Missing Pieces

by Meredith Tate

  “Why?”

  “Because…she, um, completes me.” I word-for-word ripped off Shelly Morrow, who said that exact statement moments ago.

  Mrs. Prew beamed. “Perfect. Great answer.”

  Lara squeezed my hand under the table. Several tables down, Trace concealed her laugh under the guise of an unconvincing cough. Mrs. Prew whirled on her.

  “Tracy Bailey! Maybe you’d like to share how your Partner is perfect for you?”

  “Um, sure.” Trace collected herself and held up a finger. “Sam is…He’s really…um…”

  She succumbed to laughter mid-thought.

  Trace got more Atonement Exercises that week.

  Tracy Bailey

  I retreat to my room after dinner and collapse onto my bed. Mom taps on my door and sidles in.

  “Tracy, I pressed your uniform for tomorrow.”

  I scowl.

  She lays the gray skirt and white button down across my comforter. I run my hand down the front, letting my fingers slide in the pleats in the fabric.

  “I hate this stupid skirt.”

  Mom rests her hand on my knee. “You’re a young lady. Ladies wear skirts to school. Pants aren’t very professional for young women; they’re for weekends and lounging around. Not for working.”

  “Is that their rule, or yours?”

  “The school board strongly encourages it for all second semester eighth grade girls. And in case you’ve forgotten, that now includes you, my dear.”

  I stick out my tongue and wrinkle my nose.

  “Oh, Tracy, come on. You used to like skirts!”

  I blow out a gust of air. “I do like skirts—my own skirts, not this fugly one. My thighs rub together; it’s gross. And I might accidentally-on-purpose flash someone.”

  “Oh, like you’re doing to me right now?” Mom nudges my legs, spread wide open on the bed. “What am I going to do with you? Just keep your legs closed.” She pushes my chin up with her fingers, forcing me to look her in the eyes. “Seriously. If the principal sends you home for being indecent, you’re scrubbing all four bathrooms every day for a year.”

  “Fine.” I wave out my hand in dismissal. “But don’t expect me to like it.”

  She shoots me a sympathetic smile and brushes a strand of hair off my forehead. “You’ll get used to it. Consider it practice for your future job.” She rises and heads for the door.

  I turn on my side and mumble into my pillow. “It’s not fair.”

  “Oh, my darling daughter.” Mom leans against my doorframe. “Life isn’t fair.”

  Piren Allston

  Vivid nightmares plagued my childhood, traumatizing me nightly for months. Every dream started the same: I stood on a pier, and the pier collapsed below me, thrusting me into open water. I gasped and gulped for oxygen, pumping my arms to swim, but was unable to move as the water engulfed me, draining the air from my lungs.

  I’d jolt awake in the middle of the night, flailing and screaming until Mason or my parents came to calm me down. It reached the point where I hardly slept in my bed, but fell asleep face-down on my school desk instead. When I wasn’t sleeping at school, I was yawning from exhaustion, and it pissed off all my teachers.

  My parents brought me to psychiatrists, doctors, specialists, everyone. No one knew what to do.

  “Your son has Generalized Anxiety Disorder,” the shrink said to my parents, stroking his mangy salt-and-pepper beard.

  My mother clapped her hand to her cheek. “What does that mean?”

  The doctor jotted notes in his pad. “He’s prone to anxiety.”

  I rolled my eyes. No shit. Thanks for the bulletin, Sherlock.

  “We knew that already.” Dad rubbed his forehead. “What do we do about the nightmares? It’s ruining his grades.”

  “I’ll write him a script; that’ll help.”

  Seventy milligrams of anti-depressants and one whopping medical bill later, nothing changed. I awoke tangled in a sea of sheets, chest heaving, kicking and shouting. My mom sat at my bedside, eyes tearing, stroking my arm. It made me sick seeing her in pain.

  One afternoon in the treehouse, I consulted Trace. She sat cross-legged and listened as I explained my dilemma.

  “I can’t shake these dreams.” I slouched against the wood, clenching handfuls of my hair in fists. Legs stretched out in front, I had to bend my knees to keep my feet from reaching the opposing wall.

