gripped a kitchen knife. With his back against the sink, he rotated his arm, pointing it back and forth between Mom and Dad. “I can’t do it,” Robbie spluttered hysterically. “Don ’t make me. Please don’t make me do it.”
“Robbie, put it down,” Dad said, trying to inch forward. “Put it down.”
“Stay back!” he yelled.
Mom gripped her iPhone with her red fingernails. “Should I call 911?”
“Yes,” I said at the same time Dad said, “No. We’ve got this.”
My throat tightened. Did he really think it’d be better to risk getting stabbed than Robbie getting some help? I wanted to argue with Dad, to yell at him, but I couldn’t. He wouldn’t listen to me.
I inched closer. “Hey, Robbie? Look at me.”
I caught my brother’s eyes. They didn’t look right. He didn’t look like some crazed madman, or some psychopath. He looked . . . scared.
“Come on,” I said. “Put it down. You’re freaking me out.”
Robbie held the knife at me then dropped his eyes to his wrist. It was like I could hear him in my head. It’d be so easy . . .
“Don’t,” I said firmly, stepping closer. “ Put it down.”
He whimpered.
“Put it down. Now.”
Robbie’s shaking hand dropped the knife to the floor. He covered his face, doubling over as he sobbed. I scooted forward and kicked the knife across the kitchen. Then I gripped Robbie’s shoulders.
“Shh. It’s okay.”
“I can’t do it,” he gasped.
“That’s a good thing. You don’t want to cut anyone—”
“No! I can’t do it. You’re not listening! No one fucking listens!” Robbie’s knees buckled. By instinct, I wrapped my arms around his waist, keeping him from hitting the floor. I glanced at my parents, both white as sheets and mute. I guess my silence was inherited if none of us could communicate.
I walked Robbie to the steps, helping him up one step at a time until we got to my room. I guided him to my lower bunk. He dropped heavily on it before curling on his side, shaking.
“I can’t do it. I can’t. I can’t.”
“Shh. It’s okay.”
“You know I want to, right?” he asked, desperately.
“Want to what?”
My brother couldn’t answer. I sighed, untied his sneakers, and pulled them off along with his socks, damp from sweat. He still hadn’t showered. His shaking body slowed when I pulled my blanket over him. With a sigh, I got out my cellphone and dialed up Heather.
“Hey, Tristan,” she greeted.
My chest ached. “I can’t go.”
There was a long pause on the line. “Are you serious?”
“I’m sorry—”
“I got you a ticket to Phantom and you can’t go.”
“It’s Robbie,” I said, keeping my voice low.
“What about him?”
I looked at the lump on the lower bunk. “I’ll explain later. In person.”
“Unbelievable,” Heather murmured. “I don’t know why I bothered inviting you. I should have asked Durrell from the start.”
The hair on the back of my neck stood up. What was all the fuss about Durrell? They hung out at one party. One. That didn’t warrant replacing me.
“It’s an emergency. I promise, I’ll explain later,” I mumbled. “Would you get me a playbill or something? Autographed would be awesome.”
“Yeah. Okay. If I have time.”
I swallowed hard. “See you on Monday?”
“Sure,” Heather said. Then there was silence. She hung up.
“You didn’t need to cancel your trip,” Robbie said softly.
“Yeah. I did.” Although Robbie was the last person I wanted to talk with, I needed to talk with someone. “Doesn’t matter. She’s freaking going to ask Durrell to go with her.”
“Durrell? Like our teammate Durrell?”
“The one and only.”
“Go with her where?” Robbie asked cautiously.
I hesitated. “ We were going to see Phantom on Broadway.”
Robbie wrinkled his nose. “What’s he doing going to a pansy-ass musical?” He paused, then added, “Uh. No offense.”
Offense taken.
“Uh, if it makes you feel better, he’s probably
CJ Lyons
Misty Reigenborn
Martin Armstrong
Keren Hughes
Jaclyn Dolamore
Hazel Hunter
Ali Sparkes
Calle J. Brookes
Ed McBain
Carrie Kelly