Switchverse: Part VII, or, My Tragedy, Let Me Show You It
Okay, so, the bottom line is; Bronx and Jeremy aren’t brothers. Technically.
Even-more-technically than that, they kind of are.
Yeah. So.
The whole thing is long and convoluted and involves a lot of tears, mostly from Bronx’s dad, but here’s the abbreviated version:
Pete and Ashlee had Bronx. A few months later, Patrick fell in love and did the marriage thing, and when Bronx was about two the plump round ball of Jeremy Stump splashed into his life.
They were paired up for playdates and babysitters and everything, pretty much best friends by default, and then Bronx went off to school and Jeremy made faces of stoic perseverance and muddled through his days without the light of his life. And started learning instruments.
The instrument thing will be revisited.
But, Bronx was in first grade when Pete and Ashlee had a screaming fight, worse than usual, worse than ever, and Pete went and stayed with Patrick for a while. Ashlee arranged to move to L.A., because she’d always hated Chicago, fuck living here For Our Bronx.
Ashlee sat Bronx down and had a very serious discussion with him, about picking which parent he wanted to stay with, we’ll consider it. Bronx loved his mom, but he was still at that point when his dad was his hero, and, and.
Pete came a few days later and sat him down and explained that Patrick was in Chicago, which meant that Pete was in Chicago, which meant that Patrick and Jeremy were in Chicago, which meant that it was either Pete (and Patrick and Jeremy) or Ashlee.
And then. Yeah. Chicago.
He was in fifth grade when Pete explained Sex and went off on a rant about Hetero v. Homo and Acceptance and Tolerance. The only real effect of this was that Bronx really understood the looks his dad gave Patrick all the time.
It seemed really simple to him, then, when Patrick started clenching his jaw all the time and Jeremy’s mom left.
But it took another two whole years, seventh grade for Bronx, for Pete and Patrick to get together and then move in together and then Bronx and Jeremy were Nearly Brothers and none of the adults were surprised, not even a little bit.
--
“Hello?”
Bronx presses the phone hard to his cheekbone. “Hi, Mom.” He swallows and leans back on the bench and squints up at the white-pale autumn sky. His voice feels hoarse. “It’s Bronx.”
“Yeah, honey,” Ashlee hums, fond and settled. “I can tell from the way you call me everyday around now.”
Bronx is at college, in a quad, surrounded by people with no faces because he can’t focus on them, and it isn’t fair that Jeremy is still in high school, seriously. “Time to talk?” he asks hopefully.
“If it’s pressing.” Bronx imagines her red lipstick, the way she smiles her apologies, how she smells. “Sorry. There’s a soiree tonight.” Bronx’s mom is married to a director, and he’s very famous now, so that’s working out.
He tries to put his thoughts in order, what’s important. “Well. I’ve told you I’m in love.”
“Often.” Soft clinks come down the line, and she’s messing with her makeup and stuff.
“With Jack Bryar.” It gets easier to say every time, warm and honey-safe behind his teeth.
“Every single time, I think you mean a man. Bob Bryar’s daughter, from My Chemical Romance?”
It’s like they all graduated together - all the bands from that generation kept track, miraculously became and stayed friends. Even after Gabe and William and Travis all broke up with each other, people didn’t have to pick sides.
“Yeah. Her. That.”
“Is something going on with her?”
“Well.” Bronx weighs everything before he says it, because he knows that he has a tendency toward dramatics. “She’s in Jersey, but. Andy’s getting married, right?” Long, breathless, expectant pause. “So… she’ll be here.”
“Well? Don’t forget to tell her that her eyes are pretty, and I really don’t want the details.”
“No - Mom. She’ll tear off my balls and feed them to me.”
“Hmm,” Ashlee says, not entirely committed to how uncool this will be. “Why do you like her, again?”
“Mom. She’s Jack.”
--
“Why do you like her, again?” Jeremy asks, eyeing the vibrating phone next to Bronx’s foot on the neon-purple-pink bedspread.
From underneath the pillow, he says, “Shut up.”
“The phone won’t bite.”
“Go away.” This might mean his nearly brother or the phone, neither of them is sure.
“Oh, for the -” Jeremy bites out, and picks it up and turns it on, “- Hi? Jack? No, he won’t. Yeah. No, I don’t think so. Maybe a show? You’re staying for Saturday night, right? Yeah. Yes. I’ll tell him to keep it to a minimum. You, too. Bye.”