  Trace tilted her head. “Is drowning your worst fear then?”

  “Yeah, I guess. What’s yours?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re not scared of anything?”

  “I didn’t say that. I said I didn’t know.”

  She stacked a pile of sticks on the floorboards like she always did, balancing them in a leaning tower. Knee bouncing like a spring, I couldn’t sit still.

  “I’m such an idiot!” I kicked the side of the tree. “Why can’t I just get over it?”

  Trace pounced and grabbed my arms. “Don’t you dare call yourself an idiot! That’s my best friend you’re talking about!”

  I startled. She slid back to her twig tower.

  “Well, thanks.” I sunk down lower beside her, cheeks burning. “I wish I was like you, though. You’re not afraid of anything.”

  She stopped stacking. “I’m afraid of my dad.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  She piled more sticks as we sat in silence. Soon, the chilly evening air sent goose bumps down our arms; time to go home.

  “Hey,” she said, patting dirt off her pants. “Don’t ever let me catch you calling yourself names again. No one badmouths my best friend and gets away with it.”

  She brushed past me down the ladder.

  The next day, Trace invented a new game. We pretended the treehouse was a sinking ship, and we were drowning sailors. We threw stuff off the sides to conserve weight, grabbing neighboring branches for paddles, anything to save us from drowning. It became the best of our treehouse adventures. Trace called it “The Water Game.”

  Once it was only a game to me, the nightmares stopped.

  Tracy Bailey

  “Sam’s birthday’s next month. What are we getting him?” Mom asks, ambushing me the moment I walk through the effing door.

  “Ugh, I don’t know.” I dump my backpack on the floor. “Whatever you want.”

  “Tracy, this is serious.”

  I roll my eyes. “What do you get someone who doesn’t do anything?”

  She folds her arms across her chest. “We never have this problem with Oliver’s gifts.”

  “That’s because Oliver actually has interests.” I kick my shoes into the closet. “Sam’s only interest is pulling wings off insects and watching them writhe. Oliver’s an actual human being.”

  Seriously. My parents and Veronica find the best presents for Oliver. I used to get jealous, because the gifts they bought for Oliver far exceeded the gifts they got me. One Christmas, my parents bought him a laptop. What did I receive that year? A book series called “Wedding Planning for Kids.” Hooray. Thanks, Mom.

  My mother collapses into the armchair and props her head up with her hand.

  “Try to at least pretend to be grateful if the Maceys buy you something for your birthday this year. I don’t want a repeat of last Christmas.”

  Last Christmas. How could I forget? Sam’s parents bought me an expensive video game. Something with explosions, where you shoot things with grenade launchers and other assorted weaponry. The ad boasted it as “the hottest selling game this Christmas season!” so I suppose it was a well-intended gesture by the Maceys. Regardless, my family doesn’t own a game console, so the gift was pointless for me. I think it was secretly a thinly-veiled ploy by the Maceys to get me to visit their house and play with Sam; he owns every console under the frigging sun.

  I’m not interested in video games, or hanging out with Sam; both activities are equally repulsive. I brought the game to school after Christmas break and tr
aded with Benny Roberts for two books in a mystery series I like. Benny lucked out, because the game cost twice as much as the books, but I didn’t give a crap. I just wanted to get rid of it.

  Lo and behold, my parents heard about my exchange and flipped their lids. Mom ratted me out to Sam’s parents, who took it as a personal insult. They were aghast I didn’t want to see their son and play the game. Mrs. Macey reamed my mother out on the phone for twenty minutes, saying she needed to “keep me in line.”

  Let’s just say it’s an event I’d rather not repeat.

  Piren Allston

  Toni Henders saunters past us in the hallway.

  “Hey, boys…Hey, Alan.” She winks at her Partner, brushing her fingers against his shoulder. “Good luck on your biology presentation later.” She strides off, flipping her hair over her shoulder. Six different guys crane their necks for a closer look at her ass.

  Real smooth.

  Travis slams his locker and turns to Alan. “You’re one lucky son of a bitch.”

  “I know,” Alan says. “Take a gander, but keep your hands off. She’s mine.”

