“You know what—”
“Piren!” Lara waves, making a beeline for our table. “Hi!”
My friends throw their stuff on their trays.
I groan. “Oh, come on, don’t go.”
“Sorry, man, you’re on your own.” Alan speeds away from the table.
Travis shakes his head. “Dude, I just can’t take her right now. Sorry.” He races after Alan. I release a heavy breath.
Lara plops down beside me. “I love you, Piren Allston.”
“I love you, Lara Goodren.”
She tucks her napkin into her collar. I prop my cheek against my hand and glance at my watch. Still twenty minutes left of lunch.
Lara slurps her soup with a God-awful sucking sound that makes me shudder.
I bet she purposely slurps like that to annoy me. Or to repel anyone from joining us.
“You know…” I pick at my French fries “…you can sit with me and my friends at lunch. You don’t need to drive them away.”
“Lunch time is our time.” She sips from her milk carton. “You know that.”
Everyone knows that. You’re not exactly shy about it.
“Right.”
She pulls out her phone and taps away, clicking her fingernails across the keys.
“Cassidy?” I ask.
“Mm-hmm.”
We sit in silence as she texts her friend. Every few moments, her phone erupts in a buzzing hum.
So much for “our time.” Sitting with Lara feels a lot like sitting alone.
Before I met Trace, I always sat alone at lunch. I was the butt of everyone’s jokes. Later in life, everyone knew better than to taunt Tracy Bailey’s best friend; if someone pissed her off, they became the punchline in her stories. However, earlier on, roles were different, and I walked the halls with a target on my back.
When you’re seven, things begin to filter into categories of “cool” and “uncool.” Trace was cool; I was not. I think Trace accumulated her popularity through her humor and bucking authority. Everyone admired her wit.
I, on the other hand, was the wimp. The kid with the shaky leg who’d cried the first day of kindergarten. The pussy.
About a month after Trace and I became friends, Alan’s first-grade-boy-gang victimized me at lunch. They spewed insults as I crossed the cafeteria with my tray of food.
“What kind of name is Piren?”
“Peering?”
“Sounds like peeing.”
My pulse raced as I speed-walked toward Trace’s table, laboring to mask my growing anxiety. Alan and the others jumped up and encircled me in the center of the room. The entire student body fell silent at their tables, watching.
“Excuse me,” I said, keeping my eyes on the floor.
“Where you going, Peeing?” Alan crossed his arms. “Bathroom’s that way.”
“Hey, Peeing,” said another boy.
“Go away, Peeing.”
“Don’t pee all over the floor.”
My tray quivered in my shaky hands, and my cup tipped over, spilling milk onto my plate and soaking my sandwich. My eyes burned, but I choked back the urge to cry. The boys formed a solid wall, blocking me from Trace’s table.
“Look, he’s gonna cry!” One of them pointed at me and laughed. “Look at the little girl!”
Mason once told me the best way to beat bullies is to ignore them. Mustering every ounce of courage in my body, I pivoted on my heels to find another table.
Classmates whispered and giggled as I hurried by. I saw Lara at a table with a group of girls. I remember thinking I finally found a safe option, but the moment I started toward her, her ears flushed red, and she turned her back. Nobody wanted to sit with the kid named Peeing—even Peeing’s own future wife. Heart pounding, I frantically scanned the room for a solution.
Chants of “Peeing!” echoing from all directions, I sped to the outskirts of the cafeteria.
Stumbling over a chair, I collapsed at the lonely, rickety table in the back. My cheeks burned as Alan’s cronies roared behind me. I sifted through my soaked lunch, searching for a dry bit of sandwich; milk dampened everything. Blinking back water in my eyes, I inhaled a shaky breath.
Another tray clattered down beside me.
It was Trace. She smiled and sat down.
“Here, you take half.” She pulled a large wedge off her dry sandwich, thrusting it to me. Staring at the table, I grunted my thanks. Trace shrugged.
“Shouldn’t you be at the cool table?” I asked sourly.
