CHAPTER 5
~TRYSTAN~
Practice was weird. Trystan stood on the stage as the completed set was being erected around him. The stage crew raised the flats one by one, installed doors, and touched up some of the paint. Now it looked like a real room, filled with furniture and picture frames. As the stage crew did their thing, the guy in the lighting cage was muttering to himself. His voice carried to where Trystan stood a few feet away. The house lights were flashing on and off instead of dimming. The lighting cage was nearly fifty years old and due for an upgrade, but with the school budget the way it was, they’d never get one. Whenever a budget vote came up, people showed up in drones to vote it down. It didn’t matter what was on the ballot. The roof could be caving in and the town would still vote against it.
Trystan kept thinking about Mari. A smile leaked across his face. He couldn’t help it. That kiss. And the way she felt laying in his arms. For a small moment, his life felt perfect. Happiness was always something just out of reach for Trystan. Whenever it came along, it was swiftly yanked away. This time, Trystan would make sure he didn’t mess up. Mari mattered too much to him. Everything about her made him better, made him think he had a chance. Trystan wouldn’t be another statistic.
Waiting in front of the lighting cage, Trystan stood with his hands in his pockets wondering where Brie went. When Brie finally surfaced from the basement, she ran straight into the girl’s bathroom at the back of the stage. Trystan turned to watch Brie flee with her hand over her nose. His heart sank when Tucker followed a few moments later, pointing one of his chubby fingers at the stage door. Katie and Mari left without looking back. Shit. What’d Brie do now?
Practice took too long. It was close to opening night. Brie acted hysterical. Tucker forced Brie on stage with her nose bandaged and an ice pack taped to her face, which severely screwed with her head. Brie couldn’t get a line out without stumbling or messing up. Tucker didn’t bother to try the second act. They skipped over that part like it didn’t exist, which was fine by Trystan.
After practice, Trystan grabbed his books from his locker and looked around for Mari, but the school was deserted. He walked past the diner on the way home, hoping to find her inside, but she wasn’t there. Sighing, Trystan pushed his dark hair out of his eyes. The wind blew harshly, flipping his hair over his head and into his eyes again. Trystan tightened his jacket, wishing he had something warmer to wear. The leather was nearly worn away in places, giving the frigid air a way to leak in.
It’d been a long day and it felt good to finally be out of the school. Trystan just wished he’d seen Mari before the end of the night. Curiosity was part of it, and Trystan wondered how Mari waked away without a scratch and Brie had a bloody nose. Hurrying, Trystan pushed on toward his house, crossing the train tracks, and walking quickly to his front door.
When Trystan walked into his house, he came face to face with his father. The old man’s eyes were bloodshot. There was a piece of paper in his left hand. Dad was left handed, just like Trystan. God, they were too much alike, Trystan thought as he walked through the threshold and closed the door behind him. He ignored his father’s eyes on his back as he went to the kitchen looking for something that would pass for dinner. Trystan was always hungry lately and there was never enough to eat. Placing his books on the table seemed to be what set his dad off. Suddenly he was yelling like Trystan did something horrible.
Dad stood behind him, his voice was sharp enough to cut glass. “You think you’re too good for us. That’s what’s wrong with you, you know. Always walking around like you own the place.” Dad slurred his words slightly, telling Trystan that tonight was going to suck.
Standing with the fridge door open, Trystan froze. It took a moment to recognize that the scrap of paper in his father’s fingers was a picture. When Trystan did, his heart dropped into his shoes. Trystan grabbed whatever food was left, which wasn’t much. He took a few slices of bread and the peanut butter he’d gotten from Sam’s deli and made a sandwich as fast as he could.
His father droned on and no matter how hard Trystan tried, he couldn’t drown out the words. “You’re the reason she left. This,” he said, pointing to everything, “is your fault. Me and my whole fucking life got reduced to this because of you, and you stand there like you’re so damn proud.”
