All in Pieces

by Suzanne Young

  “How’s juvey?” he asks, coming over to sit across from me. My mouth opens, surprised, but I try to cover it quickly. I haven’t been this close to him since I was dragged out of class in handcuffs.

  I straighten my back. “It’s an extended learning center, jackass. And it’s fantastic. I don’t have to deal with assholes all day.”

  Patrick smiles to himself, looking down at the table—like I’m being funny. I can’t believe we ever went out. The first guy to call me beautiful and I waste half my junior year on him. I was an idiot. I should have been able to see past his bullshit.

  “So they’re going to let you graduate?” he asks, looking up at me. “You should be in jail.”

  I chew on the inside of my lip. The way he’s watching, as if I’m a piece of meat, makes me cringe. His gaze pauses at my boobs and then at my mouth. I fold my arms over my chest, and he seems to revel in the power my discomfort gives him.

  “What do you want?” I ask. “Why can’t you just leave me alone?” My pulse races—he once told me he’d kill me for what I did. His harassing phone calls may have stopped a few months ago, but he’s obviously still angry.

  Patrick sets his hands on the table, stretching them out to rest in front of me as he leans in close. I recognize the smell of his cologne, and it makes me a little nostalgic. But then I remember how much I hate him. My eyes drift to the scar on his hand. It’s still pretty gnarly.

  “You know you’ve never apologized?” he says almost sweetly. I lift my eyes to meet his. They’re pale blue; I used to like that about him.

  “Yeah,” I respond. “I know.”

  He waits. Well, he can wait all day—I’ll never apologize. Patrick treated me like shit our entire relationship. He put me down, made me feel like I should be lucky to have him because of where I came from. And then the day I tried to break it off, he blamed Evan.

  “Savvy?” Travis’s voice is immediate comfort. I look up as he walks toward me, jetting a concerned glance at Patrick. Travis’s long hair is tangled and wild, like he just woke up. I smile, relieved to see him.

  “Great,” my ex-boyfriend says. “Another one of your new degenerate friends?”

  “Go to hell,” I say, braver now that I’m not alone.

  Patrick reaches out and grabs my hand from across the table. It’s a movement so sudden and forceful, I lose my breath. He yanks my arm toward him, dragging me onto the table.

  “I should put a spike through your fucking hand,” he hisses in my face.

  “Hey!” Travis yells, running over to pull me free.

  But I’m shaken, gasping. I didn’t expect that. I should have expected that. Patrick’s been asking me to apologize since he came to my court appearance, but I sort of thought he’d be over it by now. When the calls stopped, I thought he would too.

  Travis grabs Patrick by his polo shirt, hauling him out of the chair and pushing him into the aisle between the tables. “Don’t you ever put your hands on her!” Travis shouts. Around us everyone stares.

  I can barely breathe as I look between Travis, my skinny, ex-drug-addict friend, and Patrick, a linebacker. I’m still shaking. He grabbed me. Patrick grabbed me and pulled me over the table. This is some next-level shit.

  Patrick laughs, brushing off his shirt as if Travis’s touch dirtied it. As if Travis is dirt. Patrick glances at me and raises his chin, confident. Powerful. “I’ll be seeing you around, Slutton,” he calls to me. And then he turns and walks out the mall exit.

  I try to calm down, look normal and unfazed. It’s near impossible to fake. I sit back down in my seat, and Travis joins me at the table, taking the spot where Patrick had been.

  He studies me for a moment and then leans in. “You okay?” he asks.

  I nod, but no. I’m not. I’m freaking out. Patrick has gotten under my skin again. He’s rattled my confidence.

  “Let me see your wrist,” Travis asks quietly, holding out his hand. I glance at his arm, the sleeves of his shirt pushed up to the elbows. On his skin are the leftovers of needle tracks not yet faded. He sees me looking.

  “They’re healing,” he says, meeting my eyes.

  I press my lips into a smile and look for fresh holes. “Almost gone,” I say, wishing it were true. But it has only been three months since the last time Travis shot up. And two months before that. They’ll never truly be gone. So I’ll never stop checking for them.

