Missing Pieces

by Meredith Tate

  “I can’t, Trace. I’m s-sorry,” Veronica stammers, clutching her cheek. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I—”

  “Shut up!” I hiss at her. I whirl on my father. “Don’t you ever hit her again!”

  I yank Veronica up by her sleeve. She stumbles and trips over the stairs as I drag her up to my bedroom. I slam the door behind us.

  “Trace, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry!”

  I shove her up against the wall. “What? You want to be like Dad? Fuck up your life, fuck up your kids? Is that what you want?”

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m—”

  “You should have called me. I would have come get you! Better than the fucking police!”

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Tears stream down her puffy cheeks.

  My shoulders relax. She’s apologizing for ruining her own life.

  “Shhh…Veronica…shhh…It’s okay…” I pull my sister’s body close to mine, wrapping my arms around her. “You didn’t know. It’s okay.”

  She sniffles. “I’m sorry.”

  “I know.”

  I lead her to my bed and tuck her in under the blankets. “Shhh, get some sleep.” I kiss her forehead and plop down at the end of the bed.

  “Trace?”

  “Yep.”

  “I love you.”

  “Love you too, V.”

  She squeezes my hand. I reach out to stroke her arm.

  “Will you stay here?” she asks.

  “Yep. Right here.”

  “Promise?”

  “Yep. Get some sleep, drunkie.”

  My father’s hollering continues downstairs, accompanied by thuds and crashes. Mom must have succumbed to curiosity, because her raised voice joins his. I don’t care; they won’t bother us in my bedroom.

  Veronica’s eyelids flutter as she drifts into peaceful, drunken sleep.

  I’ll protect you, V. I promise.

  I kiss her cheek and curl up on the floor.

  I always will.

  Oliver’s pissed at Veronica for the arrest. Personally, I don’t think his anger is justified; he supplied her with the necessary booze. V’s picture cropped up in the Shaming pages this morning, only a day after the arrest, citing her crime as underage drunkenness. It wasn’t an affair, so it only occupies one line of the paper. Regardless, my sister saw it and bolted from the room, tearful and blushing. Mom cut out the article and taped it to Veronica’s bedroom door.

  The page identifies Oliver by name as V’s Partner, which could explain why he’s so pissed at her. He’s ignored my sister all week. She sits at the kitchen table, bloodshot eyes set on her lifeless phone, lying inches away.

  “A watched pot never boils.” I slouch down beside her, chugging a can of soda, and flick her arm. “Hey. Buck up. Wanna go to the movies?”

  Her lip trembles, but she doesn’t respond.

  “What?” I let my mouth stretch into a grin. “Can’t have a little fun without him?”

  She blinks, her glassy eyes wet with tears.

  Fury wells inside me. This is my stupid parents’ fault: Mom for making Veronica so whiny and codependent, and Dad for making her an alcoholic.

  I rest my hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry. He’ll come around.” I linger for a moment, then walk away, leaving her to stew in her despair.

  Piren Allston

  I sneak into my room and creak the door closed behind me. I press my ear to the wood, but no footsteps patter in the hall. With a deep breath, I open the top drawer of my desk and sift around until I find the crumpled drawing. It’s torn and hastily taped together with the precision of an eight-year-old, but my heart flutters when my shaky hands unfold it. My Masterpiece.

  The picture displays my whole family: my parents, Mason, Stephanie, Lara, Trace, and me. Trace’s hand-drawn blue eyes meet mine, captured forever in Magic Marker.

  A hard stone drops through my chest as I pluck scissors from the drawer. Positioning them to slice Trace from the group, my hand freezes.

  I have to. Trace even told me to do it. What if someone finds it? Cut her out!

  I close my eyes.

  But if it wasn’t for her, this drawing would have been trashed almost a decade ago. She repaired it and saved it all those years. Just for me.

  Stick-figure Piren in the picture isn’t standing with his parents or brother. He’s not side-by-side with his Partner. He’s clearly set apart from the others.

  He’s standing right next to stick figure Trace.

