Missing Pieces

by Meredith Tate

  Our greatest forest discovery was an abandoned treehouse nestled in a sturdy oak tree. I’m guessing my neighbors constructed it years ago but left it behind as their kids aged. The tree itself grew at a slight angle, and it could easily be a hundred years old. While Harker’s Woods is known for density, the treehouse tree stood alone in a wide clearing.

  Whoever built the treehouse wasn’t screwing around. A thick wooden ladder at least ten feet high led to the top. Four boarded walls sealed the fortress, parted by a single skinny opening for a door and two gaps in the sides. Coated in thick layers of pine needles and sap, the sticky floor appeared deceivingly unstable; however, it withstood our combined weight, even when jumping up and down. Carved into each wall, tiny porthole windows facilitated spying on the outside world. The best part, we agreed, was the fact that it was roofless. When we lay flat on our backs, the vast sky beckoned to us, inviting us to stay outside just a little bit longer.

  From the moment we happened upon the treehouse, it became our treehouse—our sanctuary, our pirate ship, our castle, our hideaway, our place. We visited it every day after school.

  Trace and I shared all our secrets lying on the floor of our treehouse, from the juicy to the mundane. I relished the chance to share my day’s stories with her, and most afternoons I couldn’t get up that ladder fast enough. She’d perch her chin on her hands and smile up at me, awaiting whatever news I wanted to tell. I knew she already accepted my secrets before I even opened my mouth. Her presence draped me in an overwhelming sense of comfort.

  I told her everything: how my mom still tucked me in at night, how recurring nightmares wrecked my sleep, and how I’m jealous of my brother’s dark hair. She told me about her parents’ fights, and how she fell asleep at night to the sound of shouting. No topic was off-limits in our sanctuary.

  One day, things changed.

  “My parents said I can’t see you anymore,” Trace said, dangling her legs off the side of the treehouse.

  My forehead crinkled. “Why?”

  “You’re not Sam.” She rolled her eyes. “And my dad said if I hang out with you again, he’ll smack me.” She pitched a handful of stray leaves off the side with more force than necessary.

  I leaned my head against the wood. “So, what do you want to do?”

  “Nothing.” She shrugged. “They don’t know about this place.”

  “Aren’t you scared they’ll find out?”

  “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

  From that day forward, the treehouse became our secret meeting place, far from prying eyes. Built too far into the woods to be seen from the road, it was the perfect cover for a forbidden friendship.

  Sometimes, we imagined the treehouse was a castle we’d sworn an oath to protect. We dug a moat around the base of the tree and taped a paper flag to one of the portholes. Trace appointed herself Queen of the Castle and named me her trusty King: two royal friends leading a peaceful and fair kingdom.

  Trace and I tied a collection of stuffed animals and action figures to plastic-bag parachutes. When enemies threatened the castle, we tossed our warriors over the side to fight. For a well-guarded castle, it regularly fell under siege.

  One warm spring day, Trace and I marked our territory.

  “P.A. and T.B. This tree is ours!” Trace said, slicing our initials into the bark with her father’s pocket knife.

  The whole kingdom went wild.

  Tracy Bailey

  I pull on my shoes and slip out the back door.

  Treehouse? I text Piren.

  Some might say eighth graders are too old for treehouses, but they’ve obviously never had a treehouse. My phone buzzes.

  Ya! One min.

  Years of experience taught me to leave the house when my father drinks. The whiskey pops out, and so do I.

  Hiking through Harker’s Woods, I inhale the piney forest air. I climb to the top of the treehouse and hang my legs over the side. Soon, Piren’s head pops into view below, his ruffled blond hair partially shrouded by his sweatshirt hood. He speeds up the ladder rungs and into the fort.

  I point to his hood. “You look like an ax-murderer.”

  He tugs it lower over his forehead. “That’s what I was going for, actually.”

  “Well, it’s working. Candy?” I hold out a box of Junior Mints and pour some into his waiting hand.

  He knocks it back in one swoop. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing. Bored.”

