The Missing Piece

by Jessica Baxter

  The Missing Piece

  Jessica Baxter

  The Missing Piece

  ©2019 Jessica Baxter

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written consent of the author except for the brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. References to real people, places, events or organizations are only used to make the book more authentic for the reader. All other characters, dialogues, and incidents that take place in the story, are drawn from the author's imagination and are not to be constructed as real.

  To Andrew—you're the reason my heart sings, the reason there is sunshine in my soul, and the reason behind my endless laughter and joy. You're my forever.

  Contents

  The Missing Piece

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter One

  The doors to the Cedar Heights Police Department fly open and sunlight floods the room. Without even thinking about it, my hand shoots up to shield my eyes from the sudden, blinding light.

  When did the sun rise? How long have I been sitting here?

  My thoughts stop as I notice the man fuming in the doorway. I’m almost certain I can see puffs of smoke coming from my father’s nostrils like Ferdinand the bull getting ready to charge a red flag. The difference is Ferdinand is just pretending to be angry, whereas my father is always a simmering pot of rage. He takes three gigantic strides before stopping directly in front of me.

  I am the red flag.

  “Dammit, Emily! What were you thinking? You can’t keep pulling stunts like this.”

  I can’t bring myself to look at him. It’s not that I feel ashamed for what I did because the thing is: I did absolutely nothing.

  Yes, I broke curfew again and went to a party where there was alcohol, and yes, the cops came to said party, but I didn’t drink anything. Beer is disgusting, and I’m smarter than that anyway. I was just hoping something would get his attention and make him see me, make him understand that I don’t want to leave.

  Apparently, sneaking out and breaking curfew isn’t enough to convince him I’m fine; he considers it burdensome instead.

  My head snaps up as footsteps approach.

  “Charles.” Officer Bullock shakes my father’s hand. “Since Miss Stone here wasn’t intoxicated we aren’t going to put it on her permanent record. We’ll let her off with a warning.”

  My father clasps Officer Bullock’s shoulder. “Thanks, Mark. I really appreciate that. I just wish I knew what’s gotten into her.”

  My hands ball into fists.

  Is he really that oblivious to my presence?

  I’m so sick of him acting like I don’t exist. Rage bubbles up inside of me like a pack of Mentos dropped into a bottle of Coca-Cola and I lose it.

  I leap to my feet. “I’m sitting right here. And, you know why I’m doing this! Mom is dying. She’s dying and you’re sending me away like it doesn't even matter.”

  “We’re not discussing this here.” His glare cuts through me like steel, his clipped tone like ice chilling me to the bone. “Go to the car.”

  Officer Bullock’s face reddens and he clears his throat. “Um, like I was saying there are no charges being pressed, so, umm, if you could just sign this, then we can release her.” He pulls nervously at the collar of his uniform.

  Shortly after I climb into the car, my father joins me. Swearing under his breath, he runs his hand through his hair. “Why do you keep doing this?”

  “Doing what?”

  “This,” he says, gesturing with his hands to the police station in front of us. “What are you trying to prove?”

  My throat feels tight like a razor blade is lodged against my esophagus. I name Disney princesses off in my head to calm myself, but my reply still sounds whiny and desperate.

  “I’m not trying to prove anything.”

  He turns onto our street. “I don’t believe that for a second, there has to be a reason you’re acting out. Whatever it is, my decision is final, you are going to Los Angeles whether you like it or not.”

  The thought of flinging the door open and jumping out of the car runs through my mind.

  Maybe then he’d notice me.

  I push the thought from my mind as I tug at my hoodie string. My nails dig into my palms, an attempt to control my anger, but my voice only comes out as a whisper. “Maybe if you didn’t resent me so much, you wouldn’t send me away.”

  My father glares daggers at me and I feel like I’m walking across broken glass. “I’ve had enough of this nonsense, knock it off or I will give you something to complain about.”

  The moment my father pulls into the driveway, I swing my door open and storm inside. What gives him the right to shake up my whole world like a snow globe?

  I am not a snow globe.

  My life isn't glittery and perfect, despite what he may think. My fingers clasp the elephant pendant, my boyfriend, Mason, got me last summer. He’s moving to Africa with his parents, his father got a promotion and will now run the One Hope Orphanage.

  I just want something familiar to hold onto, at least, for a little bit longer. Like the tattered baby blanket that I used to carry everywhere or the smell of Cedar Heights after a thunderstorm.

  There is so much about this small town that I’m going to miss. I wish I could bottle all of it up and bring it with me the way I used to collect sand in empty water bottles when my family went on vacation to Myrtle Beach.

  I’m still fuming as I make my way upstairs towards my bedroom. I push open the door and halt. “Mads?”

