Pieces

by G. Benson

  Deon tapped a pen against his lip, a pattern like Morse code, a codex to his thoughts. He’d skipped two grades. Scholarships were paved out in front of him. Leaning back in his computer chair, he tossed his pen behind him on the desk. He sucked at a straw inside his oversized soda and eyed her. “That’s kind of weird.”

  “Not kind of. It is.”

  “What sixteen-year-old doesn’t have Facebook?”

  Ollie shrugged and tried not to answer that it was apparently the kind who kissed like she was on fire, who kissed like Ollie was the one who could keep her from extinguishing herself, the kind whose nails gripped at her skin; that type didn’t have Facebook.

  She tried to tell herself that those kisses had nothing to do with why Ollie wanted to find Carmen. It was concern—that was all. They’d stumbled over each other a few times on some path neither of them knew the end of, and Ollie just knew she needed Carmen around if she wanted to see the finale.

  Carmen was…something she didn’t have a word for.

  “C’mon, Deon.” Sara threw her hands in the air. “Can you help us?”

  A look not unlike offense screwed up Deon’s face. “Of course I can. You’re talking child’s play.”

  When he smiled, he looked all kinds of charming, and when he was cocky, like now, he gave a shake of his head that made his thin, short locs fall around his face. Once, when Ollie was younger, she’d had a crush on him that lasted a painful year. His cheekbones had left her speechless. And then he’d appeared in one of the school’s Queer Club meetings and told her he was representing the A in LGBTQIA+, and that it did not stand for ally, but for asexual and aromantic. Some people, he explained, were one or the other. Others were both, and he was one of them; they were terms he wore proudly. Her crush had ebbed, eventually, and she’d found a great friend.

  From the bed in the corner, Deon’s older brother, home for a while from college, spoke up. “What he wants to say is what’s in it for us?”

  “Don’t you mean for him, Ruin?” Ollie asked, eyebrows raised.

  Ruin flashed a smile, flopping back on the bed, an older version of his brother. “No, I mean for us. I’m the brains of this operation.” With a lazy wink, he dropped an arm over his face.

  Ollie looked back to Deon, who was rolling his eyes. But she needed to know. “I’ll buy the next piece of equipment you’re after.”

  The hole that would make in her savings account would be huge, one too big to cover up from her parents’ prying eyes, but she would find a lie to excuse it away as a school project. Something about a media assignment. Carmen had lit a want in Ollie, a need, a curiosity, and then had left her behind with nothing to sate it. Where the hell was she? And why did she kiss like the world was falling around her?

  And why did Ollie care?

  Deon’s eyes lit up, and he swiveled his chair. Two of the monitors flashed to a wide screen, lines of code typing too fast for Ollie to follow on another. She could see now, in the determined set of his shoulders, in the rapidly changing, flickering screens, why Deon had received a visit from some cloaked government agency a year ago for his talent at finding out things he shouldn’t.

  “Deon, what did those suits say to you after they took you from school in that van?” Interest lilted Sara’s words. When he’d come back the next day, a little wan, he hadn’t said a word, and they’d realized enough to leave him alone.

  Deon just shrugged and spoke at his screen. “They said a lot of things.”

  Sara sighed. “Enough to make you stop?”

  He turned then, a smirk plastered on his lips. “Enough to make me learn how not to be caught.”

  Then he said something about IPs and bouncing and lines, and Ollie was lost.

  “So, her full name?” He turned away again, tossing the question over his shoulder.

  “Carmen García.”

  Maybe she said it too fast, too easily, the syllables falling from Ollie’s tongue as if they weren’t something new, because Sara tilted her head where it lay against Ollie’s thigh, a look on her face Ollie didn’t want to try to understand.

  Deon’s shoulders were hunched, keys clacking rapidly. “Date of birth?”

  “No idea.”

  “She’s in the year below us, you said?”

  “Yeah, but our age.”

