Missing Pieces

by Meredith Tate

  “You wreck my car, I’ll kill you.” Mason drops the key into my waiting hand.

  I scoff. “Please. It’s a miracle you haven’t totaled it yourself.”

  “I’m an excellent driver.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “That’s enough, you two,” Mom says. “Piren, what did I tell you about swearing in this house?” She straightens my collar. “You’re a smart young man; don’t talk like a buffoon.”

  “Yeah, Piren, stop being such a buffoon.”

  “At least I know how to drive.”

  “Okay, really?” Mom steps between us. “Mason, why don’t you make yourself useful and shovel the driveway? Your brother has a date.”

  He groans. “I don’t even live here anymore.”

  “You eat my food, you can shovel my driveway.” She tosses him a pair of gloves. “And, Piren, be nice with Mason’s BMW. Your father and I are going to get you one next month, but until then, you’ve got to share.”

  My eyes grow wide. “I’m getting a car?”

  She gives me a half-smile. “It was going to be a surprise for your birthday, but we decided you should have it earlier, for school.” She brushes my cheek. “We love you.”

  I throw my arms around her. “Thank you! This is amazing!”

  “But just so we’re clear—” she holds my shoulders at arm’s length “—that’s your seventeenth birthday gift. Just pretend your birthday is a few months early. Think about what color your want.”

  “He wants pink.”

  “Shut up.” I can’t fight the grin off my face. “I want black. It’ll be badass.”

  “Oh my God!” Mom swats at my arm. “What did I just say about the swearing?”

  Lara hops into the front seat of Mason’s car.

  “I love you, Lara Goodren.”

  “I love you, Piren Allston.”

  “So…where do you want to go?”

  “Hmm…” She taps her fingers to her lips. “How about Under Five?”

  My stomach drops. “Oh, I don’t know. I haven’t really been there lately, not for, like, a year.” My leg quivers, making my foot jitter against the brake. “What about that new pizza place?”

  “Please? You said you’d take me to Under Five ages ago.”

  My hands tighten around the steering wheel. “Don’t you think it’s weird for sophomores to hang out there? It’ll be full of twelve-year-olds.” The promise of milkshakes entices me, but that place churns up too many damn memories.

  Lara pouts out her bottom lip. “Please?”

  Inhale. Exhale.

  This is a battle I won’t win.

  “Okay. Let’s go.”

  We slide into a booth, and nostalgia knocks the air from my lungs. A million happy memories dwell within these walls. Now the memories feel like ghosts that haunt the café. I’ve never been to Under Five without a gaggle of friends, and it’s eerie without Trace. It’s almost as if I’m in a different restaurant altogether.

  “What’s your favorite color?” Lara asks as we slurp our black-and-white shakes.

  “Blue. What’s yours?”

  “Purple.”

  I snort. The fake purple wedding…That old lady on the bus…

  Lara tilts her head to the side. “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You laughed.”

  “Sorry.”

  Silence. My knee jiggles under the table.

  “You weren’t kidding about the shakes.” She chews her straw. “They’re the best here.”

  “Told you so.” I reach across the table and give her hand a squeeze.

  We lock eyes for a moment before turning attention back to our drinks.

  “So, our First Kiss is less than two years away now, huh?” She glances up at me, but darts her eyes back down, spinning her straw through her thick shake.

  Sometime senior year, they’ll hold the Ceremony. I haven’t given it a second thought.

  “Oh, right. Weird how soon, huh?”

  “Yeah.” Her cheeks grow rosy. “What do you think it’ll be like?” Her gaze flicks up. “To kiss me?”

  To kiss you.

  A memory floods my brain; it’s Trace, frozen to the core, embracing and kissing me in the doorway.

  My first kiss.

  My heart leaps.

  “You okay?” She cocks her head. “You look distracted.”

  “Oh, uh, sorry. Right. It’ll be fun.”

  A bemused smile spreads across her face. “Fun?”

  “I dunno.”

  We continue to slurp in silence. I can feel her eyes on me, and it makes me antsy.