She tilted her head to the side and crinkled her forehead. “This is the cool table.”
Trace proceeded to jabber about her day as if nothing happened.
The jeers silenced the moment Trace sat down.
They never made fun of my name again.
Tracy Bailey
Our house is a ghost town. I drift past my mom in the hall, but we don’t acknowledge each other. She bends at the linen closet, dispensing a stack of towels. Dad lumbers up the stairs. He bumps my mom, and she shifts her position without a word. Two ships passing in the night.
My perfectly-Partnered parents.
After almost two years of residency, this house isn’t home. Our new house is stiff and cold, with lots of vacant rooms. I suppose it’s perfect for my family, because we can spend days in the same building and never see each other. I walk to the bus stop every morning by myself.
“Where’s Veronica?” my father asks.
“Oliver’s.”
He grumbles and retreats to his room. Mom thrusts me a pile of folded laundry without a word.
On most Saturdays, I blast music in my bedroom, just for noise. For a while, Mom used to rap on my door and scream at me to lower the volume. She doesn’t anymore.
Today, I have a different plan.
Our old neighborhood is almost thirty minutes away by car, and there’s no direct bus. My heart flutters when I think about my treehouse, waiting for me in the woods. I long to hide away within the walls of my secret solace again. It provokes so many mixed memories of youth.
I follow Mom downstairs. She collapses on the couch, zombie eyes settling on a magazine.
“Can I borrow the car?”
She doesn’t look at me. “Where are you going?”
“The library. With Toni.”
She flips a page. “Be back by six.”
“Thanks.”
Home, as I call it. I’m driving home.
I park across the street from my old house. Two little kids run through a sprinkler in the front yard as their mother gardens. The father observes from a lawn chair, smiling.
What a perfect little family.
It must be weird for the house to shelter such a happily-Assigned group of people. The father glances up at me, so I press the gas and keep moving.
I pass the Allstons’ home and tap the brakes.
The last time I was here…everything changed.
Lara’s VW is parked in the driveway; I recognize it from the school parking lot. Through a crease in the curtain, Piren and Lara stand with Mason and Stephanie, laughing. My chest tightens.
More perfect Partnerships.
Piren squints out the window and double takes. I slam the gas before he can see me.
Parking down the street, I catch the familiar path through Harker’s Woods. The overgrown brush scratches my legs along the unkempt trail.
Within minutes, my fortress comes into view in the clearing.
It’s still standing and still beautiful.
I climb the rungs, relishing each familiar step.
Leaves and pine-needles overrun the platform, glued to the floor with layers of sap. Howling wind creaks through the boards, as if the treehouse is scorning me for my desertion.
“Well, I’m sorry! Sheesh, don’t freak out,” I whisper to the rattling treehouse. “It wasn’t my fault, I swear. I didn’t want to leave.”
It creaks in response.
I sink to the floor, filling my lungs to capacity with the b
itter aroma of pine. The sappy coating fuses to the butt of my pants. Shivers run down my spine, and I hug my knees. This place feels ghostly, almost haunted. I glimpse initials in the bark and swallow hard.
P.A.+T.B.
Piren and I. This is our tree. But there is no longer an “our.”
Not a day passes when I don’t feel Piren’s absence in my life. He tore out a chunk of my soul when we parted, leaving a gaping hole behind. Best friends aren’t meant to be separated. Every day I struggle not to retie all those strings between us.
It’s better this way. He’s safe. So, why can’t I leave it at that?
Wind rattles through the branches, prickling goose bumps down my arms.
Why the hell can’t I control my childish need for closeness?
One person shouldn’t impact me this way. It’s as if a light ignites when he’s here, stranding me in darkness when he leaves.
But I hurt him bad. The terrible, awful thing I did is unforgivable. He has to live with our secret adultery forever, and it’s my fault.
He hurts because of something I did.
We’ve been torn apart before—by my parents, by his parents, by some teacher or another. I fought tooth and nail not to lose him, didn’t care what anyone said. Want to yell at me for seeing my best friend? Fine, but I’ll still see him tomorrow, and you can go screw.