  Did eight-year-old Piren know something? Did he feel something?

  Heart pounding, I throw the scissors back in the drawer and slam it shut. I refold the uncut drawing and hide it in my desk under a stack of papers.

  Did I always feel something?

  Tracy Bailey

  It’s been two weeks since Veronica’s arrest. It’s also been two weeks since The Wonder Twins last communicated. So, basically, it’s the longest time I’ve ever gone without being subjected to their gag-inducing phone calls.

  When I was the problem child, ignoring my Partner was the worst crime in the Bailey household. For once, I’m not the cause of my parents’ chagrin. In fact, tonight I’m doing something ingratiating.

  Tonight is my first official date with Sam. I’ve prolonged the inevitable for years but finally agreed to go. My family better shut the hell up with their problems and appreciate this.

  I sit in the kitchen, dabbing on gray eyeliner. Vacant-eyed Veronica wanders in and sits beside me.

  “Going on a date like a real lady,” Mom says, patting my head. She turns toward V. “Unlike certain others who choose unladylike behaviors…Any idea who that could be?” She smiles sweetly at my sister.

  “Mom, come on…” I smear blush across my cheeks. “Give her a break.”

  Mom huffs. “Honestly, I just—”

  The doorbell cuts her off. She floats from the room, primping her hair.

  I open the door and can hardly believe my eyes. Hair slicked back, Sam dons black slacks, a white button-down, and an emerald tie. He clenches a bouquet of pricey-looking yellow tulips.

  Someone’s in rare form tonight. Who are you, and what have you done with my Partner?

  Cheeks reddening, he thrusts the flowers toward me.

  “I love you, Tracy Bailey.”

  “I love you, Sam Macey.”

  I smooth my form-fitting teal dress, shifting the fabric to hide my cleavage. My parents enter the hallway, arm in arm, to greet my Partner. Sam shakes my father’s hand and kisses my mother’s.

  Dad makes us pose for a picture by the door. Also in rare form, he’s sober tonight. I’m glad, because I want him to remember I put on a happy face for this date. I’ll use it as a bargaining chip next time I fuck up.

  Sam entwines his fingers with mine and leads me out to his SUV. We wave to my parents and Veronica as we drive away.

  His car smells like shoes.

  “It’s good we’re finally doing this,” he says.

  “Yeah, I know.” I straighten my posture to match the formality of the evening. “Where are we going?”

  “I made reservations downtown.” He taps his thumbs against the steering wheel. “Real nice place, great reviews.”

  “Wow. This is…unexpected.”

  “I wanted to make you happy.”

  “Well, thanks.” I pick at the hem of my dress, keeping my eyes down.

  He awkwardly whistles a tune for a few moments, then stops. “You know, we’re getting married in only a little over six years, but I feel like I hardly know you at all.”

  “Yeah, I get that.” I twist a loose thread around my finger. “I mean, I understand what you feel.”

  “Well, okay, how about this. I’ll ask you a question, and you ask me one. We have to answer honestly. Sound good?” He steals a quick glance at me. “Everything’s fair game.”

  “Okay. I can do that. You go first.”

  “Okay…What’s your favorite animal?”

  “Umm…” I scrunch my mouth
to the side. “Dogs, I guess.”

  “What type of dogs?”

  “Uh, probably something like a German Shepherd. Something big.”

  “That’s funny. I pictured you as a yippy, ankle-biter-type dog person.”

  I wrinkle my nose. Really, Sam? “Okay, what’s your favorite animal?”

  “Nope, no repeating questions.”

  “Okay, okay, fine. What…umm…what’s your best subject in school?”

  “Easy. Biology.”

  “For real?” My worst subject.

  “Yep. Three years in a row, best subject is science.”

  “Well, that’s pretty cool.” I twiddle my fingers.

  “What’s your dream job?”

  “Hmm…” I tap my fingers to my lips. “I think I’d like to be a carpenter.”

  He chortles. “Carpentry? That’s not a girl’s job.”

  “Excuse me? That’s anybody’s job.”