  “What do you think, Allston?” Travis says. “Our friend, here, hands down—” he thumps Alan Carrey on the back “—has the hottest Partner in school.”

  I shimmy my backpack off my shoulders. “Toni’s pretty. Not my type, though.”

  It’s pointless to check out non-Partners anyway. Why bother?

  “Hot with big tits?” Alan snorts. “How can that not be your type?”

  Other than his one-track mind, Alan Carrey’s built solid and plays quarterback for our middle school football team. I’d compare him to a gorilla, puffing his chest to parade his masculinity. He’d probably take his dick out and wave it around if he could.

  “You jackass,” Travis says to Alan. “As if we’re all blind, right, Allston? We get it, Carrey. Your Partner has the biggest tits. Why don’t you go put it on a billboard?”

  I dig through my locker. “He needs to remind us, apparently.”

  “I swear, on Carrey’s wedding night,” Travis says, “I’m gonna get a text with the play-by-play.”

  “Nice.” I grab my stack of notebooks. “Spare us the details, Alan. We all took sex-ed.”

  “Shut up.” Alan knocks the books from his locker into his backpack with a single swipe.

  “Well, if you don’t want our commentary—” I slam my locker shut “—shut the hell up about it yourself. C’mon, we’re gonna be late for gym.” And this topic is getting too awkward.

  Cracks about Alan and Toni’s future wedding night are nothing new. It’s a favorite topic around the guy’s locker room before gym class. Alan feigns annoyance, but I know he loves it. He’ll draw dirty pictures of Toni and put them in everyone’s faces. Sometimes, other guys add sketches of their own to the drawings, involving male anatomy. I swear, they’re more obsessed with cocks and balls than the girls are.

  My dad says as a teenager, I’m supposed to be super attracted to Lara all the time. Like, get a hard-on every time someone says her name or something. Mason gets Dad’s awkward lectures too. I think Dad’s under the impression that my brother and I are like speeding hormone trains, ready to crush anything and everything cock-blocking our paths. And he wonders why I respond by stuttering into a new topic.

  I try to force my brain to arouse when I see my Partner, but it’s like forcing myself to read in another language; it feels foreign and uncomfortable. Visions of Lara prancing around naked don’t cloud my mind when I sleep, despite what my dad thinks. Lara reminds me of pioneers in history books, as if she belongs in a different century. She’s pretty, in the same way I consider my classy grandmother pretty.

  Forbidden thoughts of other girls still haunt me, despite my efforts to eradicate them. Seriously, a dirty image will crop up in my mind, and I’ll force myself to think of the least sexy thing I can, like wool sweaters, or eggplants, or giraffes, or anything other than girls. It doesn’t work. The bad thoughts weasel into my brain and tunnel through my subconscious, like a song stuck on repeat. But how am I supposed to fight the thoughts when Trace and some other girls look so hot in shorts?

  The sordid conversations always begin the same way: Alan instigates. Today, his crooked smile in the gym locker room warns that the lighthearted football discussion is about to take a turn for the dirty.

  “Carmen Greene,” Alan says, smearing on deodorant. “Alex, man, your Partner has some ass.”

  Alex spanks the air as the guys hoot their approval. “Gonna nail her on our wedding night.”

  “You’d so tap that now.”

  “I’d hit that so hard.”

  “And what about you, Parker? Kelly’s got tits.”

  “Hell yeah. I’d like to squeeze them together. Just once.”

  I keep my head down, slipping into my running shoes.

  Don’t ask about Lara…Don’t ask about Lara…What would I even say?

  Jeers and whistles echo the room as they hash out each other’s future exploits, all trying to one-up the other guys. The way they talk, you’d think getting laid is some sort of extreme sport. Like someone’s gonna march up to Alan the morning after his wedding and hand him a gold medal. I can almost picture a reporter shoving a microphone in his face, asking, “Is it everything you hoped and dreamed it would be?” And Alan would churn out some stupid response: “Why, yes, Steve. I unlocked a lifelong achievement tonight: I got it in.”

  I shove my stuff in a locker and click my combination lock, only half listening to the guys’ conversation.