Bronx peeks out from his Pillow of Safe Haven just in time to get a phone to the eye. He demands manfully, “Well?”
“Stop whining. And, okay. I see why you like her, but why do you like her? Also, your girlfriend says to tell you that you won’t stalk her while she’s here.”
Bronx rolls over, splay-legged, and smirks at the ceiling. “It’s meant to be, Germy, you’ll see.”
--
The instrument thing.
Jeremy’s dad is Patrick Stump, music consultant and major label producer extraordinaire. People pay him to let them carry guitars near him.
So, since birth Jeremy has been immersed in the best music ever and the best music tutors ever. And he plays everything.
At school, they gave him a didgeridoo and he played it on a dare. Beautifully. The thing was taller than he was, by a lot, stretched out in front of him too long to handle, but he blew into it and it made noise.
Patrick is determined that Jeremy’s musical options won’t be limited by anything.
(Not even, Bronx thinks sometimes very privately and softly, by Jeremy’s choice.)
--
“Hey,” Bronx says as he walks into the house. “Pete? Your car’s outside. You’re home.”
The house echoes back muted nothing, too many of the rooms soundproofed for the rest of the acoustics to work out right. It’s pretty flat without Patrick or Jeremy here.
“Pete!” he shouts at the top of his lungs, down the hall toward everyone’s bedrooms. “I know Patrick’s not here, you can’t pretend you’re having sex.”
His dad sticks his head out of the kitchen, eyebrows up, stylized tree stump tattoo on the right side of his neck, over the pulsepoint. It’s all wrinkly, now, gross.
Pete says, “You’re nineteen, that doesn’t mean you can stop calling me ‘Dad’, kid.”
“I lost all respect for you when you had that revival tour with levitating dancing mountain lions.” Bronx flips him off and starts toward his room.
Pete raises his voice. “Yeah? Well. Shut up. Still stalking Bryar’s girl?”
“It’s special I’m in love!” Bronx yells as the bedroom door slams shut. He spends the rest of the evening viciously defacing every single bass part in a Fall Out Boy song, for spite.
Thank christ for soundproofing, too, because if Patrick hears that shit, Bronx will need to find a new place to sleep.
Even-more-technically than that, they kind of are.
Yeah. So.
The whole thing is long and convoluted and involves a lot of tears, mostly from Bronx’s dad, but here’s the abbreviated version:
Pete and Ashlee had Bronx. A few months later, Patrick fell in love and did the marriage thing, and when Bronx was about two the plump round ball of Jeremy Stump splashed into his life.
They were paired up for playdates and babysitters and everything, pretty much best friends by default, and then Bronx went off to school and Jeremy made faces of stoic perseverance and muddled through his days without the light of his life. And started learning instruments.
The instrument thing will be revisited.
But, Bronx was in first grade when Pete and Ashlee had a screaming fight, worse than usual, worse than ever, and Pete went and stayed with Patrick for a while. Ashlee arranged to move to L.A., because she’d always hated Chicago, fuck living here For Our Bronx.
Ashlee sat Bronx down and had a very serious discussion with him, about picking which parent he wanted to stay with, we’ll consider it. Bronx loved his mom, but he was still at that point when his dad was his hero, and, and.
Pete came a few days later and sat him down and explained that Patrick was in Chicago, which meant that Pete was in Chicago, which meant that Patrick and Jeremy were in Chicago, which meant that it was either Pete (and Patrick and Jeremy) or Ashlee.
And then. Yeah. Chicago.
He was in fifth grade when Pete explained Sex and went off on a rant about Hetero v. Homo and Acceptance and Tolerance. The only real effect of this was that Bronx really understood the looks his dad gave Patrick all the time.
It seemed really simple to him, then, when Patrick started clenching his jaw all the time and Jeremy’s mom left.
But it took another two whole years, seventh grade for Bronx, for Pete and Patrick to get together and then move in together and then Bronx and Jeremy were Nearly Brothers and none of the adults were surprised, not even a little bit.
--
“Hello?”
Bronx presses the phone hard to his cheekbone. “Hi, Mom.” He swallows and leans back on the bench and squints up at the white-pale autumn sky. His voice feels hoarse. “It’s Bronx.”
“Yeah, honey,” Ashlee hums, fond and settled. “I can tell from the way you call me everyday around now.”
