Page 140 of Triple Pucked
On the summer before I entered college, Shay suggested that I memorize trends and comedy sketches, and that way, I’d know how to act like other people.
Each night in my dorm room, I would watch clips on social media, trying to decode this mysterious and confusing world that I found myself thrown into every time that I walked into the bustling corridors of students who so easily flowed between different groups, chatting and laughing.
Once, I watched Shay standing with one clique casually telling a joke.
I didn’t understand it but I memorized it.
If I repeated it, would other people laugh warmly? See me at last and not only my brother? Finally like me?
I repeated the joke in the mirror when I was alone for an entire month, trying to achieve the same effortless timing that Shay managed.
At last, my chest tight with nerves, I risked walking up to my English classmates.
My mouth was dry. I felt sick.
I screwed up my courage, however, and made myself tell the joke.
I can still hear the deafening silence that followed.
Still feel the way that they turned to look at me with sneering contempt.
Still want to curl up and die with the flamingshame.
“Fuck off, freak.” One of the most popular men in the class, who I admired, shoved me in the chest.
I stumbled.
The rest of the group turned their backs on me, returning to their conversation like I hadn’t said anything.
Where was the laughter? The warmth?
Why didn’t they like me?
Until Robyn, I believed that it was simply too hard to talk to people.
The only times that I felt I understood language was on the ice.
I spoke fluently there.
I sigh, stretching out on the couch. I toss another handful of popcorn into my mouth, humming in satisfaction on the delicious sweetness of the toffee.
I am watching the game on the giant TV, which hangs over the roaring fireplace in the lounge of Freedom Mansion.
I have been steering Shay away from playing football near that television since we moved in. It looks worth more than I earn in a year. But then, so does everything in here.
I love the books and the fallen angel on the wall. My favorite thing, however, is that my angel wing shell was placed by Robyn in pride of place on the mantelpiece.
The fire warms my cheeks.
I am dressed in warm grey joggers and one of my favorite black cat t-shirts to relax in evenings in. A slogan is emblazoned on the front of the t-shirt, which is surrounded by paw prints:REAL MEN LOVE CATS.
Yet no matter how much I like this book-lined lounge or how many times Robyn plumped the cushions for me behind my back, I am still uncomfortable and frustrated.
Left behind.
D’Angelo has bribed me with popcorn and a whole platter of game night snack foods that are laid out on the oak coffee table: tacos, nachos loaded with salsa and cheese, spicy Buffalo wings, and fries.
Yet none of this makes up for not being rinkside.
