bag and hurry to lunch with the burden of Brian Phillips’ secrets clouding my head.

“Good news,” Alana says once I’m at our table. “Misses Mashburn got us out of the pep rally. We don’t have to go.”
“That’s fucking fantastic.” I sit down and bite into an apple. “How did she manage that?”
Mara smiles. “She told Mister Hall that the fall play is more important than some stupid exploitation of student athletes and their misdemeanors.” She holds her fingers up to denote quotation marks.
“Whatever that means,” Jessica rolls her eyes. “Either way, Hall says we can have the auditorium to practice.”
“That’s perfect!” I tug on my V-neck. “I guess we wore these shirts for nothing.”
“I don’t care,” Alana covers her lips with a fresh coat of lipstick. “I look great in red.”
Cameron kisses her and then turns to me. “So, anything exciting going on in the offices today?”
“Yeah,” Jessica rests her chin in her hands. “Any hot gossip?”
The thought of telling them about the stuff I heard doesn’t even cross my mind. Manny can’t pay for a field trip, Evelyn’s mom is worried about her, and Brian’s dad is pulling him out of fourth period to visit his mom in rehab. That’s not exactly small talk for the lunch table.
I shake my head. “Nope, nothing. Nothing at all.”

I love practicing in the auditorium. It gives you a feel for the real thing, gets you excited for the finished project. As soon as the bell rings, we hurry into the auditorium while the rest of the school piles towards the gym.
“Home sweet home,” Alana sucks in a deep breath as soon as we get into the dark room. This is the first time the auditorium has been unlocked all semester.
“I’m in heaven.” Cameron flips the lights on and we all hurry down the carpeted steps to the stage.
We collapse on the stage. The glossy hard wood is comforting to me. I lay my head on Jessica’s thigh and let Alana rest her head on my stomach. The equipment and makeup crews make their way into the room and sit in the padded seats in front of the stage. The auditorium is kind of small, with rows of seats that start high and descend to the front of the stage. We always have sold out performances, especially for the spring musical. I get giddy just thinking about it.
“Gabe!” Mrs. Mashburn opens the side door and stomps out onto the stage. “I need to speak to you.”
Everyone falls silent and Alana sits up so that I can stand. I follow Mrs. Mashburn out into the hall. She slides her glasses off of her nose and looks at me with worn out blue eyes.
“What did I do?” I ask. I’ve never seen her so serious.
“Everything,” she mutters.
“What?” I scowl.
She finally smiles. “I just got off the phone with the head of the theater department at the School for the Arts.” She wipes her glasses off and puts them back on. “They want you, Gabe.”
“What?” My face flushes. “What are you talking about.”
“They want you, Gabe.” She chuckles. “Someone saw your Grease performance last year, and they want you.”
“Chicago School for the Arts?”
“That’s the one.” Mrs. Mashburn nods. “They will be here to see the fall play, Gabe. And if they like it, they’ll want to set up a formal audition.”
“You’re kidding me.” I put my hands on my head and try to breathe.
“You wish I was kidding,” she laughs. “They want Jessica too. Both of you could very well be spending your senior year at the best school in the state.”
I try to breathe, but reality punches me in the chest before I can catch a breath. My parents would never let me go to an arts school, even if it was one of the best in the country.
“Misses Mashburn…” I stammer. “My parents. They would never go for this. Ever.”
“Gabriel, this is your future we’re talking about.” She puts her hand on my shoulder. “Graduating from the School of the Arts will make you a top candidate for the best musical theater programs in the country.”
“I know that,” I assure her. “Believe me, I know. But I just know that my parents wouldn’t even consider it.”
“Let’s not think about that right now,” she hushes me. “Let’s just get you ready for this play. You’ve got some big people to wow. And I have no doubt that you’ll do just that.”
“Okay,” I smile.
“Now get in there and start running your lines with Cameron. Tell Jessica I’d like to see her out here.”
“Alright,” I mumble.
“Gabriel,” she pulls my hand. “What did I tell you? You’re a star.”
“Thanks, Mash.”
I can tell by Jessica’s squeals a few moments later that she is nothing but pleased. And why wouldn’t she be? After all, her parents are artists themselves. They support everything she does, sit front row at every show, and would follow her anywhere if it meant her dreams coming true. Exact opposite of my parents. For the rest of rehearsal, I try not to think about it. Finishing high school at a place completely dedicated to helping me follow my dreams is too much to think about when I’m trying to focus on the task at hand.
Who am I kidding? Focusing is completely out of the question.