Bronx is at college, in a quad, surrounded by people with no faces because he can’t focus on them, and it isn’t fair that Jeremy is still in high school, seriously. “Time to talk?” he asks hopefully.
“If it’s pressing.” Bronx imagines her red lipstick, the way she smiles her apologies, how she smells. “Sorry. There’s a soiree tonight.” Bronx’s mom is married to a director, and he’s very famous now, so that’s working out.
He tries to put his thoughts in order, what’s important. “Well. I’ve told you I’m in love.”
“Often.” Soft clinks come down the line, and she’s messing with her makeup and stuff.
“With Jack Bryar.” It gets easier to say every time, warm and honey-safe behind his teeth.
“Every single time, I think you mean a man. Bob Bryar’s daughter, from My Chemical Romance?”
It’s like they all graduated together - all the bands from that generation kept track, miraculously became and stayed friends. Even after Gabe and William and Travis all broke up with each other, people didn’t have to pick sides.
“Yeah. Her. That.”
“Is something going on with her?”
“Well.” Bronx weighs everything before he says it, because he knows that he has a tendency toward dramatics. “She’s in Jersey, but. Andy’s getting married, right?” Long, breathless, expectant pause. “So… she’ll be here.”
“Well? Don’t forget to tell her that her eyes are pretty, and I really don’t want the details.”
“No - Mom. She’ll tear off my balls and feed them to me.”
“Hmm,” Ashlee says, not entirely committed to how uncool this will be. “Why do you like her, again?”
“Mom. She’s Jack.”
--
“Why do you like her, again?” Jeremy asks, eyeing the vibrating phone next to Bronx’s foot on the neon-purple-pink bedspread.
From underneath the pillow, he says, “Shut up.”
“The phone won’t bite.”
“Go away.” This might mean his nearly brother or the phone, neither of them is sure.
“Oh, for the -” Jeremy bites out, and picks it up and turns it on, “- Hi? Jack? No, he won’t. Yeah. No, I don’t think so. Maybe a show? You’re staying for Saturday night, right? Yeah. Yes. I’ll tell him to keep it to a minimum. You, too. Bye.”
Bronx peeks out from his Pillow of Safe Haven just in time to get a phone to the eye. He demands manfully, “Well?”
“Stop whining. And, okay. I see why you like her, but why do you like her? Also, your girlfriend says to tell you that you won’t stalk her while she’s here.”
Bronx rolls over, splay-legged, and smirks at the ceiling. “It’s meant to be, Germy, you’ll see.”
--
The instrument thing.
Jeremy’s dad is Patrick Stump, music consultant and major label producer extraordinaire. People pay him to let them carry guitars near him.
So, since birth Jeremy has been immersed in the best music ever and the best music tutors ever. And he plays everything.
At school, they gave him a didgeridoo and he played it on a dare. Beautifully. The thing was taller than he was, by a lot, stretched out in front of him too long to handle, but he blew into it and it made noise.
Patrick is determined that Jeremy’s musical options won’t be limited by anything.
(Not even, Bronx thinks sometimes very privately and softly, by Jeremy’s choice.)
--
“Hey,” Bronx says as he walks into the house. “Pete? Your car’s outside. You’re home.”
The house echoes back muted nothing, too many of the rooms soundproofed for the rest of the acoustics to work out right. It’s pretty flat without Patrick or Jeremy here.
“Pete!” he shouts at the top of his lungs, down the hall toward everyone’s bedrooms. “I know Patrick’s not here, you can’t pretend you’re having sex.”
His dad sticks his head out of the kitchen, eyebrows up, stylized tree stump tattoo on the right side of his neck, over the pulsepoint. It’s all wrinkly, now, gross.
Pete says, “You’re nineteen, that doesn’t mean you can stop calling me ‘Dad’, kid.”
“I lost all respect for you when you had that revival tour with levitating dancing mountain lions.” Bronx flips him off and starts toward his room.
Pete raises his voice. “Yeah? Well. Shut up. Still stalking Bryar’s girl?”
“It’s special I’m in love!” Bronx yells as the bedroom door slams shut. He spends the rest of the evening viciously defacing every single bass part in a Fall Out Boy song, for spite.
Thank christ for soundproofing, too, because if Patrick hears that shit, Bronx will need to find a new place to sleep.