Every Missing Piece

by Melanie Conklin

  5

  SAFETY CHECKS

  I woke up dog-tired on Sunday morning, having spent half the night searching for information about Billy Holcomb, squinting in the dark, comparing his pictures to the boy I’d met in the woods. According to the missing-person reports, Billy was four and a half feet tall and eighty-five pounds when he disappeared. The boy in the woods seemed taller than that—I’m four and a half feet now and he towered over me. That was an awful lot of growing to get done in six months, but it was possible. As far as his weight, I couldn’t tell if it matched. I only weighed seventy-two pounds the last time I went to the doctor, and the boy in the woods was way skinnier than me. His face looked so similar to Billy’s, but instead of a blond buzzcut, Billy had this thick mop of dark hair that covered up his ears, so I couldn’t tell if they stuck out the way the strange boy’s had. The hair color might not matter, though. It could’ve been bleached.

  My heart raced so fast, looking at those photos. After everything that had happened at the Skate-A-Thon, I’d promised not to freak out again, but there I was, letting my mind run wild, making me wish I’d thought to take a picture of that boy in the woods. But I hadn’t, so all I could do was go to sleep with that sinking feeling of not knowing what would happen next.

  Mom’s warm hand squeezed my shoulder. “You ready, Mads?”

  “Yeah, sorry.”

  We were getting ready to do our weekly safety checks, but I was so busy thinking about Billy Holcomb that I didn’t hear her at first. Once my brain gets ahold of something worrisome, it can’t let go, like a dog that’s got hold of a real tasty bone. In this case, I was thinking about how Billy’s story had fizzled out and faded away, like he’d never gone missing in the first place. That’s how it works. When something horrible happens, the newspeople care at first, but soon they move on to the next big story and forget you ever existed in the first place.

  While Mom and I gathered fresh batteries, gloves, Dad’s old electrical meter, and a flashlight, I wondered what that kid was doing back there in the woods anyway. Did the Jessups know him? Or was he sneaking around like me? But mostly, I wondered what he was so scared of that he built a booby trap in the middle of the cemetery.

  Mom and I do safety checks once a week to make sure everything’s in order in case of an emergency. We’ve been doing them for so long that we don’t really have to think about them. They’re just what we do, like vacuuming or washing dishes. We start outside, following my list:

  1. Brush outside vents clean to prevent carbon monoxide buildup.

  2. Trim overgrown bushes near windows and doors to eliminate hiding places for burglars.

  3. Replace any dead bulbs in motion-sensor lights.

  4. Make sure the water heater is set no higher than 120 degrees to prevent burns.

  5. Test all smoke alarms and replace batteries as needed. Clean the grilles.

  6. Test the rescue ladder under my bedroom window.

  7. Check the fire extinguisher under the kitchen sink.

  8. Test the emergency call button and change batteries if needed.

  We ordered the emergency call button from a commercial. It’s the kind for older people who’ve fallen and can’t get up. I had to promise never to press it without Mom’s permission. (Unless Mom is ever unconscious. Then I get to make the call.)

  I brushed the dryer vent while Mom trimmed the bushes. I wanted to ask her about Billy Holcomb. If she knew I was worrying about some kid who went missing six months ago, she’d flip, but maybe there were other questions I could ask.

  “Hey, Mom. Do you know if anyone new moved into the neighborhood?”

  “Not that I know of,” she said, her mouth in a frown as she concentrated on the bushes.

  “What about the Jessups? Do they have family in town?”

  “I don’t think so. Why?”

  “No reason,” I said, moving on to the next task.

  My grandparents don’t think safety checks are the best thing for me, but Mom is okay with them. She knows I like to be prepared. We talk about how none of these emergencies are likely to happen, and how it’s okay to spend a little bit of time thinking about them, but not too much. I try not to overdo it, but it’s hard to know how much is too much. If you spend a year hiding in a culvert at the bus stop, and one day out of 365 days there is a tornado, people would say you were smart and prepared. But if the tornado doesn’t come, you’re overreacting.