I can’t stop thinking about it while I scoop cones at the ice cream shop. Jessica had screamed in my ear for a solid five minutes after school. She was so excited about the prospect of us following our dreams together, making an impression on the officials from ChiArts that would leave them speechless. But as thrilling as it sounded, all I could think about was the lecture I would get from my mom if I even mentioned it. And I still can’t quite wrap my head around it.
The shop has been dead all afternoon. Everyone is out getting ready for the big game. I scoop myself a cone of cookie dough ice cream and slip into a tune from the Legally Blonde musical. When the bell on the front door rings, I spin around and see Evelyn Rhodes. A girl who looks just like her stands in the doorway.
“Hey, girls.” I smile.
“Hey, Gabe.” Evelyn walks up to the counter. They both stare at the selections for a few seconds before ordering and I wonder how old the other one is. She is wearing a lot of makeup and clothes that are too tight. They say the apples don’t fall far from the tree, and I’m guessing these two fell off of the same forbidden one. They order and the younger one goes to sit down without looking at me.
“Sorry about her,” Evelyn mumbles. “She’s barely a teenager and thinks she’s a grown woman.”
I chuckle. “Don’t they all?” I hand her their orders. “She looks just like you. Is she your sister?”
“Is it that obvious,” Evelyn sneers. “She’s a trip.”
“She’s pretty,” I admit. I know Evelyn isn’t someone to test, but I go for it anyway. “I think something is wrong with her.”
Evelyn stares at me. “What do you mean?”
I shrug. “It’s her eyes. They’re gone. You can tell she’s not here. They’re sort of empty… Like yours.”
Her face flushes and quickly, I add, “And mine.”
She hands me a wad of money but I just shake my head. “It’s on the house. Just talk to her.”
“Alright,” Evelyn nods and stuffs the money back in her pocket. “Thanks Gabe.”
They sit there for maybe half an hour. I overhear bits of their conversation and I can tell that Evelyn is trying to get through to her. The girl seems to have some walls up, just like Evelyn. Then again, I guess we all build our own walls. Keep your heart guarded, lesson number one. I’ve worn mine on my sleeve too many times, and in turn, had it picked and prodded at like a sideshow attraction. Now my heart is more guarded than the Wicked Witch of the West’s castle in The Wizard of Oz. I imagine those ugly monkey guards marching back and forth in front of my heart. No entry. Don’t even bother trying. Except, who am I kidding? I want to love everyone. And I just want them all to love me back.