  He slides down beside me. “Your dad up to his usual antics?”

  “Yep. As always.”

  Piren holds out his palm, and I press my hand to his. “Don’t let him get to you.”

  We lean back against the treehouse wall, stretching our legs out in front of us. I stack a pile of twigs on the floor into a leaning tower. Those damn sticks always seem to accumulate during the night, as if the tree sheds a million little souvenirs for us while we sleep.

  “I failed the algebra exam.” Piren shuffles his red-sneakered feet. “Again.”

  “That sucks.” I nudge his foot with mine. “But it’s not the final. You’ve got time.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t get it at all.” His leg jiggles against the floorboards. “And Mr. Harvey’s no freaking help.”

  “I’ll help you. Bring it up here tomorrow. Don’t worry.”

  He shrugs. “I’m not worried.”

  I raise my brows at his bouncing leg.

  “Okay, maybe a little.” He shoots me a sheepish grin.

  I balance another stick on top of my pile. “Maybe Mr. Harvey can’t teach you properly because he’s too busy boning Mrs. Harvey in the copy room.”

  “No way!” His eyes grow wide. “At school?”

  “Well, don’t you think it’s weird having Partners work in the same building? I mean, whose bright idea was that?”

  He bursts out laughing.

  Mission accomplished.

  We sit in the tree for hours, and soon enough, our ribs ache from laughing. When my best friend laughs, his eyes light up, and I can’t help but smile too.

  Sometimes, watching the ground below, I feel invincible; it’s Piren and me against the world. No one can find us, and no one can hurt us. Every time I climb those rungs, I feel like I’m crossing a barrier into the safe zone.

  Our invincible moment is short-lived. Darkness descends on Harker’s Woods, and Piren’s phone buzzes.

  “It’s Mom. I gotta run,” he says. “Pot roast for dinner.”

  I flick my stick-tower, scattering the twigs across the floor. “Does she know you’re out with me?”

  “Nope. Didn’t wanna hear a lecture.”

  “Sorry.” I rise to my feet and pat dirt off my pants. “If it’s any consolation, my parents don’t know either, but they’ll still lecture me about something else anyway.”

  We say good night and walk back to our respective homes.

  Piren Allston

  Our elementary school boasted an enormous assembly room. It contained enough squishy red seats for the entire student body and an illuminated podium up front for speakers.

  Only two occasions allowed students entry into the assembly room: the class graduation or someone got in trouble.

  Trace and I always cheered when Principal Matthews announced assemblies. We knew it meant one thing: a troublemaking student had to get up in front of the whole school and admit whatever bad thing they did. Usually, the offense was stealing from the teacher’s desk or mouthing off. Our principal called these “Atonement Exercises,” and they were hilarious. Most kids stood on stage stuttering until a teacher finally grew merciful and let them leave.

  Around age ten, Trace sassed our English teacher one too many times, and Mr. Matthews sentenced her to Atonement Exercises. He called a full assembly for Trace to state her sincere remorse to the school.

  When he announced Trace’s name over the intercom, I burst out laughing, right in the middle of class. Trace never has remorse for sassing anybody.

  She took the stage wi
th poise. Three hundred students watched as she gazed somberly toward the teacher she’d wronged.

  “Mrs. Henkel,” she said, laying a hand over her heart. “My dear, sweet Mrs. Henkel. I’m so incredibly, unbelievably sorry. My dark, dark world!” She threw her arms in the air. “It’s a world of regret, Mrs. Henkel. It’s a dark world of regret for what I’ve done. Have mercy on my poor, groveling soul.”

  She dragged it on for about twenty minutes, to growing giggles in the audience.

  Finally, Trace threw herself on the ground in a heap of fake sobs at Mrs. Henkel’s feet. Our teacher jumped back in alarm.

  The entire student body rose to their feet in an eruption of laughter and applause. Trace stood and took a resounding bow.

  Mr. Matthews ate up the whole act. He gave a longwinded speech congratulating Trace, saying, “That’s how an apology should be done!” Trace’s show became a running joke, not only between Trace and me, but the whole school.