Trystan couldn’t help it. He knew that he shouldn’t speak, but he did. His jaw was tense, the words fell out of his mouth before he could stop. “Maybe she left because of me, but you did this to yourself. Things didn’t have to go this way, Dad. You did this. Not me.”
Before Trystan could blink his father was across the room and screaming in his face. “You think I didn’t try! You think I fucking chose this?” Dad bellowed and spit went flying, sticking to Trystan’s cheek. His father laughed with such rage that Trystan stepped away. When Dad spoke again, his voice was low and menacing, “That’s right, boy. Blame me. You did nothing.” The old man’s rank breath lingered in Trystan’s nostrils, but his dad finally stepped away.
Trystan went to pass by his father, but was clotheslined. His father raised his arm at the last second, trapping Trystan, before grabbing Trystan’s hair with his other hand, and yanking his son back to his chest. The picture of Trystan’s mother was clutched under his father’s thumb. Thrusting it in Trystan’s face, Dad made him look. When Trystan tried to wiggle free or look away, his father only tightened his grip and forced him harder. “Look! Look at her! Look at those eyes, and how they seem so steadfast, like they’d never leave. You destroyed everything!” He shoved Trystan toward the hall that lead back to Trystan’s room. “Get out of my face. I can’t stand to look at you!”
Trystan’s chest felt like it was ripped open with a rusty nail. Every muscle in his body was tense, ready to fight, trying so hard to hold back. Trystan’s jaw locked tight to keep from speaking, but the one thing he wanted to avoid the most was that picture and he’d already seen it. Stumbling back to his room, Trystan pushed through the door. His mind screamed, protesting that he should fight back, but something held his rage in check. Taking purposeful breaths, Trystan walked down the short hall, trying to steel himself, trying to make his heart go numb before it shattered into a million pieces.
When Trystan swung his door open, he meant to lock it and throw himself on his bed, but there was no lock, no bed. The walls were barren. The nightstand was gone. His closet door was open and the only thing inside were shadows. Trystan stood there, his hands shaking slightly, as he realized that his father threw out all of his stuff. Trystan felt his dad behind him but he didn’t turn around. Rage flooded Trystan’s body, making him want to act out, but he refused.
A hand shoved hard between Trystan’s shoulder blades. Trystan didn’t expect it and fell into the room. “Maybe this will teach you that you’re no better than the rest of us.” Before Trystan could turn around his father yanked the door shut. It wasn’t until then that Trystan realized that the doorknob was turned around. The sound of metal sliding against metal alerted him to the lock closing.
“No!” Trystan screamed and threw himself at the door, but it was too late. His fists beat the door, but it was solid, the kind of door that was used at the entry of a house. Trystan knew, because he put it there when he traded it out for the thin particleboard version that had originally been there, in order to keep his father out.
“You never learned your place, Trystan. I swear to God, I’m going to teach it to you.” The hallway fell silent.
Trystan felt the panic slide up his throat. The room was dark. The lights were gone and the fixture that hung from the ceiling had no bulb. Racing to the window, Trystan pushed it open, but the bars kept him from getting out. The cold air rushed in over his face. Trystan turned around and leaned his back against the wall, clutching his face in his hands. He slid down until his back was under the window, hoping that his father would see reason in the light of day, but there was no way to know. Dad had done stuff like this before, when Trystan was little and couldn’t fight back. He’d lock Trystan away for hours, sometimes days. When it seemed like Trystan would die of thirst, the man finally showed his face and let him out. Trystan tried to be good after that, but it didn’t seem to matter what he did or didn’t do—he was never good enough.
Tucker’s words rang through Trystan’s ears like a gong, ebbing and pulsing. Someone told you wrong. You’re worth something.
Lowering his head to his knees, Trystan fixated on the words, but they couldn’t penetrate his heart. Tucker’s words couldn’t strip away years of being told he was the reason for his father’s grief. Trystan’s chest felt hollow and he let the numbness overtake him.