Missing Pieces

by Meredith Tate

  “That!” I point. “Right there! The head thing! He does that!”

  She blushes, whipping her hand back to her side.

  My parents enter the room, arm-in-arm. The doorbell rings, and Oliver clomps inside, dragging that hideous saxophone case.

  “I thought I’d play you a birthday song,” he says.

  Oh, great. I get my ears assaulted on my birthday.

  Veronica jumps into Oliver’s arms, giggling.

  “I love you, Oliver Hughes!”

  “I love you more, Veronica Bailey!”

  “I love you most, Oliver Hughes!”

  “I lo—”

  “Please. Can you do that elsewhere? Ugh.” I shove past them.

  My sister is thirteen and has already planned her whole life. It’s sickening. Marrying Sam is the furthest thing from my mind, yet here’s my sister and her Partner, loudly comparing colored napkins and flatware for their wedding reception. It makes me gag.

  I’ve told Sam there will be zero discussion of our wedding before our Marriage Prep class; even then, I’d prefer zero discussion. As if having him as my effing Partner isn’t enough, after graduation, I’ll be stuck living with him too. I look forward to it the way I’d look forward to getting all my teeth pulled or getting stabbed in the eye. In fact, put those three events together, and I’ll struggle to find the least objectionable option.

  Oh, but the fun won’t end after cohabitation. Next comes the ginormous, tacky wedding! Thinking about it makes me want to vomit my homemade cake all over the floor and then not clean it up.

  I don’t know why everybody feels the need to romanticize weddings. Let’s call it what it is: another pomp-and-circumstance parade where people ogle at you. Weddings aren’t beautiful. They’re just an excuse to blow your life savings and flaunt yourself. You re-commit yourself to someone you’ve already been committed to since before you could walk; it’s a pointless, expensive ritual to further fuse me to Sam. Why don’t we just read marriage vows at the Assigning Ceremony when we’re six? Save time and money later in life.

  I grip the cake plate so tight my knuckles turn white.

  “Tracy.” Mom shakes her head. “Ladies don’t scowl, especially on their birthday.”

  Sam arrives in a hideous, mustard-colored button-down his parents obviously stuffed him in. He tries to pull me into a hug, but I capture him in a handshake instead.

  “I love you, Tracy Bailey.”

  “I love you, Sam Macey.”

  He thrusts me a poorly-wrapped purple package I presume is my birthday gift. My parents hover over us like hungry seagulls, camera poised to attack. I peel open the gift.

  Buried beneath layers of tissue paper rests a pink music box. I open the lid, and it chimes a sweet little tune. It’s a cool gift, displaying taste well above Sam’s caliber; I’m almost one-hundred-percent sure his mother picked it out.

  My mother jabs me in the back. I get the hint to hold my Partner’s hand, but I don’t want to. I tighten my grasp around my new toy instead. Sam pries my fingers off the gift and entwines them into his. I squirm in an effort to free my hand, but he tightens his grip.

  My parents and The Wonder Twins beam with delight. My father whips out his camera and snaps away, capturing the uncomfortable moment forever. My mother tears with joy.

  I want to run into the other room and die.

  After dinner, I retreat to my bedroom, muttering something about a headache that doesn’t actually exist. I’m flipping through a magazine on my bed when the door creaks open. Sam plods in, staring at the carpet.

  Way to knock.

  “Leave the door open.” My jaw tightens. “Mom will get mad.”

  He shuffles his feet. “I know. I asked your parents; they said I could come up here to see you.”

  Of course they did. Ugh.

  Sam sits on the edge of my bed. I scoot my knees up to my chest to avoid any wandering hands.

  “What is it?” I don’t bother to hide the thick exasperation in my voice.

  “Sorry, I don’t wanna bug you.” Too late. “I know you’re not feeling well.” He scratches his arm.

  And with you in my bedroom, my headache grows more plausible by the second.

  I perch my chin on my knees. “It’s fine. What’s up?”

  “I know I haven’t been…super nice to you. I mean, I’m sorry if I’m too forward sometimes.”

  “Sometimes” is the biggest understatement of the century.

