Missing Pieces

by Meredith Tate

  I recoil with a sharp gasp. My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

  He steps back. “Tracy, I…I’m so sorry…I dunno what happened. I lost my tem—”

  I hold up my hand, and he stops.

  “I love you, Sam Macey. Good night.”

  Piren Allston

  “Get the mail,” Lara says. “They should be here today!”

  I groan. “I don’t want to see what they gave me.”

  “Oh, come on. Whatever you get won’t be that bad.”

  My knee jitters against the table leg. “Did you even read the list of entry-level Placements when we ranked them? They all sucked. The only good job on that entire list was the Assignment Lab.” I hold up my index finger. “One job. Out of two hundred.”

  She kisses my cheek. “Remember what they told us? If you hate what you get, you can go to college after the wedding. Do something else. Okay? It’s not set in stone forever.”

  I clamp my hand over my bouncing leg. “Okay. Fine.”

  At twenty, we get our Job Placements. With weddings only four years away, making and saving money is crucial; they beat that into our brains during our Vocational classes. After waiting in agony for six months, today we’ll learn where we’ll work for the next four years.

  The mailman delivers two thick envelopes to the Allston-Goodren apartment. Lara’s is considerably thinner than mine.

  “Why’s yours so big?” she asks.

  “I don’t know.”

  Lara tears into her packet first. I hover behind as she skims her letter.

  “I’m at Webster Printing Press, assembling rubber stamps. Could be worse.” She tosses her packet back on the table.

  Mindless assembly forty hours a week? That sounds dreadful.

  “Cool.”

  “Open yours!”

  I swallow, fiddling with the humongous envelope in my hands.

  Her placement sucks. What the hell am I gonna be stuck doing?

  I take a deep breath and rip it open, zipping my eyes across the page.

  “No way.”

  Lara peers over my shoulder. “What? Show me.”

  “I’m at the Assignment Lab!”

  “What! Gimme that.” She rips the paper from my hands. “This is bullshit. That was my first choice Placement.”

  “Mine too.” I beam. “And Alan’s. And Travis’s. And just about everyone’s, I think.”

  Lara thrusts the sheet back at me. “So unfair.”

  “Sorry. I swear, there’s only three positions there, I didn’t think I’d actually get one.” I paw through my packet. “Look, I get a T-shirt!”

  I pull out a yellow shirt, proudly parading the “100% Accuracy!” logo, and hold it up to my chest.

  Lara pouts. “I didn’t get one.”

  “Sorry…Maybe they’ll let you switch?”

  “No they won’t.” She rolls her eyes. “Story of my life.”

  Tracy Bailey

  I sit beside Sam on the couch, six feet from the glowing TV. My restless hands fidget in my lap. I feel his eyes on me, but I keep mine fixed on the television.

  He tiptoes his fingers across the desert of sofa between us. I squirm as he inches closer, crossing my legs to avoid his touch.

  He brushes his hand under my chin. “Tracy?”

  I keep my face forward. “Yeah?”

  “Come here for a second.”

  “I’m watching something.”

  “Please?”

  “Not n—”

  He grabs my face and mashes his lips to mine. My body stiffens, and he jerks away.

  “Something wrong?”

  “No. Sorry.” I force a smile. “Try again.”

  He kisses me again, twining his fingers in my hair. Queasiness bubbles in my stomach, and it’s me who recoils this time, pushing my hand between us. He pulls back.

  “Sorry.” I dart my eyes to the carpet.

  “What’s wrong?” Sam hunches his shoulders. “You never wanna kiss me.”

  I tug at my sleeve. “I dunno. I don’t think I like kissing.”

  It’s gross, and weird, and makes me want to hurl.

  “How can you not like kissing?”

  “It’s just…a strange behavior, I suppose.”

  “Is it me?” His eyes grow wide.

  “No!” I bite my thumbnail. “I promise. It’s me. I suck at being intimate.”

  He laces his fingers with mine and plants a kiss on my forehead. “Well, you’ll just have to learn, then.”