I leave the shop early to get home in time to eat a turkey sandwich and change coats before my parents are ready to leave. They always leave entirely too early so they can get their favorite spot. I follow them to the ideal destination: the very top of the bleachers, right on the fifty yard line. From here, we can see everything.
I sit down, squished in between them on our red and white Boomer stadium seats. Mom lays a fuzzy red blanket over our laps and offers me a bag of trail mix. For a second, she is almost a human, rather than a prudish, Catholic robot. She even halfway smiles at me. Game day makes everyone a little crazy.
“Can I get some hot chocolate?” I ask her.
She hands me a five dollar bill and I take my time going to the concession stand. People have started to flood around the parking lot. I would hang out around here, except I don’t fit in with any of these people. My friends are all at the movies, while I’m stuck here to pretend to cheer for a sport that makes me want to puke. It just doesn’t seem fair. But then when was it ever?
My parents slip out of their strict, cold leather exterior on game nights. They stand up, they cheer, and sometimes my father even yells. My mom claps her hands a little too hard and yells James’s name even when he’s not on the field. James is great at what he does, which is something I can semi-appreciate. The home stands are full, and our fans are wild. When the buzzer rings and signals halftime, I think my mom might cry.
“I hate that we have to leave,” she says to my dad.
“Isn’t it just a shame?” I say sarcastically.
“I know, Tammy.” My dad stands up and folds his chair. “But they’re waiting for us at the retreat. We’ll be at the next one.”
“Alright,” she mumbles.
“Wait,” I say while they pack the stuff up. “Can we just stay to watch the halftime show?”
They ignore me and exit the stands before the band even marches on the field. I guess I’ll just have to pretend I cheered Ruby on.
The ride home is silent and awkward. They drop me off outside of the house before speeding off to their stupid church retreat. I wonder if they get a speeding ticket, will Jesus fit the bill. I hurry inside and start a hot bath. Our old house is so peaceful when it is empty. I turn on one of my vinyl records and go into the kitchen to make tea. I estimate that I have maybe two hours before James and his friends arrive to start raging.
I take my time soaking in the bathtub with my peppermint tea. I think about Chicago School of the Arts, and how they want me. I think of Brian Phillips and wonder how the trip to see his mom went. I think about Jessica’s parents and ask God why mine can’t loosen their restrictive grip just a little bit. I ask a million questions, but when I get out to dry myself off and change, I still don’t have any of the answers.
When James gets in, I am sitting in the dining room devouring a piece of strawberry cheesecake. He comes in and pours himself a glass of milk.
“We won,” he tells me.
“Nice.” I don’t look up from my script book.
He takes a long drink from his glass. “You’re cool with a party, right?”
I wonder if my answer really makes a difference. I suppose if I really wasn’t cool with it, I could stay at Jessica’s or Cameron’s. But the last thing I want is to be some stowaway who can’t hold his own at his brother’s stupid party. And besides, there needs to be at least one intelligent person in the house in case of an emergency- and neither James nor any of his friends constitute as that. So I shrug it off and decide that I am cool with a party.
“It’s whatever,” I tell him.
“Cool.” He nods and finishes the milk. “People should be getting here in an hour or so. And dude, can we kill it with the Broadway stuff?”
I look at him over my glasses.
“It’s not really party music, you know?”
Due to recent events of today, I am feeling nice. So rather than fighting with him and calling him a pig, I go into my room and turn off the record player. He brings his speakers into the living room and plugs up his iPod. A few seconds later, the rafters are echoing with heavy bass and trippy rhythms.
We go into our rooms, him to shower, and me to attempt to escape the psychotic Dubstep music that is seeping through the walls. I’ll be surprised if the neighbors don’t call the cops before the night is over.
Within the next two hours, our house goes from empty to full almost instantly. A couple of guys from the team carry kegs into the backyard. Girls with too-short skirts follow them around with Solo cups full of liquor and beer. The music pumps and people start dancing. I venture out into the house every half hour or so, just to make sure nothing is broken and nobody is dead. Someone is definitely having sex in the den. At one point, James is in the middle of the dance floor with two chicks in front of him and one behind. I won’t be surprised if one of them ends up spending the night.
The halls are crowded with people making out and talking. Different smokes swirl overhead and cloud my vision. I smell cigars, menthol cigarettes, and weed. I guess James forgot about my allergies. Hell, he forgot about his own allergies. He doesn’t seem to mind. I venture into the kitchen and find him there, funneling a beer. A couple of his jock friends play beer pong on the dining room table. Mom would be pissed if she knew they weren’t using coasters.
Red and blue Solo cups are scattered all around the floor. On my way to the refrigerator, I step in three different colored puddles. I don’t even bother asking what they are.
“Hey, could you throw me a beer?” Someone says behind me. I turn around and see Anderson Stone. He looks surprised to see me. “Oh. Hey, Gabe.”
“Hi,” I mutter. I pull a Budweiser out of the refrigerator.
“Listen, I just wanted to say that…”
“Don’t mention it.” I toss him the beer and hurry out of the kitchen before he can say anything else. I push my way through the masses of people until I get to the front door.
Outside, the air is cool. I close my eyes and take as much of it in as I can. The creaking of a rocking chair startles me. Samantha is sitting in my dad’s chair with a cup in her hand. She looks beautiful, but tired. I smile at her.
“Nice night, huh?” I lean out from under the veranda at the stars.
“Sure.”
“Sorry if you wanted to be alone.” I turn to her. “I just couldn’t take the sex noises anymore. And the weed messes with my allergies.”
She shrugs. “It’s cool. This is your house.”
I sit down in my rocking chair and push myself back and forth. She offers me her cup. I don’t know what is in it, but I imagine something fruity, smooth. Nothing too strong.
I shake my head. “Not my thing.”
“Mine either,” she mumbles.
I realize that this is the first time I have seen her without a smile. She looks different. She looks human. This can’t be right. I must have gotten a secondhand high or something, because Samantha West is always smiling. She has every reason to smile. I get lost in the darkness of the night for a moment, staring at the stars in the unfathomable distance.
“What’s it like to be a star?” I ask her.
She shrugs, completely apathetic. “I wouldn’t know. I’m just a cheerleader.”
“Yeah, but everybody loves you.” She isn’t listening but I keep going. “I dream of that. I hope that one day people love me as much as they love you.”
“Be careful what you wish for,” she warns me. “Be careful.” She dumps her drink into the bushes and we sit there, silently.
She stays there until the party is over. Anderson picks her up and carries to the car with all of her friends. He doesn’t say anything to me. I stay in the rocking chair long after the last person leaves. I am too scared to go back into the house, to see the mess that has been left. I hope James doesn’t expect me to help him clean it up. Then again, I know that he does. And he knows that I will. Twins have to look out for each other, I guess.
I rock back and forth until I’m teetering between being awake and falling asleep. I think about the play, what is at stake. I think about my parents and Samantha’s warnings. I finally begin to slip into sleep, where my daydreams take a nocturnal twist. Anything is better than the nightmare of my reality. Before I slip, I reach an epiphany. I cannot stop. I will not stop. I float up on a cloud of self-awareness. I will get there, no matter what it takes. Somehow.

I vow to make it.