  When I don’t deny it, he continues. “And I don’t wanna push you if you aren’t ready to be physical. I just…I see everyone else holding hands at school and being all, I dunno, cuddly and stuff at Under Five.”

  “I’m not big into PDA.”

  He fidgets. “I know. I just want you to know, I really do care about you. Everyone says how lucky I am, ’cause you’re so smart and pretty and all.” He picks at a loose thread on my comforter. “I just…I know people say things sometimes. That you’re too good to be Partnered with me. That I’m too ugly, or stupid, or…I dunno. And I try to ignore it, but…it hurts.”

  My shoulders droop. “I’m sorry. I’ve never heard that.”

  Thought it maybe, but never heard anyone say it.

  “And I mean…I get it. You’re the popular, pretty, rich girl, and I’m—” he releases a lofty breath “—me.”

  “That’s not true.”

  Sam tugs at his sleeve. “Alan Carrey called me a troll the other day. And I just—”

  “Alan Carrey’s an idiot.” I force a half-smile. “You know the computers are accurate.”

  He rubs his upper arm. “And your birthday gift, I hope you like it. My mom suggested the music box” —I knew it!— “but I was the one who picked it out. I listened to a bunch of them, but the song in this one reminded me of you.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. I liked the minor key. It’s sweet, but kinda powerful too. Beautiful, in a mysterious way.”

  “I didn’t know you knew about music.”

  “Well, not like Veronica’s Partner. I don’t play the sax or anything.”

  I snort. “Thank God.”

  We share a laugh.

  Maybe I’m being too harsh.

  I take a deep breath and grab his hand, lacing his fingers with mine.

  His face lights up. “Do you think someday you’ll want to do that more? In public?”

  No.

  “Yeah, maybe. Maybe next year or something.”

  “Awesome. I’ll be counting down the days.”

  We lock eyes, and for a brief moment, my smile feels sincere.

  Piren Allston

  Everyone hates gym class. Gym exacerbates mockery of the uncoordinated, and in a group of awkward ninth-graders, that’s almost everybody. I usually skirt past ridicule because I’m pretty good with a ball. Sam, who drops more than he catches, isn’t so lucky. He sucks at sports.

  At least once a week, Sam loses his temper and has a conniption in the middle of gym class. He’ll dropkick basketballs, sending them flying; students shriek and duck to avoid getting walloped. Trace nicknamed him “Bounce,” because he turns a basketball into a bouncing, orange weapon. She used to drag out the nickname every time our gym teachers inflicted basketball on us, but she’s laid off him recently. I think he got her a cool birthday gift or something.

  Our teachers must be fed-up with Sam’s fits. They’ve begun offering activities that require less hand-eye coordination. For example, last week we were stuck in the weight room, pretending to pump iron. I managed to do a pull-up for the first time in my life. Trace whistled as I dangled from the bar afterward.

  “Woot! Super-human strength!” She broke into applause. “Got any tickets to that gun show?”

  I dropped to the floor. “Can’t buy tickets for these guns, sorry. You wanna try?”

  “No way. I’ll just hang there like an idiot.”

  “You mean like I did for the last twenty minutes?” I wiped beading sweat off my forehead.

 
“Exactly. But I’ll still kick your ass on the track later.”

  Several feet away, Sam grunted beneath the bench-press bar, dripping in sweat. Every few seconds, he glanced up at us, nostrils flaring.

  Between the weight room and basketball, I didn’t think our gym teachers were capable of torturing us further. However, for today’s class, their activity choice proves me wrong; we’re doing ballroom dance lessons. Joy. The girls squeal and whisper with delight at the news; the guys break out in a collective, long-winded groan.

  Our two gym teachers, Mr. and Mrs. Prillowich, are both so annoying, it’s no doubt to anyone as to why they’re Assigned. Trace calls them the “Prillobitches.”

  Mr. and Mrs. Prillowich instruct us to line up in Partnerships. Mrs. Prillowich lectures how we should take this seriously, because we’ll have to dance at our weddings in a few years.