  Piren Allston

  Today’s my first day of work, and I’m up and showered before my alarm. Hand tight around my spoon, I shovel cereal into my mouth, barely breathing between bites. Lara hobbles into the kitchen, grumbling. My cheeks ache from smiling. I’m probably an asshole for being so excited about my job around her, but I can’t help it.

  I arrive at the Lab twenty minutes early and stutter incoherently to the receptionist. She directs me to the Orientation Room, where I take a seat at a long table. Tucking my sketchbook under my bag, I spread out my folder of notebook paper and pens. I’m rereading the orientation packet for the twelfth time when the door creaks open.

  My heart stops.

  Trace enters the room.

  Her hair is shorter, and she’s gained some weight. She’s wearing a tight gray skirt and pink button-down. She looks different; she looks the same. A sharp breath catches in my throat.

  I haven’t seen her in two years.

  My knee bounces under the table.

  The last time I saw Trace was high school graduation day. She yanked me into the janitor’s closet and gave me a homemade card. I think we both assumed it was our last good-bye. After cohabitation, we knew Sam and Lara wouldn’t make it easy to see each other. We wished each other the best, and she gave me a hug. It was a bittersweet farewell, and I haven’t seen her since.

  Two years and three months later, she’s here. In the same damn room.

  “Piren!” She throws her arms around me, curls bouncing around her face. My shoulders tense; the last the last time she displayed such unbridled enthusiasm, I had my first kiss.

  She pulls back, blushing. “Hi, wow. Sorry.”

  “Hey, you…Long time no see.”

  She scratches the back of her neck, keeping her head down.

  I guess two years apart can make anyone strangers.

  “You’re…at the Lab too?”

  “Yeah…Pretty lucky, huh?”

  “I’d say.”

  Our exchange is hollow, but I’ve missed her so much it doesn’t matter.

  We finish our orientation in two hours. Trace, me, and this girl Pernessa are the only three twenty-year-old Placements at the Lab. Our boss, Clarence, assigns Trace and me to sort questionnaire data from pregnant couples. He gives Pernessa a different task in another room.

  We’ll be alone.

  Our sorting room is small and cramped. Two chairs sit a foot apart, crowding a small faux-wooden table. Hundreds of packets and papers lie strewn across the surface, waiting to be sorted. Stacked boxes and clutter line the walls, allowing minimal space for movement. I have no doubt as to what happened: the Lab got stuck hosting Placements and allocated us their crappiest space.

  “So, our room is a closet, then?” Trace asks. I nod, not meeting her eyes.

  We awkwardly climb into our chairs. Our knees brush under the table; I jerk my leg away, heart racing through my chest like a freight train. For several minutes, we read over our respective folder stacks in silence. Trace taps a pen on the table as she scans her first packet. Every half-second, I sneak a sideways glimpse at her.

  What does she think about this? Is she happy? Upset?

  My shaking hands dampen around the sheet I’m holding. I force my eyes back to my paper and take a deep breath.

  Focus.

  We work diligently for several minutes.

  Out of nowhere, Trace snorts. “You know what’s weird?” She throws her pen down. “Everyone on the entire planet kept us apart. For
ever. You know, when we were kids. Even in high school.”

  “Yeah, no kidding.” I mean, her family moved across town to separate us.

  “Seriously, the effort our parents and teachers took, you’d think separating us was their frigging second job. But then, here we are, out of hundreds of Placements, working together at the Lab. Just like that.” She snaps her fingers. “Forced to work in a small room alone together, every effing day.”

  “Guess someone in charge of Placements didn’t do their research, huh?”

  “Guess not. Slacking on their stalking duties.”

  We share an awkward laugh.

  Trace clears her throat, and we go back to our sorting. We check each folder three times for errors, then drop it into the box of clients ready for Assignment. The job is mindless work, and I’m fairly certain a chimp could do it.

  Trace glances at me. I catch her, and she looks away.

  She’s so pretty.

  Her hands are as pale and delicate as the night we shared cocoa in the snow. She’s grown into her curvy adult figure, and her skirt hugs her hips. Brown curls dangle around her face, bouncing like coils when she moves.