  “Do you think…we can have our own stories?” she asks.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Like you did with Tracy Bailey. Nicknames. And we go on adventures, and tell everyone about them.”

  This café once thrived on our adventure stories.

  My chest tightens.

  “Oh, um…sure.” I twiddle my fingers in my lap. “But you don’t really plan adventures; they just happen.”

  “Well, can ours just happen?”

  “Uh…sure, I guess.”

  It’s not the same.

  Tracy Bailey

  Last month, I bought some chunky red headphones at a nearby thrift store. They’re real old, probably vintage. I feel naked when they’re not perched on my head. Mom calls me “anti-social” because I wear them all the frigging time. I don’t care; they block out static.

  Everyone around me talks in static: buzzing, chattering, speaking, but not saying a damn thing. At school, people open their mouths and emit loud, obnoxious hums. I smile and nod, pretending I give a shit about their mundane gossip. It’s exhausting. That’s why my headphones are so great; if they’re on my head, nobody bothers me. I can listen to music, or I can listen to silence. Either way, I’m by myself, and nobody interrupts. My classmates walk past, bump me, wave, but don’t say a word. Sometimes I nod to acknowledge them, but usually I stare ahead, pretending they don’t exist. I pretend I’m alone, because I am.

  Sometimes I scream thoughts under those headphones. I scream bloody murder in my mind, and nobody bats an eye. Nobody can hear, because the screaming is contained in my head. They don’t know I’m screaming, because I force my body to remain expressionless—eyes calm, mouth closed. Screaming in my head all the things I’ll never say aloud.

  Piren Allston

  Sam is in my geography class. He’s kind of a know-it-all, which is ironic, because he knows nothing.

  Mr. Jenson jots some notes on the whiteboard. “Okay, who can tell me which continent—”

  Sam’s hand shoots up.

  “—contains the Danakil Desert?”

  Sam waves, stretching his arm high above his head.

  Alan shoots me an amused grin.

  “Anyone else?” Mr. Jenson scans the room and sighs. “Yes, Sam?”

  “Africa.”

  “Correct.”

  Sam hoots and pumps his fist in the air, his clodhoppers sprawled out on the floor in front of him. I bury my face in my sleeve to avoid bursting. Several kids giggle, imitating Sam’s gloats. Mr. Jenson rolls his eyes and returns to the whiteboard.

  Sam always does that annoying routine when he gets an answer right. It’s stupid, but only half as stupid as when he’s wrong. When he’s incorrect, he’ll fume and pound his fist on the desk. One time, he swiped his arm across the teacher’s table and knocked a stack of books to the ground. Sometimes, he’ll kick the wall on his way out; the evidence remains in plain sight, a footprint-shaped mark in the plaster. If Trace was in our class, I imagine she’d die laughing and invent some crazy new story about him.

  I miss classes with Trace.

  The principal’s voice crackles over the school-wide intercom.

  “Good afternoon, students and staff. I’d like to make a special announcement.” The class grows silent. “As you may know, we post each class’s top students in every subject at the quarter’s end. However, for the
first time ever, a sophomore student has crossed the boards, topping English, Geography, and Chemistry. We’ve never had a single student top his or her class in more than one subject before, so please share my sincere congratulations.”

  Sam leans forward in his chair, hands pressed to his desk.

  “That student,” the principal continues, “is Ms. Tracy Bailey.”

  The class erupts in cheers for our comrade.

  Trace works harder than anyone I know. If anyone deserves it, it’s her.

  I join the applause until my eyes fall on Sam. He hunches over his desk, mouth clamped in a tight line.

  My smile falters. Why is he such a dick?

  The principal praises Trace for a while, then logs off the intercom with a crackle.

  “Mr. Macey!” Our teacher throws his hands in the air. “You must be overjoyed. How lucky you must feel to have Ms. Bailey for a Partner.”

  Sam grunts. “Yeah. She’s great.”

  “I was lucky enough to have her in my class last year, and let me tell you, that young woman is destined for success. You’re a lucky one, Sam.”