  “That makes it easier, to at least know her age.”

  For a little while, the monitors were just a blur from Ollie’s position near the floor, and she ran her fingers through Sara’s hair. Eventually, Sara hunted through her bag and pulled out a blunt. “You mind?” she asked.

  Deon shook his head, and she lit it smoothly before offering it to Ruin, who took a hit.

  Ollie shook her head when it was offered to her. Despite how it mellowed her out sometimes, she didn’t like how weed sporadically left her skin itching and made her feel like the world was closing in around her. She had days in which she felt like that anyway, especially around exams—like all the air was trapped in her chest and there was no oxygen in her system. Why take weed and make it worse?

  The school counsellor had used the word anxiety, and only certain breathing exercises could bring Ollie back to earth at times. She’d tried medication, and after six months and feeling back on top of her anxiety, had weaned off of it. The anxiety was never entirely gone, but the counsellor had given her some tools to keep it in check.

  For the next few hours, Ollie lolled in a lazy afternoon, her bag on the floor behind them, the hours of study she had to do stretching out into the night ahead.

  With glazed eyes and a hum in her chest, Sara fell back against the beanbag, her hand poking at Ollie’s thigh, with a giggle spilling from her. “You’re vibrating.” A smile split her lips. “That your phone in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?”

  High Sara was always an unstoppable flirt. Ollie rolled her eyes at her, and when she saw her phone lighting up with Sean’s name, she swiped it off and slipped it back into her pocket. Eyes now closed, her head a brick against Ollie’s knee, Sara made a “tsk” noise, and Ollie ignored her.

  “Got something.” Deon said an hour later with a low whistle. “And it definitely isn’t a Facebook account.”

  Ollie had thought they’d find a fake name, a changed surname, some link to find a mobile number, a social media account, some way to send an awkward message like:

  Hey, wanna make out some more?

  No, not that. More like:

  Hey, are you okay?

  The cloak-and-dagger had been excessive, something like a game, something she had slipped on for the afternoon to find her damsel. Instead of something so fun, Deon laid out a path of foster homes, of a runaway three years ago, of brushes with police. The confirmed death of her mother, mug shots of a white woman who looked like a shell of a person, the collection back into foster care, a group home. Swallowing past the prickling in her throat, Ollie wondered at the life Carmen led.

  No firm address was filed, just a note in an online file that said a home was to be determined, one of three that were all far away.

  She wondered if she’d ever see Carmen again, disappointment acrid on her tongue at the thought that it really didn’t seem she would.

  “Shut it off,” she said. She’d seen something too private, not for their eyes. Even if she found Carmen, how would the other girl feel about the digging Ollie had done? “Shut it off, and pretend you never saw it.”

  Eyes just stared at Carmen through the hole in the door. Everything around her and Mattie was shrouded in shadow, only the weak light of the moon breaking through a small gap in the clouds and orange security light washing over them. Carmen felt naked, like a sacrifice: vulnerable and trussed up to stand before her maker, her brother clutching her clammy hand. Waiting to be told if she lived or died.

  “One minut
e.”

  Carmen knew that voice. Her stomach dropped, something rising in her and at the same time leaving a sick, swooping feeling behind.

  The window slid shut with a slam that made Mattie jump beside her, the squeeze of his hand bordering on painful, but nothing Carmen wouldn’t take for him. She’d take things a thousand times worse than that, might have to soon. With a sidestep, a small shuffle of his feet, he was pressed against her side, the warmth of him soaking through her clothes. She glanced down to the top of his head, the moonlight washing over the droplets of water in his hair. It made it seem silver, a color for gods, for heroes, not for the mortal she wanted her brother to be. Not for the everyday, for easy living.

  He deserved so much, and yet he only had her.

  When he looked up, his eyes no longer reflected stars overhead but the clouds that were creeping back over the sky, dark and rolling and roiling with rain. A splat of it landed on his cheek, and it shone as it rolled down the slope of it. With a swipe of the back of his hand, it was gone. “Where are we?”

