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You’re not even born when the media starts following your every move. Your mother seems worried, your father comforts her. Your father and your mother are both famous. She says she doesn’t know what’s best for you. She doesn’t know which will hurt you less: making you hide from birth or famous from birth. Your dad will talk her into letting you be the topic of discussion for years to come. You’re not sure what your father would’ve done if he knew what would happen because of the stress of the public eye. Your mother blames herself. She always did.
You’re barely even ten minutes old. Your mother’s hair is sticking out from a messy ponytail, she’s smiling widely, she’s crying. This will be the most un-put together you will ever see her for a long time. But she’s too happy to care. Your father is smiling proudly. “He’s perfect,” he whispered, a strong, calloused hand is on your mother's neck, rubbing it gently. You will not remember this interaction.
You’re three days old when you leave the hospital wrapped in blankets and swaddled by your mother. She holds you close to her chest. Her hair and makeup are perfect. She’s wearing a tee shirt and jeans. She looks so laid-back and well put at the same time. There’s flashing all around you. The constant bright light makes you cry. Your mother will frown, placing designer glasses on the top of her head and will cuddle you closer. “Ignore them, Jackie. They will do nothing more than try to hurt you. You prove them wrong, you hear?” she will mumble into your ear. You will stop crying. Your mother is so proud. She doesn’t care you aren’t the cutest looking baby. She thinks you’re the best baby. She promises to herself no matter what happens to you, you will be perfect in her eyes. She keeps this promise. You will never understand how she did this.
It’s your first birthday when you overhear something you shouldn’t. Uncle Mario and Uncle Wayne are playing with you rigidly, they hear your parents shouting. Your mother, she isn’t addressing your father in French like she normally does. She speaks in a language you don’t understand. It sounds less throaty than French. “The media has done nothing than be shit to him! And yet you still shrug it off, what the fuck Robert? They degrade him because he’s chubby because his face is too wide. He’s one!” Your father will sigh sadly. “Alicia, it’s fine. We’ll teach him to have thick skin.” Uncle Wayne will hold you close, he will never understand the stress you will have to face. But he will do his best to shield you from the assholes of the world.
You’re fourteen. You’re captain of your travel hockey team. They give you as much shit as the media does. You think it must be their favorite pastime. “Fatty Jackie” is their favorite. Sometimes when someone on the other team chirps you and it's one they like, they’ll use later that night on the bus. Your roommates will taunt you no matter what you eat. All of them. Until Kent. Kent is from New York and has a strong accent to show. He doesn’t come from a lot of wealth either. He only wears old jeans and worn out tee shirts. Whenever someone gives you shit, Kent will call them out. He claims it because they're all a team and that a team should have everyone’s back. You pass it off as him just trying to get close to you.
Your hands are shaking. They have a tendency to do that sometimes when you’re not sure how to feel. You’ve just been informed Kent Parson is going to be your roommate. You’ve been dreading this moment. He’s been so kind to you, it makes your tummy feel funny. Your mom says it might be a crush. You think crushes are dumb. But you worry that if you and Kent spend the night together Kent will see why everyone hates you and will finally start insulting you too.
You were so so wrong about Kent. You learn this when you spend the night with him. He asks which bed you want. You shrug, no one’s ever asked you that. You set your bag on top of the bed closest to the window. You like the way the lights flash. You remember you’re in Vegas and maybe if it wasn’t so humid, you wouldn’t mind moving down here. You’re too shy to voice this to Kent. Kent smiled widely. “That’s cool, I’m not a big fan of bright lights,” he said so sincerely you don’t think it's a joke. He asks: “You want to watch a movie?” You shrug. “Whatever,” you say indifferently. Kent’s wide smile drops slightly. “Oh that’s cool, is there anything you want to do?” He asked. You shake your head. You want to know where the punchline of the joke comes out. The joke Kent’s been playing on you for months. The one where he calls you fat and shoves you, just like everyone else.
