I had been Gemma Hawthorne’s shadow for a decade, her personal coach and confidant as she struggled with her severe stutter. Every day, I sat with her, rehearsing sounds, going over articulation diagrams, and running through psychological grounding exercises. It was my life’s work. Yet, when Beckett Rhodes publicly shamed her, mimicking her speech in front of a crowd, she didn't turn to me. She walked straight up to him and asked him for help. From me, she only had a single, cold line of gratitude: “Jasper, you’re too patient. So patient that you make me feel like a child who’s never allowed to grow up, like an idiot who’ll be stuck here forever.” In that moment, I realized that the real idiot wasn't her. It was me—for sacrificing my academic future to stay and save her. 1 “This is the application you’re submitting to the club?” I pointed to the wrinkled sheet of paper on her desk. Gemma’s name was scribbled on it, awkwardly filling the blanks for the Westwood High Debate Team. She didn’t look at me. She was busy in front of the mirror, adjusting the collar of her uniform, trying to emulate the sharp, confident look of the senior girls on the team. “Y-Y-Yes. It is.” She managed to force out the words, her face burning crimson with the effort. In the past, when I first saw this form, I had lost it. I tore the paper to shreds and stormed into the Debate Club office, confronting Beckett. He and his cronies had humiliated me, accusing me of stifling Gemma’s freedom. Gemma herself had cried, accusing me of trying to lock her in a cage. This time, I slipped my hands into my pockets and took a deliberate step back. “Good for you.” Gemma froze, looking at me in genuine surprise. “W-W-What did you s-say?” “I said, ‘Good for you.’” I repeated the words, turning to gather the worn books scattered across my desk. The Fluency Handbook. Clinical Anatomy for Speech. The Stutterer’s Guide to Mindful Speaking. The spines were broken, the pages dog-eared. They were dense with my own frantic notes and countless red-ink annotations—a blueprint for every conversation, every panic attack, every step of the decade-long recovery I’d mapped out. “Beckett w-was right,” Gemma rushed to say, suddenly eager to justify her choice. When she hurried, the veins in her neck strained, and her mouth opened wide, but the sound wouldn't come out. I stood there, not doing what I always did—reaching out to smooth her back or gently guiding her to slow down. I just watched, a quiet, cold observer. “He s-said y-y-your whole slow-and-steady method w-w-was useless.” She finally got the sentence out, exhaling sharply, a hint of triumphant pride even managing to surface on her face. “He c-can force me t-t-to talk.” I walked over to the waste bin and dumped the stack of textbooks inside. “Then I wish you success.” Gemma noticed the movement. She stared for a moment, then scrambled toward the bin. “W-W-What are you d-doing?” “Throwing out the trash.” I slung my backpack over my shoulder. I even bent down to smooth out her Debate Club application and placed it prominently on her desk. “If Beckett’s methods are so much more effective, there’s no point in keeping these things around.” I tapped the desk. “They’re just taking up space.” Gemma’s hands hung suspended in mid-air. She must not have expected this. The Jasper who had once treasured her every tear and triumph was throwing out everything connected to her with such ruthless efficiency. “J-J-Jasper, are you… mad?” She tentatively pulled on the edge of my sleeve. In the old days, that look, that tiny gesture, would have melted me. I would have instantly compromised, apologized, and offered unconditional support. Now, I just found the tug annoying. “No, I’m not mad.” I gently, deliberately, pulled my sleeve from her grasp. “I just feel like it’s time for me to have my own life.” I paused, letting the silence fill the space. “After all, I can’t babysit an adult who chooses to be an idiot for the rest of my life, can I?” That last phrase—an idiot—was what Beckett had called her yesterday. It was also the word she had used to describe how she felt around me. Gemma’s face instantly went white. “I d-didn’t m-m-mean it like t-that.” “It doesn’t matter anymore.” I checked the clock on the wall, cutting her off. “Beckett’s club activity is about to start. Shouldn’t you be going?” The mention of Beckett immediately shifted her focus. She looked frantically at the time, snatched the application, and bolted for the door. She stopped at the threshold, turning back to offer me a dazzling, hopeful smile. “J-Jasper, when I’ve p-p-practiced enough, I’ll talk to you all the t-t-time.” She was radiant with anticipation for a future I was no longer a part of. I watched her retreating back, a blur heading straight toward Beckett. Talk to me all the time? No need. I pulled out my phone and dialed the number for my guidance counselor. “Hello, Dr. Evans, I’d like to apply for the closed-door Physics Intensive next month.” “Yes, the one outside the city.” “I won’t need to look after Gemma anymore. She’s found a better coach.” 