  Carmen ran her tongue over her lip, hovering on her answer. “Somewhere with friends, if they’ll have us.”

  “Friends you had before?”

  “Yes.”

  He blinked, cocking his head to one side. “I’m glad you had friends before. I thought you were all alone.”

  Carmen’s chest ached with a swelling behind her ribs, an influx of emotion at the thought that before, at five, her brother had worried for her. “I wasn’t. They helped me learn how to survive.”

  Skills Carmen had thought she could use alone this time, not wanting to ask for help. Not even sure if they would have her, with how it had ended, with how she had left—and now she was with a boy too young at her side.

  It was as if the weight of the world were pushing down to crush her bones, as if she were sixteen going on eighty. She wanted to sink into the feeling, to let it bow her, to give in to age, to sigh as she turned to ash and floated away. Instead, she straightened her shoulders and squeezed the hand in hers a little harder.

  She’d learned these lessons from the cradle, and she could learn it all better this time: find food, feed your own, make sure you were warm enough, make sure people didn’t find out you were alone, hungry, cold, a bit too dirty.

  “Why didn’t we come here before?”

  Carmen swallowed and looked down again. His big eyes were still staring up at her. He smelled damp from the rain, like clothes that were bordering on needing a wash. He had slept under a bridge the last few days.

  “Because—”

  The door swung open, the hinges creaking and echoing out behind them, the sound bouncing off old walls and corrugated-iron fences.

  Light flooded onto them suddenly, seemingly switched off beforehand to cloak in mystery the person who had been at the door, something that didn’t surprise Carmen in the slightest. Mattie threw his hand up, covering his screwed-up eyes, but Carmen made herself squint through the shock of the light.

  “Well, well. Look who’s returned.”

  It was exactly who Carmen thought it was, voice slightly deeper after two years. Her eyes were layered in dark eyeliner. There were rips in her jeans, and she wore a jacket layered over a dark shirt.

  “Hello, Rae.”

  The punch hurt, even though it wasn’t entirely unexpected. It hit her on the cheekbone and was nowhere near as hard as Rae could hit. At least, that was what Carmen told herself to feel a little better. What hurt like a truly-meant punch, though, was Mattie’s panicked shout and the way his hand tore from hers when she took a shuddering step back to take away some of the impact.

  Her hand covered the spot flooding with heat on her cheek, where she knew a bruise would blossom.

  She eyed Rae. “I guess I deserved that.”

  Chapter 9

  “Damn right you deserved it.” Rae’s words held a bite, but her face was impassive.

  Mattie was back at Carmen’s side, his hand holding the back of her shirt. He stepped in front of her and stood sideways, looking at Rae, who stood with her back straight and her eyes glinting as Mattie stared her down. Up, rather, considering how small he was.

  Carmen was left with anxiety in her belly, wanting to claw him back to her, to yank him safely behind her, but also in awe of what he was doing.

  “Stay away from her.” His other hand was a tight-knuckled fist.

  The throb in her cheek wasn’t abating, and the smile she was forcing down didn’t help. And certainly, laughing at her brother wasn’t appropriate right now.

  Rae didn’t bother to hold it down, though: she gave a harsh bark of laughter. Her eyes were almost black, deep and dark. “Or what, kid?”

  “You’ll have to go through me.”

  Carmen didn’t know where he learned such a statement, but the audacity of it, the sheer determination, slayed her.

  Rae didn’t laugh this time either; instead, her face was solemn, the smile gone, though Carmen was sure it was still playing at the edges of her mouth a little. Rae cocked her head, her arms crossed, and stared Mattie down. He didn’t turn from the glare in front of him, and Carmen didn’t know if she should be horrified or proud.

  Finally, Rae gave a nod. “Fair enough.” Her gaze flicked up to meet Carmen’s, obscure and hiding a wealth of secrets, most of which Carmen had never even come close to, even though she had come closer than most. “I can totally see you two are related.”