  Sam mopes alone on a bench in the corner, lacing his sneakers, emitting occasional grunts.

  “Macey, man.” Travis props his foot on the bench. “You got lucky too. Tracy Bailey. She’s hot.”

  My ears perk.

  Sam slams his locker shut. “Gonna fuck the shit outta her on our wedding night.”

  My stomach drops.

  Everyone roars, laughing and hollering.

  A sickening, violent reflex twists in my chest. My fists clench into balls. Paralyzed by a surge of unexplained hate, I wrestle back an urge to punch Sam in the face.

  For some reason, the conversation isn’t funny anymore.

  “Does Toni know the guys talk about her like that?” I ask Trace, as we lean against the treehouse wall.

  She snorts. “No, she’s oblivious. At least, she’s never said anything.”

  “It’s kinda sad, if you think about it.” I twiddle my fingers. “Alan leads the damn jokes, and she’s stuck with him forever.”

  Trace shoots me a bemused grin. “Please. The girls are way worse. You should hear what they say about Alan.”

  I raise my brows. “What do they say?”

  “Basically, we think he has a pea-sized pecker.”

  We snicker.

  I pick at a loose thread in my shirt. “Do they…say anything about me?”

  “Nope.” She flicks my arm. “’Cause if they do, I’ll smack ’em.”

  I return the flick.

  We sit in silence for a moment, watching with bated breath as Trace precariously stacks twigs in one of her classic leaning towers.

  “Oh, hey,” I say, “I brought you a present.”

  I fish through my backpack and reveal one of Alan’s dirty drawings. She bursts out laughing. Every time Trace laughs, her eyes crinkle at the sides. It’s cute.

  “Oh my gosh, you didn’t.” She rolls her head back. “You stole the boob drawing! Yes. I’m keeping this forever.”

  I shake my head. “You’re so weird.”

  “Well, you’re my best friend, so what does that say about you?”

  Tracy Bailey

  Oliver lugs his stupid saxophone to our house tonight. The bulky case clunks into the doorframe, trailing a black scuff across the wood as he passes through.

  Dumping his crap all over the living room, he bends over his sax, playing some God-awful rendition of “Jump, Jive an’ Wail.” Someone’s wailing all right, but it’s not the song.
<
br />   Veronica sprawls out on the floor at his feet, mouth drawn up in a goofy grin. I lie on the couch behind them, clamping a pillow over my ears.

  “How’d I do?”

  Oliver stops playing every five frigging seconds to pose this question and scrounge for compliments.

  “Oh, Ollie! That was beautiful!” Veronica breaks into furious applause.

  Mom always says if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.

  So I don’t.

  He continues his assault on my ears, drowning the room in high-pitched squeaks. Teeth clenched, I flip on the TV at max volume. Oliver rips the instrument from his lips with a devastated gasp. Veronica jumps up and slams the power button off.

  “Do you mind?” She huffs. “Ollie’s trying to practice.”

  I snatch the remote from her greedy paws and flip it back on. She grabs to steal it back, but I slide it under a couch cushion beneath my weight.

  “Just because your Partner isn’t a musician—” she frantically paws at the cushions “—doesn’t mean you have to ruin it for me.”

  I snort. “Musician? Is that what you call this?”

  “Tracy! Stop!” She draws out her words into long, whiny syllables.

  Oliver whirls around, facing his back to us. He clearly wants me to know he’s offended. I really don’t care.

  In one final swipe, Veronica snatches the remote and clicks off the TV.

  “That’s right.” She anchors her hand on her hip. “Maybe you should learn to play something for your Partner instead of squatting in front of the TV every night.”

  I leap to my feet. “Why? So I can spend my life kowtowing to someone like you do? No thanks.”

  “You’re just jealous ’cause my Partner’s better than your Partner.”

  “Really, Veronica?” I throw out my hands. “Everyone is better than my Partner! Okay?”

  Nothing more to say, I stomp upstairs and fall face-down on my bed. Oliver’s concert resumes downstairs, the distant squeaks drifting into my ears and making me cringe.

  Somewhere in the house, my father’s drunken hollering commences, adding to the already joyous array of sounds.