  It doesn’t matter how much time passed; it’s her. She was my best friend once; she can be my best friend again.

  I open my mouth, then close it.

  Just talk to her, damn it!

  “So, what’s your life like now?” I blurt out. “I mean, where do you guys live?”

  She picks up another sheet. “We’re at The Terrace. You know, those larger apartments on Winthrop Street?”

  “Wow, jealous. Didn’t our bus always drive by The Terrace?”

  “Oh my gosh, yes! Remember we made up that story about those two Partnerships accidentally sharing the apartment?”

  “Oh, man, I totally do…The bathroom fight story.”

  I meet her eyes, and we burst out laughing.

  She’s so beautiful when she laughs.

  “And the Buckley twins. Remember how we wrote them in?”

  Her eyes light up. “Plumbers’ assistants. And they caused the leak.”

  “Captain, we have a leak.”

  “May day!”

  We practically fall over the table, heaving for air at the memory of one of our favorite stories. Trace’s cheeks flush red.

  It’s like no time passed. I guess that’s the sign someone’s meant to be your best friend.

  We delve into retellings of our old stories, tripping over each other’s sentences, each tale growing more unwieldy than the last. Piles of forgotten papers lay unsorted on the table.

  The office door swings open. Our boss pops his head in, lips pressed in a thin line.

  “Will you two pipe down already and do some work? We can hear you all the way down the hall.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “First day here and already causing me grief.” He throws his hands in the air. “I told Kaylee not to hire Partners, nothing ever gets done.” He slams the door. A couple stray sheets of paper drift to the ground.

  Moment over.

  I stare at the floor, heart pounding, not daring to look at her.

  Why does every damn stranger assume Trace is my Partner?

  Part of me wants to invent another phony wedding story, but it feels inappropriate now.

  Trace hands me a questionnaire; I skim it and sort it into a pile.

  She hands me another; same thing.

  I go to grab another, but my hand brushes hers. She inhales a sharp breath. Something in my chest flutters. I yank my hand away.

  This isn’t working.

  Tracy Bailey

  Veronica comes over to model her prom dress for me. I lay stomach-down on my bed for the show. After ten excruciating minutes, she emerges from the bathroom, decked in a slinky, pink gown.

  “How do I look?” she asks, seductively rubbing her hands down her torso.

  “Hot.” I toss some pretzels in my mouth. “I’ll have to beat Oliver off you with a stick.”

  She spins, showing off the low-cut back. “Good.”

  “Don’t do anything illegal, V.”

  “Me?” She clasps her hands together. “Never.”

  “Sure, sure. Wait for your First Kiss, that’s all.”

  My sister studies herself in my mirror. “Wish I had boobs like you.” She grabs her chest. “I’m flat as a board.”

  I scoff. “Don’t remind me. If I catch Sam eying my cleavage one more time, I’m gonna pop him in the mouth.”

  She giggles into her hand. “Really?”

  “Yeah, it’s bad. I pretend he has a lazy eye so his stares won’t creep me out. It’s like I talk to him, and he’s drooling, staring at my rack.”

  “Ugh, that’s…creepy.”

  “Tell me about it. I feel like a broken record, reminding him hands off until the wedding.”

  She leans against my bed. “He’s gotten hot, though. Has he been working out?”

  “Hot?” I snort out a derisive laugh. “Have you met the guy? He’s a jackass.”

  “He’s all muscly now.” She flexes her wimpy bicep.

  “Correction.” I hold up my finger. “He’s been lifting weights a lot. But it doesn’t help his personality.”

  Veronica collapses onto the bed beside me. “Tell me honestly.” Her lips twitch into a half-smile. “What’s it like living with him?”

  I roll onto my back. “Actually, not awful. He’s tidy.”

  “Yeah?”

  “And he’s a good cook.”

  “That’s good, ’cause you suck at cooking.”

  I munch another pretzel. “I’m just glad he finally has a hobby that doesn’t involve blowing up shit on a screen.”

  “What does he cook?”