  It’s a fine line.

  It’s not like I have some kind of superpower that can protect me from terrible things, but once you look at a situation and ask yourself what could go wrong, you see the world differently. Mom says I’m brave, but the therapist we see calls it anxiety, which is a normal reaction to stressful situations. The goal is to have balance.

  While we did our safety checks, I thought about Billy and almost asked Mom for an emergency call button to put at the bus stop in case anyone tried to abduct me, but I was pretty sure she wouldn’t like that idea. Besides, one of the Jessups would probably push it and get me into even more trouble. That would be just like Devin or Donny.

  In the end, I decided it was smarter not to ask.

  Some things are better left unsaid.

  6

  KISS MY GRITS

  Sometimes I think I must be seeing things, like when I climbed onto the bus after spring break and saw the boy from the Roach family cemetery sitting in my seat. His white-blond head stuck up from the back row, which is where I sit every single day unless Diesel Jessup decides to be a jerk and forces me out. Cress was back there, too, but I dropped into one of the open seats in the middle of the bus before the boy from the cemetery could spot me.

  The bus rattled on as my mind flooded with questions. Why was he riding our bus? Did he live here now? And was his hair actually bleached, or was I imagining it?

  At the next stop, Cress slid into my seat and I threw my arms around her.

  “Hey, watch the hair!” She pulled back and smoothed a hand over the side of her head, pausing to fix one of the pins holding her tight black curls into a neat ponytail.

  “Why are you sitting up here?” she asked. “Are you mad at me or something?”

  “No, it’s just—” How was I supposed to start? How do you tell your best friend that the kid in the back of the bus might be a boy who went missing six months ago without sounding weird? Maybe the police had gotten it wrong, and Billy was still in trouble. Otherwise, how would he end up all the way in Summerfield, looking like he was hiding who he was? This kid could be Billy Holcomb, and he could need my help. Not that anyone would ever believe me…

  “Earth to Mads,” Cress said, making me jump.

  “Sorry.”

  “What’s up?”

  I hesitated, and she frowned. “Don’t make me use the blood oath.”

  We’d taken advantage of an unfortunate bike accident over the summer to write our initials in blood on this big rock at the front of my driveway. The blotchy letters had faded, but as long as we told each other the truth, we were good. We had a blood oath.

  “Do you see that boy back there?” I said, feeling awkward.

  She turned to look and I tugged her back down. “Don’t!

  He’ll see you.”

  “Who?” Cress asked, squinching her dark eyes at me. Cress believes in science and math and things that can be measured or tallied. She was not going to like my story.

  “That boy in the back. The one with the baby-doll hair and the stick-out ears.”

  “The new kid? His name is Eric.”

  Her words sunk in. It wasn’t him. It wasn’t Billy.

  The ball of nervous energy that had gathered in my stomach loosened a bit.

  “Do you know him or something?” Cress asked.

  By him she meant Eric. Eric who was not Billy.

  I sighed, letting my head flop against the vinyl seat. “I ran into him in the woods behind the Jessups’ house. He was back there by the trailer.”

  “He got on the
bus with Diesel,” Cress said.

  I scrunched my nose and Cress laughed. She had no reason to like Diesel, either. Not since he tried to kiss her cheek during recess last year. I’d flung a rock at him, hitting him square in the eye. He’d ended up with an eye patch, and I’d ended up in trouble.

  “Come on, Diesel’s not that bad,” she said. “He started helping out at the science center on the weekends, you know. He’s a goat herder.”

  “Diesel at the science center? No way.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Did you notice what I’m wearing?” She turned so I could see the front of her T-shirt, which said Kiss My Grits.

  “Holy carrots! Mia’s gonna kill you!”

  “I asked to borrow it, but she said no. She has no idea I took it from the laundry basket.”

  “Serves her right. She’s always taking our freezer pops.”

  “And saying she didn’t,” Cress added.

  “And calling us babies,” I said, thinking about how Mia made fun of us for not wearing makeup the last time I slept over at Cress’s. I’d told Mia she could look like a clown if she wanted but I was perfectly fine how I was, thank you very much.