2 The cafeteria was loud, buzzing with the after-school rush. I took my tray to an empty corner table. I’d barely taken a bite of the tough, overcooked General Tso’s chicken when a burst of laughter erupted from the next table. “Alright, Gemma, let’s hear that tongue twister for the crowd.” Beckett’s voice was loud and laced with a theatrical sneer. “P-P-Peter P-P-Piper picked a p-p-peck…” Gemma stood in the center of the Debate Club table, her face scarlet, her mouth contorted with effort. The club members around her were howling with laughter. Some had their phones out, filming. “Ha, ha, ha! She didn’t pick a peck of peppers, Beckett, she’s choking on the sound!” “Dude, your method is brutal, look how red she is.” Beckett leaned back in his chair, his feet propped up, twirling a pen between his fingers. “It’s called desensitization therapy, you morons. Look it up.” He tapped the end of the pen against Gemma’s forehead. “Keep going, don’t stop. You don’t eat until you finish the whole thing.” Gemma’s eyes were glistening with tears, and her body was visibly trembling. But she didn't resist. Instead, she pushed herself harder to produce the sound. “P-P-Peppers…” The exertion was too much, and a thin line of saliva traced the corner of her mouth. The old me would have been on my feet, lunging at Beckett, dragging Gemma away. I would have whispered that we’d take it slow. The new me simply lowered my head and chewed the tough chicken. It was getting stuck in my teeth. “Hey, Jasper!” One of Beckett’s lackeys spotted me and yelled across the room. “Your little childhood friend is getting roasted! Aren’t you gonna step in?” All eyes swiveled to me. Gemma looked over too. She quickly wiped the drool from her mouth, a flicker of shame in her eyes. But just as quickly, she straightened her spine. She wanted to prove herself. Beckett gave me a challenging, smug look and draped his arm possessively over Gemma’s shoulder. “Step in? Why would he? Jasper the Great is too busy chasing scholarships. He doesn't have time for our messy little affairs.” He gave Gemma’s cheek a rough squeeze. “Besides, Gemma’s making progress, right?” Gemma flinched but nodded into his hand. “Y-Y-Yes. B-Beckett is… is d-doing it for my own g-good.” She looked directly at me, the words tumbling out in a rush. “J-Jasper, you… you just m-mind your own business.” Mind your own business. The phrase landed like a slap in the face. A round of jeers and whistles went up around them, mocking my former devotion. I placed my chopsticks down and wiped my mouth with a paper napkin. “Carry on.” I picked up my tray and stood. “Wouldn’t want to interrupt the training regimen.” I walked past their table without even slowing my pace. Gemma’s expression was frozen. She had expected me to be furious, to be jealous, to spring to her defense and cradle her safely away from the danger. But I didn’t. I genuinely didn't care. Behind me, Beckett’s laughter grew louder and more reckless. “See that? That’s what they call moving on! Alright, Gemma, to celebrate your independence, ten more times. Now!” “T-T-Ten times?” Gemma’s voice was wet with tears. “What? Backing out?” Beckett’s voice dropped, ice-cold. “Then go back to your Jasper-nanny and be a stuttering, useless waste of space.” “N-N-No! I w-w-will do it!” Her desperate cry pierced through the noise of the cafeteria. I dumped my leftover food into the disposal chute, listening to the agonizing, broken, and placating sounds of her struggle. The last sliver of guilt I held in my heart drained away with the spoiled food. Back in the classroom, I pulled out a mock exam for the state Physics Olympiad. The first problem was a beast. I worked through it twice before the solution clicked. The moment I solved it, a profound sense of lightness washed over me. Spending energy on my own life, I realized, was yielding immediate, high-rate returns. Unlike my decade-long investment in Gemma. Ten years of my youth, now a complete write-off. 3 The evening study hall was quiet. Gemma’s desk was empty. This was the third night in a row she’d skipped. Mr. Davies, the head teacher, stopped by my table and tapped his knuckles on the wood. “Jasper, where’s Gemma? Do you know?” I didn’t look up, my pen flying across my scratchpad, working through the derivation of a difficult equation. “No, I don’t.” Mr. Davies paused, clearly taken aback by my curtness. “But you two are inseparable. Her parents can’t reach her. Could you just…” “Mr. Davies.” I put down my pen and looked up at him. “We are not attached at the hip.” “Where she goes is her own business. I am not obligated to monitor her twenty-four hours a day.” He was speechless, sighed, and walked away. In my past life, I faced the same questions. That time, I searched the entire city and found her, drunk and crying, in a back room of a dingy bar. Beckett and his friends were egging her on, forcing her to sing a love song with her stutter. She had cried the whole time, yet when she saw me, she threw a glass at my face. “G-G-Go away! W-W-Who asked y-y-you to come!” That night, I carried her home, reeking of vomit, only to be chastised by her parents for not having watched her closely enough. Thinking back, I was an absolute fool. The final bell rang. I packed my bag and headed out. Just outside the school gate, under the harsh glow of the streetlamp, I saw Gemma and Beckett. Gemma was holding a boba tea, struggling to suck up the last pearls. Beckett was leaning against his motorcycle, a vape pen hanging from his mouth, looking impatient. “Hurry up. Quit stalling.” He took a drag. “Finish that and I’ll take you somewhere fun.” Gemma choked on a pearl and started coughing violently. Beckett didn't help. He just laughed, doubling over in amusement. “C-C-Cough… Cough…” Gemma’s face was beet red, tears streaming from her eyes. She looked up and saw me. In that instant, her eyes lit up. She instinctively moved toward me—a decade of habit. When she was in pain, I was the one who always had the water and the tissue. I stopped. I reached