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We head to Holden’s bedroom and I record everything. The artfully displayed succulents, the hallway runner, the family photos that now include a beautiful blonde girl I’ve yet to meet. But when we reach Holden’s room, we don’t enter. In fact, that room is very much Mara’s now, by the looks of it. The walls are a bright yellow in the spots there aren’t any Lulu Nex posters. Pillows are piled three feet high on her bed and there’s a record player collecting dust on her sticker-covered dresser.
The room across the hall from it used to be Trevor’s. Maybe still is. The door is shut, though, so I can’t see inside to confirm.
“Is Trevor home?” It strikes me as odd that he wasn’t at the first competition with Holden and Mara. Video games was the first language these brothers learned to speak to each other.
“With his friend,” Holden grunts before starting down the stairs to what used to be the finished basement. I follow, filming how his hand slides down the railing the entire way down; the stairs aren’t steep, so I don’t know why he’s bracing himself. At the bottom, two doors close off the basement. Holden opens the one on the right and, inside, band posters cover the walls so heavily it looks like some kind of Hot Topic–brand wallpaper. Empty picture frames Corrine bought are hung over the poster-wallpaper in a large triangle shape. I don’t know if he picked up in here while I was interviewing Mara or if he’s changed his ways, but there are no clothes on the floor like there used to be, and the top of his dresser is bare, save for the TV perched atop it and angled toward his queen-sized bed. He sits at his desk and wakes up the ancient MacBook Pro he got before entering middle school.
I didn’t bother to watch the file he emailed me earlier because it seemed like a waste of time if I was going to see it now. But it’s... wow. I film his computer, his hands, and his face in various close-ups as he explains his kind of genius—not that I’d admit it to him—submission. He shows me aesthetics, commercial examples, live videos of bands playing, first-person perspectives of being onstage and crowd-surfing, all the things that add up to his own virtual reality: a concert experience. In his submission, he explained that he wants to create a world where people can have the ultimate time at a show; he wants people to be able to enjoy it from the crowd, surf up to the front and get onstage, play the instruments, run into celebrities backstage, the whole deal. He used to say he wanted to be a bandphotographer, or work for those dying music magazines, and it’s evident in every second of his submission. I wonder how much time he put into this.
I sit on his bed, the camera trained on his face. “So, why did you want to do this contest?”
He stiffens for a half second, spinning his computer chair toward me. “Seems fun.”
“I know, but—”
“And I want the headset, obviously.”
“That’s it?”
“Do I need more of a reason?”
“Kind of.”Where’s the heart?“Don’t you think it’s weird to put that much effort into something you’re not more passionate about?”
He shrugs. “I’ve always liked video games.”
“Yeah. That part makes sense, but this isn’t even playing video games.”
“Maybe I’ll come up with a better reason later.”
I try to keep the irritation out of my voice, but I fail. “Can you speak in full sentences that incorporate my questions, please?”
“Maybe I’ll come up with a reason for why I wanted to do this contest aside fromit’s fun and I want the headsetlater,” he says slowly.
“Too busy right now to do it?” He stares at me in response. I sigh. “So, when did your parents get divorced?”
“Areyouasking or the camera?”
“Both.” I try to hide my warming cheeks behind the view screen.
“My parents got divorced several years ago.”
“When, though?”
“My parents got divorced when I was in the seventh grade.”So, just after our friendship ended.He’s monotone by this point. Shutting down. I don’t know why he’d agree to help me out if he’s... not going to help me out.
“What happened?”
“They got divorced.”
I cock my head to the side, not expecting him to air out the dirty details, butcome on. I guess if one or both of them cheated, he wouldn’t be the one to talk about it anyway. And, I guess, it’s not like I’m his friend, or someone he feels he can even trust with something that personal.
Thinking I was waiting for the full phrasing, he says, “What happened was my parents got a divorce—”
“Holden.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” he asks, his brows scrunching together. His cheeks pinken. “What does this have to do with the contest? I thought you just wanted to film someone playing the games.”
“People need to care about you. Get invested in your story, so if you win or lose, they feel something.” And maybe I’m a little nosy. Corrine never mentioned a little sister to tip me off to these big life changes. I guess this is what happens when you stop being friends with someone; you lose the privilege of really knowing them.