  She’s sprawled out on my bed, flipping through one of my many Disney Mania magazines, blowing giant pink bubbles with her gum. She glances up. “Hey! Mom let me in. Did your dad budge?”

  I slump down on the bed next to her and shake my head. “He doesn’t care that I want to stay here and nothing is going to change his mind.”

  “What a jerkwad! Can’t he see that you’re grieving?”

  I shrug my shoulders, a sign of defeat. “Oh, I’m sure he knows. He just doesn’t care.”

  Mads walks over to my Winnie the
Pooh stuffed animal collection and pulls Eeyore off the shelf. “Em, what would Eeyore say if he was in your situation?”

  My throat feels tight like I’m on the verge of tears, but I smile anyway. “It never hurts to keep looking for sunshine.”

  “Exactly! It sucks that your dad is sending you to LA, but there has to be some sort of silver lining, something to make all that suck worth it.”

  “Yeah, I guess.” I start rummaging through my closet, looking for my suitcases. “I wish you could come with me though.”

  She walks over to me and puts her arm around my shoulder. “Me too,” she says, resting her head against mine. “You know you’re going to do just fine though.”

  “What if there’s another Brenda Jones?” A shiver runs through my body.

  Freshman year Brenda pretended to befriend me and convinced me that Stephen Jacobs wanted to go to the spring dance with me. I was so excited; my mom took me out to buy a new dress and everything. Only when the time came for Stephen to come pick me up, he never showed, but Brenda did. She told me I was stupid for even thinking Stephen could be into me when he had her. She laughed in my face and walked away, leaving me alone and unwanted.

  “I can’t promise that you won’t meet another Brenda Jones, but I can promise that you’ll be able to defeat every single one. Em, you once told me, ‘You are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.’ I know you are. Now you just need to believe it too.”

  “We’re leaving in an hour,” my father bellows up the stairs.

  Mads gives me a sympathetic look and whispers, “I’ll see you later.” Then she heads to the door, leaving me to deal with my empty suitcases sprawled out before me.

  I haul my most prized possessions (the stuffed Eeyore Mads bought last summer, my Walt Disney biography and the photo of Mads, Mason and I at Cedar Point) across my room and into my suitcases.

  After I have the essentials packed, I stare at my wardrobe and start pulling clothes off the hangers. My fingers brush against my orange tank top with the lace ruffles and flowers at the bottom. I’m tempted to throw it in my suitcase as well, but then Mason’s voice sounds loudly in my head.

  Why are you wearing that? You look like Bert swallowed a carrot and spit it back up. It’s not very flattering.

  I drop my hand, sighing. Instead, I pull the brown tunic dress off a hanger and carry it over to my suitcase. The tunic is large, baggy and doesn’t compliment my figure at all. I don’t know why Mason loves it so much.

  My little brother, Sammy, runs into my room as I’m zipping up my suitcases. He launches himself around my legs. Sammy is seven and is possibly the cutest little boy, except when he’s getting into my makeup. He has our mom’s dark brown hair, brown eyes, and that same ridiculous laugh that always ends in snorting fits. Not to mention, he’s completely obsessed with Batman, but who am I to judge? My room is covered in everything Disney.

  “You can’t leave, Emilyyyy.” He whines, arms hugging me tightly as if he’ll never let go. I pat my bed and motion for Sammy to climb up and sit next to me.

  He scratches his knee and whispers, “I don’t want you to leave.”

  “I’m going to talk to you every week.” I scoop him up in my arms and put him in my lap.

  He takes my face in his hands, something he does whenever he’s serious, and says, “That is not the same.”

  When did he grow up?

  “Tell you what, how about we talk on the webcam. We could do that every Sunday.” My voice catches in my throat.

  His face brightens. “Can we really do that?”

  I ruffle his dark brown hair and then cross my fingers over my heart. “I swear on the Batcave.”

  Chapter Two

  It doesn’t sink in that I’m completely alone—in Los Angeles by MYSELF—until I’m sitting in my ridiculously small and square dorm room. The walls are empty and bare and blinding white. My suitcases sit untouched at the foot of my bed, and I just want to go home.

  How could my father send me to boarding school, across the FREAKIN’ country, without even asking me if I wanted to come?

  I squeeze my eyes shut and begin chanting Disney princesses off in my head . My breathing slows as I heave the first suitcase onto the bed and slowly begin to unzip it. I almost think I’ve regained my composure, until I pull my stuffed bear, Alan—that I’ve carried with me everywhere since I was three—out of the suitcase.

  A lump rises in my throat, and before I can stop it, the tears are rolling down my face. My stomach churns. I rush to my window, fling it open and gulp the fresh city air in greedily—a few heads whip up at the sound of my creaking window and stare.

  Mortified, I quickly snap my window shut again and slide to the floor. I need to calm down NOW. The walls are so paper thin that all of Cyprus Hall will be able to hear me. And, then I won’t make any friends and no one will want to hang out with me and my life will be over.