into the side pocket of my backpack and pulled out a small tin of soothing lozenges. I always carried them; her throat was delicate and prone to inflammation when she coughed. Gemma’s eyes brightened even more when she saw the tin. She took another step toward me. “J-Jas—” I tore the plastic wrapping off the tin and poured the entire contents—a couple dozen sweet, white lozenges—into the nearby public trash can. Clatter. Clatter. Clatter. The sound was sharp and final. Gemma stopped dead. She stared at me, her lips trembling with disbelief. “W-W-What are you d-d-doing?” I crushed the empty tin in my hand and tossed it in after the lozenges. “They expired.” They were bought yesterday. “And you probably don’t need them anymore anyway.” I glanced at the vape pen in Beckett’s hand. “Secondhand smoke and sugar. Sounds like a pretty effective new treatment plan.” “It’s the desensitization therapy, right?” Beckett blew a cloud of vapor directly into Gemma’s face. “Hear that? Even Jasper says my method is working. Come on, let’s go for a ride. Really loosen up those vocal cords.” Gemma coughed again, but she didn’t push Beckett away. She just stared at the trash can. “J-J-Jasper, you’ve changed,” she accused, her voice raw. “Y-You never… you never used to l-l-leave me alone l-like this.” “People change.” I tightened the strap on my backpack. “Especially when the investment no longer justifies the return.” “Gemma, you’re an adult now.” I looked her straight in the eye. “Adults have to pay for their own choices.” 4 It was the school’s 50th-anniversary celebration, and they were holding auditions for the event host. Logically, Gemma had no business auditioning. Clear, articulate speech was the primary requirement. But Beckett had signed her up. “This is your chance to break free!” Beckett announced to the entire class. “We are going to fight the discrimination! Who says a stutterer can’t be a host?” “Gemma, you have to prove to everyone that you’re not useless!” The classmates cheered and clapped. Everyone was caught up in the performative, feel-good rhetoric. Only I knew it was a meticulously planned form of psychological warfare. In my past life, she did this, too. On stage, she was so nervous she couldn’t even complete her self-introduction. The hissing, the jeers, the laughter—it drowned her. She had a full-blown panic attack and lost control of her bladder in front of thousands of people. It became her life's darkest memory, and the moment she completely attached herself to Beckett and began to hate me. Because Beckett told her: “You weren’t brave enough. Jasper protected you too well, and now you can’t handle the real world.” This time, I was still sitting in my corner, doing practice problems. Gemma walked up to me with the audition script. “J-Jasper.” She slapped the pages onto my desk. “Y-You n-need to h-help me edit the s-script.” The request was so entitled, so completely devoid of any acknowledgment of our previous tension. “I don’t have time.” I pushed the papers back. “I have to prep for the Physics Olympiad selection exam.” Gemma’s face crumpled in frustration. “Y-You’re just j-jealous!” “J-Jealous that B-Beckett is n-n-nice to me!” “You w-want me t-to fail!” Her voice was so loud the entire class fell silent. Beckett strolled over and casually draped an arm around Gemma’s shoulders. “Gemma, don’t beg this bookworm. What does a science nerd know about the art of public speaking?” He gave me a condescending look. “I’ll write your script. I guarantee you’ll blow the audience away.” Gemma’s eyes welled up with grateful tears. “B-Beckett, you’re so good to m-me.” She turned her venom on me again, her face contorted with malice. “J-Jasper, you d-don’t deserve to b-be my friend.” “When I get that hosting job, you b-better stay out of my business!” I capped my pen and stood up. My gaze swept over Gemma’s distorted face and settled on Beckett’s gleeful, malevolent smirk. “Duly noted,” I said, giving a curt nod. “Make sure you remember that, Gemma.” “Don’t come near me.” The day of the selection ceremony arrived. The auditorium was packed. I was outside, tossing my packed bag into the trunk of a shuttle van heading for the state-level Physics Intensive. Walking past the rear doors of the auditorium, I heard the announcer's voice. “Next up, from Grade 12, Class 2, please welcome… Gemma Hawthorne.” A burst of applause. It was the sound of encouragement for the underdog, but underneath it, I could hear the anticipation of a trainwreck. I peered through the door crack. Gemma was wearing an ill-fitting evening dress, and her makeup was overdone. She stood alone on the huge stage, the spotlight making her look small and absurd. Beckett was lurking behind the curtain, filming her on his phone. He was laughing, making mocking hand gestures, mimicking her shaky posture to the friends beside him. Gemma took a shaky breath and grabbed the microphone. She believed this was the start of her new life. She believed this was her moment to prove me wrong. She had no idea that Beckett had rigged the microphone for maximum feedback and ear-splitting squeals. She had no idea the script he’d written was full of complex, tongue-twisting vocabulary and convoluted phrases. “H-H-Hel-Hello… Ev-Everyone…” The piercing feedback scream tore through the auditorium. I let go of the door handle and walked toward the waiting shuttle bus at the main gate. The moment the bus doors hissed shut, a colossal wave of hysterical laughter erupted from the auditorium.
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