  Carmen finally gave in to the urge pushing at her fingers and pulled Mattie close, her hand planted over his sternum. His protective stance didn’t dim, though; his chest puffed out against her palm.

  A butterfly batting against a storm.

  “Little brother?” Rae asked.

  “Yes.”

  Rae looked down at him again. “It’s nice to finally see you in the flesh, kid.”

  Beneath Carmen’s hand, Mattie deflated slightly, confusion pushing his eyebrows together as he looked up at Carmen, the top of his head against her stomach.

  “She’s a friend, Mattie.”

  “She punched you.”

  “She did, but I kind of had it coming.”

  Rae crossed her arms, tatty leather jacket creaking. “She did.”

  “Mattie, this is Rae Muoy.”

  “Muoy?” Mattie was back to looking up at Rae.

  She winked at him. “It’s Cambodian.”

  “Cool.”

  “I’m always cool, kid.”

  The back alley was silent then, excluding the sound of the rain that had picked up again around them. Drops were hitting the pavement; they splattered against Carmen’s skin, one after the other, a pattern to testify that she couldn’t keep her little brother safe alone. She couldn’t even keep him dry alone. Under her hand, Mattie shivered, the tremor rising up his spine.

  Carmen and Mattie just stood together, watching Rae watch them. Finally, she gave a small roll of her eyes and stepped back through the door. “Come on, then.”

  Smothering her sigh of relief took everything she had, the tension draining from her shoulders as she stepped forward, Mattie’s hand sliding into her own.

  Rae led and they followed, their feet leaving squelching footprints on the cement floor. The door slammed shut behind them, and Mattie jumped slightly at the jarring sound. Carmen squeezed his hand once, and as he looked back ahead, his gaze darted from one thing to another along the hallway, one Carmen had stepped down so many times before. They emerged into what used to be the factory floor, two stories with battery-operated lanterns scattered about, the huge space lit as if by candlelight, shadows lurking in corners the light couldn’t reach.

  Everything was familiar, but little things had changed. Since the few years Carmen had last stood there, the space had been set up even more. More sofas spread out on one side,
and bookshelves improvised from pallets or fixed up from the street had grown in number, books lining all of them. Taking up most of a corner and a wall was a makeshift eating space, also made with pallets and mismatched chairs and crates. Boxes filled with food lined the walls. A few gas stoves sat round.

  Carmen was still amazed at how much stuff people threw out onto the street.

  Curious eyes stared at them from where a few teenagers, who appeared to be around Carmen’s age, were sprawled on the sofas. She recognized none of them.

  Mattie stared around, taking in the huge open space, the rooms on one side that led off to what had probably been offices before, and the stairs that went up to a catwalk that ran around the walls, leading into other rooms. The whole complicated structure was all made of clanging metal that Carmen remembered reverberated with steps at all times of the night. Ropes hung from the ceiling, and Carmen had a strong memory of their burn on her hands whenever she slid down from the catwalk above, muscles in her legs aching. She’d always had to remind herself to let her feet take the burn, to save her hands.

  They didn’t cross the space in front of them but took a left and walked into one of the rooms. A cot was set up in the corner, and books were stacked along a wall, magazines next to them. A map of the city was pinned up, scrawled all over, some parts colored in red. Sitting at the desk, looking exactly the same as she always had, was Jia.

  Carmen swallowed and stopped in the doorway, Mattie half a step behind her and pressed up against her back, his head peering around Carmen’s arm.

  The room hadn’t changed, Jia hadn’t changed either, and Carmen’s heart fluttered in her throat, her palms clammy. A memory of the first time she’d stood in this spot welled up in her mind, a time when she’d had more than a lightly bruising cheek. When she’d been smaller, and fractured inside. The keening sensation had sat deep within her then—of missing the exact boy who now stood behind her.