  Sam nods. A twisted glint shimmers in his eyes, as if someone sucked the light clean out of them. I don’t understand him. His Partner had a great achievement, and he’s pissed. Why?

  Class ends. Alan and I meander down the hall to Chemistry. Sam shoves past us and kicks a locker with a clang. His boot leaves a dent in the metal.

  “Hey!” Alan says.

  Sam whirls on us, face flushed. “What?”

  “Tell Tracy congrats from us,” Alan says, and I nod.

  “Why?” Sam snorts. “Doesn’t matter anyway. She’ll just be my secretary someday.”

  He spits on the floor and stomps off. His clomping footsteps echo down the hall.

  “Nice guy.” Alan rolls his eyes. “Computer must really hate Tracy to doom her to life with that douche.” He shakes his head. “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

  Alan fires off into a tirade about Trace’s Partner, but the words float straight through me.

  She deserves so much better than that.

  At lunch, I sneak away to the art room. The dark classroom is deserted, which is perfect.

  Taping together four sheets of computer paper, I construct a sloppy banner. I scribble Congratulations, Tracy! with nubs of multicolored pencils and decorate the letters with star stickers. It’s not the best, but it’s something. I roll it up and stuff it in my bag, stealing a roll of Scotch tape from the teacher’s desk.

  Darting my eyes around the empty hall, I tiptoe to Trace’s locker and tape up my anonymous sign. It’s a bit crooked, but I can’t risk adjusting it and someone seeing me.

  Sorry I can’t tell you in person, Trace. I’m so proud of you.

  Tracy Bailey

  “I swear, Tracy, you don’t care about this family, do you?” Mom crosses her arms.

  I tug on my red Converses. “I like the thrift store.”

  Why does this always have to instigate a frigging fight?

  “Does it even occur to you—” she gestures her hands “—that someone might see you there?”

  “So what?”

  “People of means don’t buy used clothing.” She rubs her forehead. “I don’t know why that’s so difficult for you to grasp.”

  “I can buy anything there and guarantee no one else has it. And it’s the only good thing about this effing neighborhood. And I happen to like secondhand stuff.” I slip on my coat. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

  She props her hands on her hips. “Tracy Allison—”

  “Would you prefer I wear a wig, so your socialite buddies don’t recognize me?” I smirk. “Would that be to your liking?”

  “You infuriate me. No respect for anyone but yourself.”

  “At least I have self-respect.”

  “Ugh!”

  She throws her hands up and storms from the room, slamming the door behind her.

  “If you didn’t move us to this wretched house,” I shout through the closed door, “I wouldn’t have found the thrift shop!” She doesn’t respond.

  Seriously. I don’t have the treehouse anymore, where else am I supposed to go?

  Usually I go there to browse, but today I have a special mission.

  A few months ago, my sister accompanied me to the thrift store. It was the day I bought my chunky headphones. We perused aisles of old toys and funky jewelry together for over an hour. V appreciates trinkets as much as I do, and I love that about her.

  Pawing through a box of assorted headbands and vintage coin purses, Veronica squealed. I turned to find her swooning over a lopsided jade pendant necklace. It was tarnished, and borderline tacky, but her face lit up the moment she tried it on.

  She bounded to the counter with her find. However, her smile melted when she learned the price; the thing cost more than her month’s allowance. Her eyes grew so glassy, I almost expected tears to start flooding from them. She left the store, pouting and empty-handed.

  Today is Veronica’s fourteenth birthday, and I have a surprise for her. After we left the store that day, I biked straight back and begged the manager to put the necklace on hold.

  It took weeks of babysitting, lawn-mowing, and scrounging for change, but I scraped together the money. I arrive at the thrift store minutes before closing and purchase my sister’s birthday gift. The lady wraps it for me, which is awesome, because I wrap presents like a five-year-old.

  Panting and sweating from pedaling like a maniac, I bike into our driveway and race inside. The gang’s all here to celebrate.

  “I love you, Tracy Bailey.”

  “I love you, Sam Macey.”

  I grit my teeth as Sam scrawls his name under mine on her birthday card.