This is different.
I awake in cold sweats, tormented by nightmares of Piren on stage. He cowers as hundreds of strangers spew hurtful words, degrading him. As he quivers, I jump to shield him, but I can’t save him. Guards force him to the ground and slice his face. I scream and scream, but they don’t stop. They shove him into a tinted van and haul him away forever.
That’s not the worst part.
The worst part of this twisted dream is the fact that I caused it. My need for his friendship, and his inability to forget me, condemns him. If they marred his face, I’d hang myself from the branches of this frigging tree.
Piren isn’t like other people. He’s kind. He’s the best person I know. Maybe our scars aren’t the kinds that run down your face; maybe our scars are the kinds that form on the inside.
But it’s an unruly, tortured bond we share. It’s un-severable. It runs thick and deep as the roots of this very tree.
Piren’s my stability. He’s my constant, my confidant. He’s the source of that deep, satisfying laugh that only comes from your best friend. The type of laugh that warms your whole body and makes you forget everything else.
I’m weak.
The former King and Queen of the treehouse reign. Hidden within the bark, our collective child voices chime: all hail the King and Queen!
Maybe I’m weak and horrible, but I can’t stay away forever. I’m not strong enough.
Tomorrow is a very special day, and I intend to celebrate.
Piren Allston
Today is my seventeenth birthday. I’ve had my car for three months, but my parents still put a big red bow on it when I woke up.
I’ve spent my entire lunch period alone in the art room, polishing my final project. After meticulously rounding the edges, the oil-painted grapes look ripe enough to pluck off the canvas and eat. This fruit bowl painting is my best work yet. My hand doesn’t shake when there’s a paintbrush in it. I step back to admire my work.
My Masterpiece.
My chest swells at the shading on the pears and the dark shadow stretching from underneath the bowl.
Only five minutes until fifth period, I sponge the table and unhook the smock from around my neck. My phone buzzes: text from Lara. I take a deep breath and flip it open: U missed lunch…again. Guess u don’t care about spending time together on ur bday.
I close my eyes.
Inhale. Exhale.
Wrenching my eyes open, I punch out a reply: Sorry. Had 2 finish project.
It buzzes a response, but I toss the phone back into my bag unopened. According to my Partner, lunch time is “our time,” class time is “our time,” after school is “our time,” and weekends are “our time.” How the hell do I placate her? When is it “my time?” And when was I supposed to finish this damn project? With her lurking over my shoulder?
Knee bouncing against the cabinet, I rinse my pallet in the sink. Anytime I’m in the art room, I think of Trace. Goofing off in third grade art class was the best.
Almost two years ago, she and I parted ways. Sometimes I glimpse her in the distance, in the library or cafeteria, but my sightings are rare. Our high school isn’t small and condensed like our elementary and middle schools were. Even after all this time, when she sees me, she turns the other direction.
I wish we had ended our friendship on better terms. Christmas Eve still resonates in my brain: the kiss, sitting by the fire, tucking her in, falling asleep, my parents coming home yelling, her parents yelling, Mr. Bailey dragging Trace off. The moving truck appearing a week later.
Soon after “the incident,” I sat hunched on a kitchen chair, my head buried in my arms on the table. My body felt like dead weight. Mason sat across from me, flipping through a comic book and munching on chips. I don’t know how long I moped, but Mom took a seat in the other chair. She rested her hand on my shoulder.
“I don’t understand.” Her words were soft and laced with sadness. “Why Tracy?”
I ignored her.
“All these years, all this duress.” She stroked circles on my back with her hand. “There’s plenty of boys at school you can be friends with…And Lara, she’s crazy about you. Tracy Bailey’s a troublemaker.” Her voice wobbled slightly. “Why the attachment?”
My dry eyes burned when I blinked. Trace’s absence left weights on my limbs, making every movement a physical burden.
Trace is awesome, end of story.
“I dunno,” I mumbled.