  Cress did a little dance in her seat. “Looks like I beat you. Sorry, not sorry!”

  “Oh yeah?” I pulled the rubbing from my bag and unfolded it over our laps.

  She traced a finger over the date: January 12, 1859. “Wow. That’s super old.”

  “I know, right? It’s creepy to think there are bodies out there in the woods.”

  “There might not be. The corpses would have decomposed by now, even if they were buried in coffins. The human body is made of seventy percent water. Once all that water evaporates, there’s nothing left but bones and big pockets of air.”

  I thanked heavens Dad had been cremated. “So I guess we tied?”

  Cress bit her lip, thinking. “Listen. I’ll buy your ice cream and you buy mine. Deal?”

  I laughed and she did a goofy silent cheer, shaking her shoulders back and forth like she was doing the limbo. I pulled Croc from my bookbag. “Here, it’s your turn.”

  She looked at Croc, then me. “Why don’t you keep him until you come over on Friday?”

  I buried my face in Croc’s fuzzy neck. Secretly, I was glad I didn’t have to let him go.

  I kept my head down on our way into school, both to dodge the rain and to avoid Eric. I felt silly for freaking out about him when he was only some random new kid. But then I reminded myself of all the things that didn’t add up: how much he looked like Billy Holcomb, his fake hair, and the fact that he got on the bus with Diesel Jessup. Was he staying with the Jessups or what?

  While Cress went to her locker, I went to the library in search of answers. The library is my favorite place. I swear you can feel the knowledge entering your body through your nose.

  When I was little, Mom and I went to the Benjamin Branch library downtown. That’s where Mom and Stan met. Mom was returning a giant stack of books, so she was pushing the door with her elbow when it suddenly popped open and the books fell out of her arms—right onto Stan’s foot. Stan had recently moved to town for a new job. He was getting his library card, and he says meeting Mom there is one more example of how awesome libraries are.

  “Morning, Miss Rivera,” I called to the dark-haired lady standing over by a book display that read, March Madness: Sixteen books enter, but only one book wins!

  “Good morning, Maddy.” She turned, and I read the front of her T-shirt, which featured a green Minecraft zombie and the phrase Devour Books, Not Brains. A pair of gold book earrings hung from her ears. She shifted so I could see the display better. “Have you voted this week?” she asked. “We’ll have our March Madness winner soon.”

  I’d read all of the books, but my favorites were the one about the island girl who was searching for her long-lost mother and the one about the boy trapped in the well.

  “I liked Hurricane Child and Hello, Universe.”

  “Excellent selections. Make sure to officially cast your votes.” She handed me two red slips of paper, and I signed them and dropped them in the voting jars.

  “Hey, Miss Rivera… do you know if we got a new student today?”

  “Yes, I believe we did.”

  “Is his name Eric?”

  “Yes. Eric Smith.” She gave me a curious glance.

  “Thanks. See you tomorrow.” I turned around, feeling a little better. At least now I could search the kid’s name.

  Then I saw Diesel Jessup standing by the library doors.

  I pushed past him, but he followed me into the hall.

  “I heard you were on our property again,” he said, looming over my shoulder.

  “From who?” I didn’t care if this Eric kid ratted me out. Diesel would still have to wring a confession out of me.

  His nostrils flared like they did when he was fibbing. “No one.”

  “If no one saw me, then I guess I wasn’t there.”

  “Yes, you were.”

  “I was not. I was in the graveyard.”

  “Same difference.”

  “No, it isn’t!” I yelled. The kids in the hall froze. “There’s this thing called a property line. I didn’t cross yours. Why’re you so worried about me going back there, anyway?”

  “I’m not.” Another lie.

  Diesel leaned closer, his huge head blocking out the light. “Listen, Gaines. You stay off our property and leave Eric alone,” he whispered in his nastiest voice. “You may think you know better, but you don’t. For once in your life, don’t be a freak.”