  “Tracy, you’re sweating like a pig.” Mom narrows her eyes. I ignore her and dash into the other room to see my sister.

  Veronica snuggles in her Partner’s lap on the couch. He’s got his full winter coat on.

  “Take off your jacket, silly. It’s hot in here.” She tugs at his zipper, but he entwines his fingers with hers, grinning.

  “Not yet, love. I’m a little chilly.”

  Walking over, I stub my toe on Oliver’s saxophone, which lies neglected on the floor. I stumble forward, cursing.

  “Walk much?” V asks.

  I grab my throbbing foot and glare at Oliver. “Stop leaving your sh—”

  Sam and my parents enter the room, and I shut up. Mom rests the cake we baked on the coffee table and stabs fourteen yellow candles into the pink fondant. We take our seats around the birthday girl.

  “Happy Birthday, V.” I pass her my present. Giddy with birthday delight, Veronica rips through the paper and gasps.

  “You didn’t!” She jumps up and flings her arms around me. “It’s the necklace!”

  “The very one you tried on.”

  She squeezes me tighter. “Way too expensive, Trace.”

  “It’ll look great on you.”

  “Beautiful,” Oliver says.

  “Lovely,” Dad says.

  “You have great taste,” Mom says.

  Veronica slides it around her neck. She poses in the mirror. “How did you afford this?”

  “Oh, you know, just saved up some cash here and there. No big deal.”

  Dad catches my eye and winks.

  Maybe I’ve done something right for once.

  “Thank you.” Veronica hugs me again. “It’s perfect. Best sister ever.”

  “Glad you like it.” I pat her on the back. “Enjoy being fourteen; it only happens once.”

  “Love you, Trace.”

  “Love you, V.”

  “It’s from me too,” Sam interjects.

  I clench my jaw.

  “Thanks, Sam.” She squeezes his shoulder.

  “Our girls are the best,” Dad says.

  Veronica takes her seat, rubbing her new gem between her fingers.

  Oliver drapes his arm over her shoulders. “Guess you should open my g
ift, then.”

  “Okay, gimmie!”

  He passes her a pink bag smothered in bows and curly pink ribbons. Veronica reaches inside and reveals a white T-shirt. She unfolds it and holds it up for us to see.

  “I Love My Partner!” is emblazoned across the front in bright red lettering, surrounded by pink and purple hearts.

  “Surprise!” Oliver unzips his jacket to reveal a matching T-shirt.

  I snort, coughing soda all over the table. My parents and Sam release a collective “Awww!” at the gift.

  Oh, for the love of God. Are you kidding me?

  “Ollie!” Veronica tackles him. “I love it!”

  “Put it on!”

  She tugs it over her head. It hangs to her waist.

  “Dad! Take a picture!” Veronica bounces on her toes. The Wonder Twins embrace each other as cameras flash.

  “You two look amazing,” Mom says.

  “Now everyone will know who your Partner is before they even meet you,” Dad says.

  “We should get shirts like that, Tracy,” Sam says.

  Over my dead body.

  “What do you think, Trace?” V frames the shirt’s slogan between her hands. She stares expectantly at me, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with her twin.

  “You look like a pair of idiots.”

  “Tracy!” Mom gasps.

  “Well, they do!”

  Veronica lowers her brows. She opens her mouth, then closes it. Lip trembling, she runs into the hall and slams the door. Oliver follows her, glowering.

  “Nice. You just ruined your sister’s birthday,” Dad says, rushing after them. “Veronica!” he calls in the next room. “Sweetie, your sister’s the idiot! Not you!”

  Sam hunches his shoulders. “Glad you think showing affection makes you an idiot.”

  “That’s not what I—”

  “Tracy,” Mom hisses, “can’t we have one normal family party?”

  I shrug and dig my fork into the cake. They can stomp out like children if they want. More cake for me.

  Piren Allston

  I nibble a grilled cheese in the cafeteria while Alan and Travis rehash last night’s football game.

  “Dude, Bryant dropped the ball. The ref called it.”

  “Screw you, man. He never lost possession.”