  Gym class is the only place on school property we don’t wear uniforms. As one might guess, some people take this freedom to extremes. Toni’s sporting tight, hot-pink Spandex shorts today, and a neon yellow tank top that barely hides her boobs. Also predictable, Alan’s practically salivating over her. He thinks he’s smooth and inconspicuous, pretending to stare at the wall and not Toni’s ass. He’s not.

  Trace is wearing tight pink shorts today too. They do a nice job accentuating her butt.

  The Prillowiches strut through the lines of couples. One by one, they position everyone’s hands on their Partners for proper dancing.

  Lara pulls back her dirty-blond hair, snapping on the red rubber band she keeps around her wrist. She’s wearing baggy red shorts and a white soccer-jersey.

  “Try not to embarrass me,” she says with a wink.

  I brush a stray strand of hair off her face. “No promises.”

  The Prillowiches parade their graceful dance moves as a classical waltz hums from the speakers. They flawlessly dip and twirl around the gym before our stunned eyes. Sliding to a halt, they indicate for us to copy.

  Attempting to mimic their cat-like dance, the class tramples each other’s toes. Mrs. Prillowich shakes her head as Mr. Prillowich stops the music. They give a brief lecture on paying attention, then they’re off again, perfectly waltzing to a dozen violins.

  Alan whispers something crude about Mrs. Prillowich, and I burst out laughing.

  The Prillowiches whip around, catching me mid-chuckle.

  “Enough.” Mrs. Prillowich snaps her fingers. “Piren and Lara, down front.”

  I freeze. The teacher latches onto my arm and tugs me to the center of the room, Lara trailing behind. The class steps back to form a circle around us.

  “All right, Piren, Lara. Impress us with your best waltz.”

  I look to my Partner for guidance, but she shares my empty expression.

  Lara deserves a medal for putting up with me; every time I goof-off, she ends up sharing my spotlight of shame.

  The violins start, and within two beats, I crush Lara’s toes. Pressing her lips together, Mrs. Prillowich rushes over and stops the music. Muffled giggles fill the room. My cheeks burn.

  “Okay, okay,” Mr. Prillowich says. “Lara, you may be a little tall for this particular waltz…Hmm, we need another girl, just for positioning. Let’s see…Ms. Bailey, can you come partner with Mr. Allston for a minute?”

  Lara slinks back into the crowd alone, blushing. Sam balls his hands at his sides as his Partner skips over to join me in the center of the gym.

  “Thanks for saving me. Sam’s cologne reeks,” Trace whispers. “I need a gas mask.”

  Mrs. Prillowich taps her foot, waiting for us to begin.

  My hands hover inches from Trace’s waist. “How…how do we do this?”

  Am I allowed to touch her?

  My heart thuds, knee threatening to bounce beneath me.

  “Put your hand on her waist, Piren. Tracy, put your hand on his shoulder…I know, it’s okay. It’s for school…Yes, just like that…Hold your other hands away from your body…That’s it…”

  The moment Trace’s warm body meets my palm, my leg quiets.

  “You need to hold your other hands together,” Mr. Prillowich says. “Interlock your fingers.”

  Trace jitters her fingers along my shoulder, avoiding eye contact. After the incident at the Assignment Lab last year, touching Trace with everyone watching feels more awkward than it should.

  Stop worrying! It’s just Trace. It’s not a big deal.

  I’ve never been embarrassed by my friendship with Trace, but I think I’m supposed to be.

  Trace clears her throat and grabs my hand, lacing her fingers with mine.

  My stomach flips.

  “Good,” Mrs. Prillowich says. “Now, music.”

  Silky strings fill the room with a flowing melody. I take a deep breath, and we glide across the gym floor. Trace’s long curls wave as we move, flowing behind her like a veil. I don’t catch any of her toes, and we’re doing it—we’re dancing.

  The class falls silent, all eyes on us. We float across the rubber-floored room, agile feet brushing the ground in time with the waltz. Our synchronized breathing drowns out the swooning violins and cellos in my ears.

  She squeezes my hand, and I squeeze back—some sort of best-friend code only we understand. Trace’s face comes alive when she smiles, as if she’s laughing with her eyes.

  A sharp breath catches in my throat.

  A strange feeling rips through my body, twisting and churning as if everything inside me tangles into knots. It’s a weird pain, something I’ve never had before.