  “I dunno if I want my wife working as a carpenter.”

  “Well, tough.” I clench my jaw.

  Ten minutes in and he’s already pissing me off. How far away is this effing restaurant?

  “Okay, okay.” He reaches across the console to squeeze my arm. “I’m sorry.”

  “Fine. But as your punishment, you have to think of the next question.”

  “Deal.”

  We ask each other question after question as the car zips down the freeway. My fidgeting hands grow sweaty in my lap.

  Am I supposed to marry someone who knows nothing about me beyond my favorite color?

  “Okay…” I shoot him a grin. “Give me a hard one this time.”

  “Gonna challenge me, eh? Okay, let me think…” He pauses for a moment, eyes focused on the road. “If you could be any age forever, what age would you pick?”

  “Wow, good one.”

  Everyone knows the correct answer is twenty-one; you’re an adult but still young. But that’s not the answer blaring in my brain. I can vividly picture my perfect age as if it’s happening right now. I’m climbing the rungs of the treehouse. There’s intruders on the West Wall, but we’ve prepared parachutes as a strong defense. I’m happy.

  “Eight. I’d be eight.”

  He cocks his head. “A little kid? Why?”

  “I dunno…Good memories, I guess.”

  “Okay…such as…”

  “Nope, your turn is over. Nice try, though.”

  He grumbles. “Then, ask me something.”

  “Okay…” I drum my fingers on my thigh. “What’s your favorite food?”

  “Uh, probably steak.” A sly smile brims across his face. “Guess where we’re going tonight? That new steakhouse, Chateau.”

  “Wow, really? Isn’t that place ridiculously expensive?”

  He puffs out his chest. “It’s our date night; it doesn’t matter.”

  He’s trying.

  “Well, I can’t wait to try it.” I rub my arm. “It’s your turn, by the way.”

  He strokes his chin. “Okay, hmm…What’s your favorite childhood memory?”

  “Oh…uh…I dunno…”

  “There has to be something.”

  I close my eyes. My favorite memory. Chalk drawings. Treehouse. Art class. Walking to the bus. Getting on the wrong bus. Cocoa. They’re all my favorite memories.

  They all have one person in common.

  “I don’t want to play anymore.”

  Sam’s smile twitches. “Why not?”

  “I just don’t.”

  His hands tighten around the steering wheel. “Come on, I’m trying here.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Why won’t you tell me your favorite memory?”

  “Because I don’t have one.”

  “You obviously do; you just don’t want to tell me.”

  “Fine! Okay, fine. My favorite memory…I guess it was the day I found this old treehouse with my neighbor. We were little kids…Okay?” I slump against the window to sulk; saying it aloud stung.

  The car slows to a stop. “Who was your neighbor?”

  “It’s not important.”

  “Tell me.”

  “None of your damn business.”

  “Tell me!”

  “Piren Allston! Okay? He was my neighbor, and now he’s not.”

  Why not just rip the Band-Aid right off?

  “What the hell? Your favorite memory was with him?”

  “He was my friend!”

  “I know that! Everyone knows that. You weren’t exactly shy about it. How do you think that made me feel? Pretty shitty, my Partner always running after some other kid.”

  I bite my lip. Maybe he’s got a point.

  “I hate that little shit!”

  “Sam…”

  He flings back his fist and punches the steering wheel with a thud that rattles the whole car. I jump, pulse zipping through my chest.

  Sam reaches to touch me, but I recoil. He slams the gas pedal, and the car lurches forward, pressing my back to the seat.

  “I’m done here, Sam. Take me home. Now.”

  “What’s going on with you and Piren?” The speed increases.

  “Nothing! I lived down the street from him when we were little, okay? We haven’t talked in years.”

  Not seriously, at least.

  He slams the brakes, screeching to a halt in the middle of the street. The car thrusts me forward, and I bang my head on the dash.

  “Ever since we were Assigned, I’ve seen it.” His voice is venomous and low. “I’ve seen the way you look at him, and I’m sick of it. I’d like to pummel that asshole.”