  My breathing comes in big, fast gulps and my face hurts from crying. Every inch of my body aches. It feels as if I’ve just completed a triathlon. I drag myself over to the bed, bury my face in the pillow—infested with who knows how many germs—and sob.

  Why can’t I get myself together?

  There’s a soft knock on my door, and then an energetic, perky voice asks, “Are you okay?”

  No, I am not okay.

  My father just sent me to FREAKIN’ boarding school, my boyfriend is on a plane to Africa and my mom is miles away in Ohio and there’s nothing I can do about it. I want to scream GO AWAY and just melt into my bed, but when she calls out again I reluctantly go to the door.

  A girl with long black hair, with a thick layer of blonde on the bottom, leans against the door frame. She’s tall, skinny and is wearing a black Mumford & Sons t-shirt, black skinny jeans and combat boots. Her nose ring, a little diamond stud, glistens in the hallway light.

  She sticks her hand out. “Hi. I’m Danielle. I live two doors down.” She points to room 315 down the hall. “Is this your first year?”

  I slowly nod, refusing to let go of the door. I just want to go back to my bed, curl up and cry, but Danielle seems in no rush to leave.

  She offers a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, I cried my first night, too.”

  I raise my eyebrows at her. And, that makes me feel better how?

  “You need a distraction,” She says, smiling at me. There’s just something about it that makes me feel like I’m back in Cedar Heights with Mads getting ready to play Thrifty Nickel at the local Goodwill.

  What the hell?

  I shrug my shoulders and smile back.

  I’m not sure what adventure Danielle has in store and the future is uncertain, but as I follow her out to a battered, old yellow slug bug I’m determined to learn to live and let go.

  The city is bustling as we pull off the interstate. I’ve never been to a big city before—my hometown consists of 986 people, well, now I guess it’s 982. The towering buildings, rush-hour traffic and people crowding the sidewalks don’t calm my nerves.

  My mind is racing. Who is taking care of Sammy when my dad’s not there? Mom isn’t able to do much even though her cancer is in remission. She just gets worn out too easily. And, even when my dad is home, he’s always absorbed in his work and it feels like he never has time for us.

  I lean against the window and sigh.

  What I wouldn’t give to be back in Cedar Heights, sitting outside with Mom and Sammy, roasting marshmallows over the fire.

  A few minutes pass and then Danielle asks, “So, where are you from? I saw the look of horror on your face as we were driving through the city.”

  “Cedar Heights, Ohio. It’s near Cedar Point.”

  Her expression is blank as she stares at me. “What’s that?”

  I’m dumbfounded.

  “You’ve never heard of Cedar Point?” She shakes her head. “It’s only the best amusement park in America.”

  “Better than Disney?”

  “Oh.
It’s a million times better than Disney. And, that’s coming from a Disney fanatic.”

  “What’s your favorite Disney movie?” She asks. “I love Anastasia.”

  I want to tell her that Anastasia isn’t technically a Disney princess because Don Bluth made the movie after he was fired from Disney, but I don’t want to come off sounding snobby; so instead, I tell her how much I like the movie too.

  The car jerks to a stop as Danielle pulls into the Oceanside Relaxation Academy’s parking lot and finds a parking spot.

  “Mani-pedi?” She looks at me and grins.

  “Sure . . . ” I shrug my shoulders, it beats crying alone in my room. “But, won’t that be expensive?”

  Danielle shakes her head. “Normally, yes, but this is an academy so the work is done by students and super cheap.”

  The inside of the Oceanside Relaxation Academy is peaceful and inviting. A fake waterfall is plastered to the wall adding to the soothing lull. The walls are a pale-yellow with low-lit hanging lights, and big gray bean bag chairs are scattered throughout the lobby. Danielle walks up to the front desk and makes a reservation.

  “How do you like Baldwin?” I ask Danielle when she plops down in the bean bag next to me.

  “It’s alright,” she says slowly, drawing out her words, then sees the curious look on my face and quickly adds, “The staff is awesome!”

  Before I can respond, the receptionist calls out, “Viola Thunderbottom?” I scan the lobby, looking for the poor soul with such an unfortunate name.

  Nobody gets up. The silence that follows is excoriating, I feel as if I'm stuck on the "It's a Small World" ride at Disneyland. And, then Danielle burst out laughing. “Come on. That’s us.”

  I snort. “You did not just write Viola Thunderbottom!”

  The receptionist gives us the death glare, before directing us to the manicure and pedicure station. As soon as we’re out of view we both start giggling uncontrollably. We sit down at one of the manicure tables and wait for the nail technicians.

  “Where are you from?” I ask organizing the nail polish bottles by color and then I push them into a straight line.