  We’re together only a few seconds when the music dies.

  Slowly, I untwine my hand from hers.

  “Great job, you two.” Mrs. Prillowich’s voice snaps my attention back to the present. “Okay, Piren, back with Lara. Tracy, let’s see you do those moves with Sam.”

  I hold Trace’s gaze for a moment, but she pulls away.

  And the feeling is gone.

  Tracy Bailey

  I’m not halfway through the front door when my father slams it shut behind me, yanking me through the threshold.

  “Tracy Allison Bailey.”

  I slide my arms out of my backpack straps. “Dad.”

  “You are in serious trouble.”

  “What’d I do?”

  “You know what you did.”

  “What? No, I—”

  “Shut up!” He shoves me into the wall. My skull thuds against the barrier.

  I honestly don’t know what the hell I did this time, but I’m guessing Piren’s part of the problem. Could be a late reaction to the Lab incident, could be the more recent dancing incident. Hell, my whole life is a frigging incident. I don’t know how he found out, but I’m guessing from some nosy parent. I hate the adults in this town, all overeager for gossip, desperately waiting for someone to fuck up who isn’t their own kid.

  Neither of the incidents were inherently my fault, so I don’t know why I’m in trouble. If anyone deserves blame, it’s the Prillowiches, or that frigging Assigning computer.

  “Dad, gym wasn’t my fault, I just—”

  “You’re not to see Piren Allston.” His growling words slur together. “Ever.”

  “But he’s in my class.” I attempt to inch away from him, but he latches his hands around my forearms, holding me in place.

  “Then you treat him like any other classmate. Got it?”

  “You’re drunk.” I push past him, but he’s not ready to let it go. He rips me back by my collar and throws me to the ground. I wince as my body lands on my arm, crushing it against the tiles.

  “Got it?” he repeats.

  “Y-Yes, I got it.”

  “Look at me.”

  I stare at the ground, water prickling in my eyes.

  “I said, look at me!”

  Tremoring with rage, he lunges toward me, face inches from mine. The tangy aroma of scotch on his hot breath burns my nose.

  “You selfish little bitch. Don’t give a shit about your family, huh? Why
can’t you be normal and not so fucked in the head?” He flicks my cheek. “Well, guess what? You go near that boy again, I’ll have him Banished too. Cut his face myself. You get that? Fuck up again, you’ll both be Banished.”

  With one final shove, he sweeps from the room, leaving me in a crumbled heap on the floor.

  Did he just threaten to Banish my best friend?

  Piren Allston

  Every morning, Trace passes my house at seven fifteen sharp. The moment I see her coming, I race outside to join her. We reach the bus stop together by seven thirty. Over the past eight years, she’s only been late a handful of times. Her excuses for tardiness become her most hilarious stories. She has a near perfect track record, which is why I’m confused today.

  I waited twenty minutes, drumming my fingers along the windowsill, but Trace never came. If I wait any longer, I’ll miss the bus.

  Maybe she’s home sick and forgot to text me.

  I trek outside alone, kicking a pebble down the road, into the grate. A hot pink speck catches my eye in the distance.

  I squint; it’s Trace. My forehead creases.

  She left without me? And took the long way?

  “Trace?” I chase after her, sneakers clomping against the asphalt. “Trace!”

  She doesn’t stop or turn around.

  “Hey! Trace!” I call louder, but she presses on.

  What the hell?

  I jog up to her and yank her backpack, tugging her backward in our usual morning greeting.

  “Hey, what happened? Your big ugly fangs get caught in your ears? Didn’t hear me calling?”

  Head down, she dashes ahead. My smile falters. I can’t remember the last time I sassed Trace without receiving a witty retort; it’s disconcerting. I jump in front, facing her, walking backward in time with her steps.

  “Trace, wh—”

  A cloth sling binds her arm to her chest. I jolt, stopping dead in my tracks.

  “Whoa, Bailey, what happened?”

  She dodges around me like I’m a boulder in the road.

  What is she doing?

  “Stop! Hey!” I pounce in front of her, blocking her getaway. “What the hell’s going on?”

  She stops walking, but drops her gaze to the ground.