  For a good two months, anytime anyone remotely broke a rule, “It’s a dark world of regret…” made a triumphant reappearance. Trace-impersonators lurked everywhere—the halls, the cafeteria, the library, everywhere. I admired her ability to inspire so many trouble-makers.

  Following Trace’s grand act, assemblies became a challenge. How would the next person top her performance? Students tripped over each other for a good seat. Trace even strived to outdo herself, scheming ways to get in more trouble and earn an encore production.

  A few months after her show, we struggled to mask our enthusiasm when the principal announced another assembly. We bounded down the auditorium aisle like tigers, eager for the next contender.

  But it was an administrator, not a student, who took the podium that particular day. The woman stepped up to the microphone, her lips pursed, eyelids heavy. Trace cocked her head at me from two rows down.

  “Students,” the administrator addressed, brushing her hands down her starchy gray dress. “I have to discuss something with you today. It isn’t pleasant, but it’s something you need to hear.” She took a deep breath. “I was outside the other day, chaperoning recess, when I heard a student say something very…disturbing.”

  Rigid teachers paced the aisles, inspecting the student audience for any signs of misbehavior. Fabric rustled throughout the auditorium as kids squirmed in their seats. This was not a normal assembly.

  “This particular student,” the speaker continued, “in some sort of perverse game, told another student—not their Partner—that they loved them.”

  Everyone in the audience gasped.

  The woman pinched her forehead. “The student then proceeded to laugh, as if the crime was a joke. The words ‘I love you’ were said in blasphemy.”

  No one dared speak. Tension loomed over the student body like a thick shroud.

  “Students.” She closed her eyes. “I want to impress upon you the severity of this incident. In the adult world, this action would be a crime punishable by Banishment. That is not a fate I would wish upon any of you.”

  Her stare bore into the crowd, meeting hundreds of trembling faces unable to break her gaze. “It is clear this student acted impulsively, as a child would. Therefore, the school administration has decided not to press charges or pursue expulsion at this time.”

  Relief washed over me, and I released the heavy breath I didn’t realize I was holding. Sometimes when I’m anxious, I have this tick where I jiggle my leg. At this point, my knee bounced so fast, I worried it might launch into the air like a rocket.

  “But know this.” She thrust her index finger in the air. “If I, any time now or in the future, hear those words used illegally again, the student or students involved will be treated as informed adults, and punishment will be delivered as such.”

  I swallowed a lump down my dry throat.

  “I do not wish to implore the Mayor to Banish a child. But do not put me into a situation that forces me to do what I don’t want to.” She scanned the tense crowd once more. “Good day.”

  The administrator swept off the stage, disappearing through a door in the back.

  No one spoke a word as the assembly emptied. Not even Trace.

  Tracy Bailey

  Today’s Shaming Section of the newspaper boasts a juicy story on my childhood hairdresser, Sylvia Keyes. I liked Sylvia because she always handed out lemon drops after a haircut; it was the perfect bribery to make me chop my curls.

  Sylvia Keyes, 39, was found guilty three felony counts of adultery. Count one: physical and sexual intimacy with a non-Partner. Count two: attempt to conceive a child with a non-Partner. Count three: blasphemous use of “I love you” toward a non-Partner. Jack Archer, 45, was identified and charged as the non-Partner.

  Witnesses speculate Archer and Keyes met at Capstone Mall, where Keyes worked at Bridges Salon and Archer worked as mall custodian. Both Archer and Keyes had their allotted two children with their Partners, Rebecca Archer and Alexander Keyes. Rebecca and Alexander will immediately gain full custody of their children. The Mayor signed the Banishment Decree Friday evening, allowing Archer and Keyes a twenty-four-hour grace period to pack belongings before transport to Lornstown.

  My dad finds the article before I do and slides it down the table to me. He knows I love reading the trashy stuff.

  “Check out this one, Tracy. Big whore, fucking the mall custodian. Partner was a doctor, too. What an idiot she is.” He sips his foaming beer, flipping to the next section of the paper.