You never tell your parents about Kent. You don’t think it’s a good idea. But that night, you think you might. He rests his head on your shoulder while you read. It made you feel happy, he is warm. He doesn’t listen when you say you’re not hungry. He hands you a granola bar, you say you won’t be able to eat it all. He splits it in half. He eats the other half. He asks you about you like doing. You shrug. Your life has been crying over the media and stress eating, and everyone knows how that turned out. You say you like history. He smiles widely. He asks you questions about history for well past lights out time.
You win the game in Vegas. You won by a landslide. 9-0. You could fly from happiness. The coaches think it’s because they put Kent and you on the same line, not Jacob and you. Jacob hates you. He hates how fat you are and hates how you’re Bad Bob Zimmermann’s son. Kent likes you. He doesn’t care you’re overweight, doesn’t care how you’re Bad Bob Zimmermann. He calls you Zimms. He said there may already a hockey legend named Zimmermann but there isn’t a Zimms.
You’re fifteen. You and Kent, you call him Kenny now, are two are teetering onto something a little more than friends. You learn you can wrap your entire hand around his wrist and still touch your fingers. You wish you were as skinny as Kenny. You voice this to him only once. It’s late. You two should’ve been asleep hours ago. You’re going back on the road home at eight am sharp. When he hears you voice this to him, the fact you want to be skinny like him, he turns on the lights. His sock-clad feet putter towards your bed. He crawls into it and into your arms. He shakes his head sadly. You rest your head on top of his. His hair is softer than yours.
He kisses your chest, gently. Everything about Kenny is gentle. His head tucks perfectly into your neck. Your hair stops where his begins. You think whatever this is, is more than good enough. He takes a deep breath. “Zimms, being as skinny as me, isn’t healthy, not for you, not for anyone.”
Kenny’s voice isn’t gentle. It’s fragile. You’re in awe. You’ve seen him counting calories on his fingers when he thinks no one is looking. You’ve seen the way he cries when he gains a pound from water weight. You ignore those. Kenny isn’t like that. Kenny isn’t the broken one. Kenny is the responsible one. Kenny’s the one who reminds you to drink water with your meds and reminds you to eat, splits an apple with you. You don’t remember ever Kenny eating something without sharing it with someone. It’s normally you. A healthy little snack to tide them both over until dinner. But then Kenny says he already ate at dinner.
Kenny doesn’t say another word. You ignore the way Kenny can’t look you in the eyes no matter how often you try to make him force him to pay attention. He counts on his fingers. Ten to one. You know that coping mechanism. He taught it to you, once, on the brink of a panic attack. He told you, “Use your fingers, Zimms, count from one to ten, then from ten to one, it helps me,” He said so caring his eyes shining with worry. You do it. It doesn’t work for you. However, just the fact that Kenny was there was enough for you.
It takes him three months. Ninety-one days. He freaks. He’s sobbing on the ground in your room. You don’t know what you did. You only offered him a maple candy from the small bag Maman had given you for your travels. He’s rocking on the ground in tears. You gently hand him a lorazepam and a glass of water. You know that he doesn’t want you to see him like this, you understand. You ignore the thought in the back of your mind saying this is bad. You wouldn’t know what to do anyway. You never do.
He doesn’t take the lorazepam, only the glass of water. Smart boy. You wish you didn’t take it. It gives you too much power. Something like that makes you think you’re playing a game with god. You don’t intend on winning. You wish a lot of things.
You never talk to Kenny about that night. Kenny never talks to you about that night. Both of you think about it a lot. Kenny sits quietly a lot more. He stares out windows and plays with his short fingernails. You read books and Kenny curls into your side. You hold him tightly. He loves you. You don’t know if you love him. You don’t know what love is. But, he’s good. He’s a good distraction. He’s good enough. You don’t think you love him. But he loves you and you love the attention he gives.
You never tend to his wounds, you don’t think he’d let you. You aren’t hurt by that. Not everyone wants other people to help them. Kenny wouldn’t. His dad left before he was born, his mother was always working, and he never had anyone to lean on before.
You let him whisper “I love you” into the crook of your neck. You don’t return it. He thinks you’re asleep. You aren’t. He doesn’t need to know that.