  “There’s nothing!” I rub my sore forehead. “I swear to you there’s nothing!”

  His upper lip curls, baring his teeth. “Get out of the car.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me. Get out of my car. This date is over.”

  “We’re miles from my house.”

  “Get out of the fucking car!”

  I gape at him. “Wow, and you wonder why I never want to see y—”

  His fist lunges and sinks into my headrest, striking two inches from my face.

  I freeze. For a half-second, my father glimmers in Sam’s eyes.

  He leaps back, wide-eyed. “Tracy, I’m sorry. I can’t believe that. I’m so sorry, I—”

  I wrench open the door, jump out, and run away as fast as my legs can carry. The cold air stings my skin, but I don’t care.

  I’d rather be anywhere than in that car.

  Piren Allston

  The front door flings open, and Dad rushes inside. My parents’ hurried voices catch my attention from the other room.

  “Police are out looking for her.”

  “Did they say how it happened?”

  “She was out with her Partner and didn’t come home.”

  “The Baileys must be terrified.”

  I spring upward. The Baileys?

  “Dad?” I rush into the kitchen. “Mom? What’s going on?”

  Mom sits at the table, head propped on her hand. Her eyes crinkle when they meet mine. My father paces the room, but stops walking when he sees me.

  “Tracy Bailey’s missing.”

  My heart jumps. “What?”

  “She went on a date.” Dad’s eyebrows knit together. “But Sam returned alone.”

  My arms fall limp at my sides.

  “No.” The word comes out softer than a whisper.

  “Don’t worry, honey.” Mom rises from her chair and brushes my cheek with her hand. “Cops are everywhere. They’ll find her.” She smiles, but her hollow tone gives away her insincerity.

  “Officer Richards says they never even reached the restaurant.” Dad leans against the counter and crosses his arms. “They stopped at a red light, and Tracy bolted. Least, that’s what Sam’s saying.”

  Why do I sense a pinch of doubt in Dad’s voice?

  His phone buzzes, and he answers. “Yeah?…Okay…We’ll be right there.”

  I space out, me
mories flashing through my brain: Sam pummeling basketballs in gym class, frightening everyone; Tracy showing up at the bus stop with her arm in a sling; Sam threatening us as we walk home.

  My mouth runs dry.

  Is he capable of hurting her?

  Fear courses through my body like hot poison.

  My parents pull on their jackets.

  “Got to go help them search,” Dad says.

  “I want to come!”

  “No.” His brows lower. “Stay here.”

  His tone makes my stomach turn. It’s like they’re worried about what they’ll find, and they don’t want me there to see.

  My parents race outside to join the manhunt. Police sirens blaze past our house. I glue my face to the window, pulse rocketing through my chest.

  Sam did this.

  My hands clench up. Something unhinges in my brain; I can’t describe it. Animalistic, uncontrolled rage seeps through my veins. Boiling with fury, I sprint upstairs to my dad’s safe. I pound in the code and rip out his handgun. I load the pistol, bring it outside, and toss it on the backseat of my car.

  If Sam hurts her, I don’t want to beat him. I want to kill him.

  Tracy Bailey

  A dull ache burns through my calves with every step, but I can’t stop running. I can’t go home early from my date and face my parents. What the hell would I even say?

  Every few paces, distant car engines rev my ears to hyper-vigilance, prickling fear down my neck.

  Is it him? Did he follow me?

  I whirl around, but each time, it’s an unknown vehicle passing by. I force my stiff body forward, racing down side streets and alleys.

  With each step, my overworked heart thumps against my ribcage. Sweat fuses my dress to my body, but my throat sears with dryness. My lungs heave, threatening to collapse from exhaustion as I push myself forward.

  Nowhere to go, I keep running.

  Maybe Sam drove back to my house and told my parents what happened. Maybe they’re all furious, waiting to pounce on me for abandoning our date.

  Dread boils in my stomach.

  I’ll have to face them all eventually.

  I dash through the dewy evening air. No destination, but I can’t stop.

  Sam overreacted. He shouldn’t have flipped out.