  I scan the article. “Wow, Sylvia Keyes. Who would’ve thought?”

  Veronica slouches at the end of the table, reviewing her English homework. Her ears perk at our conversation.

  “When are they sending her to Lornstown?” I ask. “Or is she already there?”

  Dad swigs another gulp. “If the story’s out today, I’d guess she’s leaving soon. She can rot there with the bastard, catch all those sex diseases that place is crawling with.” He swishes the liquid around in his glass. “Whole thing makes me sick.”

  “Says here she tried to get pregnant with this other guy,” I muse, reading further. “Didn’t think that was possible.”

  Veronica puts down her assignment. “A third child? And her Partner isn’t the father?”

  I shrug. “Guess not.”

  “Those people are animals.” Dad sets his mug on the table. “You know what’ll happen to that baby, Veronica? It’ll come out sickly and defective. Someone should kick her in the belly, put it out of its misery.”

  “That’s disgusting!”

  “Yeah? You know what’s disgusting? Sluts like this!” He slams his finger down on the paper. “Can’t believe I let her cut you kids’ hair with her filthy hands. Should get you both tested for diseases.” He slugs back more beer, draining his glass.

  Veronica swirls the water around her cup. “If she wanted to commit a crime, maybe she should’ve murdered someone instead of cheating.”

  “What?” My eyes narrow. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “No, really, think about it. If you’re gonna be a criminal anyway, just kill someone. If you’re a murderer, you’re stuck in a cell, but at least your family loves you. If you’re an adulterer, all you get is a one-way ticket to Lornstown, and everyone hates you.”

  “That’s stupid.”

  “Veronica’s right.” Dad cracks open another bottle and tips its fizzing contents into his glass. “I’d take killers over whores any day.”

  “Told you,” Veronica says, and I stick out my tongue at her. “And Sylvia’s kinda stupid,” she continues. “I mean, an Unassigned relationship is gonna fail anyway, so why risk Banishment for some dumb guy?”

  “I dunno.”

  Albeit unflattering, the article’s photo of Sylvia captures her kind eyes. Her face was still beautiful when the picture was taken, not yet marred with the slash of Banishment. They’ll mark her cheek before shipping her to Lornstown. Once she has that long, skinny, identifying scar, it’s official; if she ever comes home o
r contacts anyone here, they’ll execute her.

  The further I read, the bigger the knots twisting in my stomach. I’ll never see Sylvia again. Even in the grace period to pack her belongings, the town will avoid her like the plague. Adultery isn’t contagious, but sometimes it feels that way.

  “Do you think she loved him?” I ask.

  My father rests his mug on the table and leans back in his chair.

  “This man, this janitor—” he snorts “—she can’t love him. She may call it love, but it’s not. That’s just a word to these people. They’re like monkeys. They’re sick; they don’t know how to love. You can’t just love any random person.” He gulps his remaining beer and stumbles to a stance. “It’s physically impossible.”

  Dad releases a growling beer-burp and struts from the room. Veronica taps her pencil on the table, turning attention back to her paper.

  Sylvia’s face burns in my brain. I flip the article over so she won’t stare at me anymore. I hate to say it, but I almost wish she died; it’s better than suffering in Lornstown. I shudder, pushing the paper away. She did it to herself.

  Banishment sucks, but it’s necessary. If home-wreckers ran around normal society, the whole place would go awry. It’s a tough law, but it’s better this way. I mean, who wants to stay in a place where everyone hates you?

  Piren Allston

  In third grade, the school added art classes to our schedules.

  Despite her natural artistic ability, Trace hated art class. She threw her head back and groaned every time they handed her some markers and told her to draw. Her act made the whole room giggle. She invented all sorts of excuses to avoid doing any semblance of work.

  “I have to go to the bathroom.” Trace waved her hand in the air. For a few weeks, Mr. Wintle nodded to her and continued his lesson. When Trace’s pee-breaks became half-hour disappearances, he grew wiser.

  “Sit down, Ms. Bailey.”