  Now, we’d said some terrible things in our territory wars, but this was a new level of terrible, even from Diesel. I could feel my face turning red as a tomato while everybody around us stared. I hate how some people do that, poking at the softest part of a person to make them hurt. And I hate that it always works on me.

  Diesel turned to walk away.

  “Kiss my grits,” I said, half under my breath.

  He stopped. “What did you say?”

  “I said: Kiss. My. Grits!”

  A few kids snickered, and for a split second Diesel looked less than sure of himself. Then he puffed his chest and said, “That doesn’t even mean anything!”

  He stomped off as kids jeered and booed because they didn’t get the fight they wanted. I turned around and went the other way, even though it would make me late for math. I didn’t care what Diesel Jessup said. If he wanted a war, I’d give him one.

  7

  WELCOME WAGON

  I searched Eric’s name five ways from Sunday and didn’t once find a picture that matched him. Which made no sense. As people live their lives, they leave trails. School pictures. Soccer teams. Blue ribbons for pie-eating contests. Whatever it is, every person leaves their mark.

  Except for Eric Smith.

  His trail was a total dead end.

  For the next two days, I thought about what to do while the sky wrung itself out. All day long, rain drizzled like a leaky faucet. At night, thunder shook the house. With all that water coming down, the creek behind our house swelled so high we could see it from our windows. Angry water boiled over the lip of the gully like a fountain, right where Frankie liked to swim.

  All that time, I kept thinking about how Diesel had bossed me, and how much I wanted to prove him wrong. I didn’t care what he said. I’d go where I pleased when I pleased—but maybe not in the rain. Nothing feels grosser than cold, dirty water spraying up your backside as you bike.

  By the time I got home from school on Wednesday, the Carolina blue was showing in the sky again, but instead of heading out, I hovered in the kitchen while Mom baked, wanting to go to the cemetery and investigate but dreading what might happen if I did.

  When Mom bakes, she hums. Especially when she’s making pies. She mixes the dough and rolls it out with a pin made of solid red cedar. Dad carved it for her when they first got married. Her hands move quickly, and when she lifts the crust it’s in one smooth swoop, like
a bird taking flight. She crimps the edge and fills the pie with any number of delicious ingredients: pumpkin custard, strawberry rhubarb, caramel, pecans, chocolate mousse. This time it was chocolate chips and walnuts for a Toll House pie, which tastes as good as it sounds.

  Once the pie was in the oven, Mom wiped her hands on the old, flowered apron from Grandma Evans and fixed an eye on me. “What’s on your mind, Mads?”

  “Nothing,” I said, pretending the dish towel on the counter was super interesting. Really, it was super fatal—or at least it should’ve been for the blue bottle fly buzzing around the room. I snapped the towel at the fly and missed. Darn things are impossible to catch.

  Mom made a face: huge eyes with her eyebrows sky-high. Soon she’d come after me, pecking me with kisses and saying “What’s eating you?” over and over until I cracked.

  “Fine.” After what happened last fall at the Skate-A-Thon, I’d promised Mom I wouldn’t do this again. But here I went. “There’s this kid down at the Jessups’.”

  “What kid?”

  “He showed up last week. I think he’s staying there. He started going to our school, and Diesel warned me to stay away from him. Don’t you think that’s weird?”

  “Maybe they’re helping someone out.”

  “But why would Diesel tell me to stay away?”

  “Hmm.” Mom finished cleaning off the cutting board and dropped her measuring cups into the sink. “They might want some privacy. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  “I’m not worrying.”

  Mom gave me her concerned face, which is why I hadn’t wanted to talk to her about any of this in the first place. “Remember,” she said, “not everything is an emergency.”

  “I know. I just don’t like Diesel Jessup telling me what’s what.” I whipped the dish towel at the fly again and nailed him. Frankie rushed over to gobble up the evidence.

  Mom gave me a funny look, then smiled. “You know what might be nice? A welcome wagon. I have a pie box from the bakery, and there’s nothing like a fresh Toll House pie.”