You’re excited for the draft. You can’t wait to join the Aces. They’re a new team, only been around about one or two seasons. They haven’t even won the cup yet. That means no Bad Bob Zimmermann shadow overcasting your team. This team will be yours and yours alone. Your father already put money down on a small apartment down there. You don’t tell Kenny. He already knows. He never said anything about it. You don’t need him to say anything. At the end of the day its none of his business. You wish he’d stop fucking looking at you like that. His eyes they shine with love and care and— you don’t love him. Even if you could, you could never show him off to the world, so what’s the point?
He’s always smiling these days. If you didn’t know better you’d think it’d be natural, but you hear him crying in the night. His father is fighting to take him back from his mom. He doesn’t tell you, your mother does. Ms. Parson told her. Kenny didn’t tell you. You don’t know how to feel about that. You don’t care. You have to win. You’ll get first in the draft, Kenny’ll go second and go into the Salt Lake’s Beehive, and he’ll get traded into the Aces the year after that. That’s how you and Kenny always dreamed it. Well, that’s how you dream it. You know Kenny will follow you everywhere.
It's the day of the draft. Kenny’s court case will be settled the tomorrow. You both are scared and excited at the same time. Your father is going to be retiring next year, and everyone wants to know who the better Zimmermann is. Everyone’s holding their breath because the Pimms duo will be broken up. Some people pass sympathetic glances in Kent’s way. They know he’s going second. He ignores them. You should hold his hand. Friends do that. You don’t move.
When they announce Number One, you’re almost ready to stand up before they call Kenny’s name. Your table, made up of your mother, your father, yourself, Kenny, Ms. Parson, and Kent’s father Mr. Hareven. Your table is silent. Nobody, not even Kent, moves. Everyone around them is either booing or cheering. Kenny’s smiling so wide, he seems awestruck. He’s not suppose to get first, you are. Ms. Parson is the first to clap for her little boy, followed by your mother, Mr. Hareven, your Father, and then— You don’t clap. He wasn’t suppose to win. You were. You got second. You might as well not even placed. You don’t clap for Kenny that night. You don’t think he deserves it. You don’t care about the rest of the draft. It doesn’t fucking matter. None of this does. They’re wrong, you were suppose to go first in draft. You. Not him.
It’s quickly becoming too much. Everything is stacking on top of one and other and you’re suffocating and you take more. And then more. And then even more. You can’t remember if you took your meds. You take five more lorazepam on top of the one’s you can’t remember if you took or not. You did take them. You took nine of them. You took 9mgs of lorazepam. The lethal dosage is eight.
You’re so sleepy. Where are you? You stand up but you fall again. You put your hand in front of your face. This isn’t your hand. It doesn’t feel like your hand. Who traded your hand in for their own? It—it’s hard to breathe in here. It’s like the air is steam, breathing is hard. You— wait? Where are you? Did you miss the draft? No, you won’t miss it if you take a short nap. Yeah, a short nap. Right there, in the bathroom in your bedroom. Your bed is so far away. Here is fine. God, it’s hard to breathe. You’re so sleepy. You feel funny? This isn’t your body. Your fingers feel weird. You giggle. You feel peaceful. You think now is a good time to nap.You’re so cold. Yeah. A nap. That’s good.
You don’t understand what’s going on around you. Kenny’s in front of you. You’re giggling again. What’s so funny? You don’t know, but you feel like laughing, so you keep laughing. Fuck, why did Kenny wake you up. You’re so sleepy. “I-Kenny? Who’s hand is this?” You’re asking. He’s crying. Why is he crying? Something’s funny! “Kenny! Kenny! Are you cold? I’m cold. Also, someone stole my hand, that’s so fucking mean,” you slur, Kenny is holding you close. He’s calling someone. “Kenny, who are you callin’? Let’s hang out!” Kenny is shaking you, your father’s there too! Hey! It’s a party. You’re sleepy again. Talking is hard. So you don’t, you close your eyes again. “Goodnight,” you say. You wanna sleep forever.