I didn’t have an answer for my mom. Or at least, not an answer she wanted.
“I just wish I could help you.” She rubbed her forehead. Early stages of tears glistened in her eyes. “It kills me seeing you so sad.”
Mason snorted. “You hang out with Tracy Bailey ’cause she’s got more balls than you do.”
“Shut up.” I flung out my lifeless hand to smack my brother, but couldn’t reach.
“She moved; it’s not the end of the world. Seriously, when are you gonna grow a pair?”
“Mason! That’s enough,” Mom snapped. She ushered him out of the kitchen, leaving me to wallow in my misery.
I can’t believe it was so long ago.
As the mix of colors rinse off my paintbrushes and swirl into the sink, the answer I should have given my mother hits me: Trace has a carefree ambiance no one can copy. She’s one of a kind, a rare masterpiece of a person. She’s all the things I’m not.
“Hi.”
I jerk my head up. Trace stands in the art room doorway.
My paintbrush slides from my hand and tumbles to the floor. The sight of her paralyzes me, like she shot an icicle down my spine. She steps into the room, not meeting my gaze.
Did she come here to see me? Did she know I was in here?
My eyes follow as she weaves between tables, snaking toward me.
What the hell am I supposed to say? I shouldn’t be here. My parents forbade me to talk to her. If anyone sees us together in here, I’m screwed.
I swallow. “Hi, Trace.”
A million questions run through my mind. Where do you live? How are you doing? Are you happy? I open my mouth but the words clump and jumble on my tongue. Silence spills out louder and faster than anything I could ever say.
She clears her throat. “How…how are you?”
“I’m good…great, actually.” Am I? “How ’bout you?”
“Oh…things are good.”
“How’s the house?”
“It’s…really nice.” She gives me a weak smile.
Her life is great. Without me.
“Cool.”
Knots tangle in my chest, turning my insides to jelly. She’s a ghost who
’s haunted me for years, now rising from the dead.
She’s happy. Why do I feel like shit?
“I…Happy Birthday.” She darts her eyes to the floor.
“Oh…thanks.”
Silence.
“I have a present for you.” She picks at her fingernail. “For your birthday.”
“You…you do? What is it?”
She’s so pretty. Just like she always was.
She runs a hand down the back of her neck. “Well, this is going to sound so stupid. You probably don’t remember at all, I mean, you shouldn’t, ’cause it’s so stupid, but okay, you’re going to laugh at me. When we were eight years old, we were in art class, in a room sort of like this, do you remember? Mr. Wintle’s class?”
“Yeah, of course I do.”
“Well, one day we drew these family portraits, and you drew me in yours…”
I laugh. “Yeah, I remember. Bastard tore mine up in front of everyone.”
Trace teeters on her feet. “Well, ha, yeah. I don’t know why, but I felt bad that day, like, really bad. I mean, I did instigate it. And I just couldn’t let him do that, Piren, because it was just so crappy of him, and so at lunch I came back, and I fished out the pieces—don’t worry, the trash just had paper in it, no actual garbage—and I pieced it back together.” She rustles through her messenger bag. “Here it is.”
Fingers fumbling, she unfolds a crumpled sheet of paper, revealing my Masterpiece. It’s ancient and held together by bits of Scotch tape, but I recognize it instantly. The pieces misalign, forming a pathetic, crooked puzzle, but they fit together all the same.
I take the drawing from her and run my finger along the taped seams.
It’s just how I remember.
“I know, it’s really stupid.” She wrings her hands. “I don’t know why I never gave it to you before. I mean, it’s been, what, nine years since that class? If you’re gonna hang it up, you should probably cut off the piece with me on it, ’cause I don’t think Lara would like that, and—”
“I can’t believe you kept this.” I can’t take my eyes off her. “Thank you.”
“Oh, no big.” Blush creeps across her freckled cheeks. “I’m glad you like it.”
Reach out. Touch her. Hug her. Scream. Grab her. Say something. Anything.
Missing Pieces Page 12