  “I dunno, anything. He finds new recipes online. Why?”

  Her cheeks grow rosy. “I want to learn how to cook for Ollie.”

  “Oh please.” I draw the words out into a long-winded groan. “Should I put a little apron over that sexy dress of yours?”

  She sticks out her tongue, whapping me in the stomach with my pillow. “Shut it.” She stands up and starts peeling off her dress, exposing her hot pink undies. “You know I just want you to be happy with Sam. You’re my big sis, and you’re the only one I got.”

  “Yeah, yeah…Oh, hey, I picked this up for you.” I rummage in my bedside drawer and find the dental school flyer I plucked from the Lab’s bulletin board.

  She takes the pamphlet and cocks her head. “What’s this?”

  “I know your wedding’s still years away, so you won’t be able to apply to college for a while, but you should really start looking now to narrow down your options.”

  “Oh, yeah. Thanks.” Veronica bites her lip.

  “Something wrong?”

  “No.” She glues her eyes to the mirror as she slides her shirt back on.

  I pull myself up and stand beside her. “Come on, you can tell me. What’s wrong?”

  She shrugs. “Ollie and I talked about it. He wants to go to business school.” She shimmies back into her skinny jeans, not meeting my eyes. “So, I’m probably just going to work for him. You know, take calls and stuff.”

  I take a deep breath. “V, Ollie’s a big boy. He can take his own calls. If you want to go to school, you deserve to—”

  “It’s cool.” Veronica shoots me a toothy smile only I would know is contrived. “I’m excited for it, actually. Working with Ollie every day will be awesome.”

  “Well, it’s your choice. I just want you to be happy.” I sink back to the bed just in time to see my sister brushing the pamphlet into the trash. A heavy weight drops in my chest. I guess this means the conversation is over.

  “Really, Trace, I’m fine. You’re too worried about me.” She steals a spritz from my perfume.

  “V, I love you. I’m always going to worry.”

  “I know.” She flops onto the bed beside me. “So, how’s work?”

  Work. We’re writing �
��The Working Chronicles of Fat Head and Fangs.” Piren came up with the funniest story the other day…

  I cough out a giggling snort and clap my hand over my mouth.

  “What’s so funny?” She crinkles her forehead.

  “I dunno.” I look away, but can’t fight the smile off my face. “I just really like my job.”

  Piren Allston

  “If I have to come in here one more time, you’re both fired!” Clarence slams the door behind him. Trace and I snicker into our hands.

  “How many times is he going to say that?”

  “That was probably two hundred.”

  And as bad as it would be to get in the Shaming Pages and work a menial job until a new Placement opens, I highly doubt Clarence would actually fire us.

  “You know—” Trace taps her cheek with her finger “—I think Clarence deserves a role of honor in our stories.”

  “How about—” I stroke my chin “—Boss Man: World’s Greatest Super Villain.”

  “Killer of fun everywhere…Oh! I almost forgot. Speaking of fun-killers…” She rustles around in her bag and pulls out a plastic container. “Sam-Cookies make a triumphant return.”

  “Yes!”

  She opens the Tupperware, revealing dozens of colorful sugar cookies shaped like zoo animals. My stomach growls as I grab a yellow-iced giraffe.

  “Does he know you brought them?”

  “Nope. Took them straight from under the nose of the original Killer of Fun himself.” She nibbles an elephant trunk. “But I baked them, so they’re ours by right. At least, that’s my argument, and I’m sticking to it.”

  I take a bite. “You’re the best baker in the world.”

  She bows in her chair. “Gracias.”

  Stuffing our faces, we break into our latest saga: Fat Head and Fangs versus the evil Boss Man. Every time we laugh, cookie crumbs shower the table.

  Tracy Bailey

  The alarm rings, and I spring to life. I whistle in the shower as I scrub shampoo through my hair, dancing to a beat in my head. Rushing through my routine, I pull on my best work skirt and pink argyle blouse, patting out the wrinkles. I blot on pink lipstick and hot-iron my hair, then step back to examine myself in the mirror.