  He lowers his eyes, and I give him my hand. As soon as he takes it, I see the handprint Patrick left across my wrist.

  “Jesus,” Travis says, turning it over. “He really grabbed you.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sorry I was late.”

  I sniff a laugh. “It’s okay,” I tell him. “You didn’t know it was Psycho Day at the mall.”

  Travis smiles and sets my hand gently on the table. He feels sorry for me. Everyone always feels sorry for me, if they feel anything at all.

  “Where’s Retha?” he asks, looking around.

  “Shopping for perfect-ass jeans.”

  “Ah. Good,” he says with a laugh. He nods toward the sub shop. “I’m guessing she wants turkey?”

  “Yep.”

  “On it,” he says, standing up. “You hungry?”

  A slap of guilt hits me, and I stammer out a response. “I mean, if you don’t mind,” I tell him. “I’ll pay you back.”

  “Shut up, Savvy,” he says, waving me off. “You don’t owe me anything.”

  And I appreciate him saying that. Sometimes I feel like he and Retha are the only people who don’t want anything from me. They don’t keep a tab.

  He walks off, and when he’s gone, I pull my hand into my lap, rubbing absently at my aching wrist—like I can wipe away my vulnerability. And I wait for something to eat.

  * * *

  I carry the groceries inside the house, my sleeves pulled down to cover the bruise on my wrist. Not that my father would ask—he never asks about my bruises. He stares at me as I walk in, and I pause in the doorway and look at him.

  “What?” I ask. He’s not fully drunk yet, so I can still talk to him. But since Evan’s not here, I know it won’t be for long.

  “You get groceries?” he asks.

  I hold up the bags.

  He looks down at the floor, and I know that’s not the real question. My shoulders tense, and I lower the bags to my side.

  “How long are you going to do this?” he asks in a low voice.

  “Do what?” But I know what he’s talking about. He’s constantly saying that Evan is too much for me to handle. That I’m not enough.

  “Kathy wants Evan to live with her.”

  My hands begin to tremble. She already gets him an extra day a week. I’m not about to let her take him away from me entirely. “No,” I say.

  “She has the means—”

  “He doesn’t need money,” I say quickly, glaring at my father. “I take care of him.”

  “You’re seventeen.”

  “You’re forty. What’s your excuse?”

  My father’s jaw clenches, and I know I shouldn’t challenge him now. But he knows I’ll fight. Evan is his son—he should fight for him too. Just because my mother couldn’t handle it, doesn’t mean that I can’t. I’m stronger than her. I love Evan more. And I’ll never leave him. I’ll die first.

  “It’s too hard,” my father says. He almost looks guilty.

  “He’s ours,” I whisper forcefully. “And he’s not going anywhere.” I stomp toward the kitchen.

  “It’s not really up to you,” he says under his breath.

  I fight back my tears and set the grocery bags on the counter. I look out the window into the backyard. The weeds have overgrown the lawn, and the patio is covered in moss and dirt. There are no toys. No swing set. I hate this life.

  But I love Evan and I will never give him up. Not without a fight.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Nearly the entire class is absent on Friday. Only ones here are me, Gris, the new girl, and Travis. Retha
had to babysit her baby brother so her mom could go to the DMV. She told me to send her regards to Mr. Jimenez.

  It’s quiet—worksheet day since a lecture would be a waste of air on Mr. Jimenez’s part. I steal glances at the door, hoping Cameron will walk in. But he never does. Travis sleeps his way through the morning, but still manages to turn something in at the end of the day. Neither of us mentions the incident at the food court again. I don’t like the reminder of what helpless feels like.

  “Retha told me that you’re going to her house?” Travis asks after class, holding open the door to the parking lot for me.

  “Yeah, I guess,” I say. “Evan’s with my aunt through the weekend. Don’t really want to be home.”

  “I get it,” Travis says, running his hand through his long hair. He looks tired. Maybe even miserable.

  “You’re coming too, right?” I ask.

  “Naw,” he says. “Not tonight.”

  I climb in the passenger side of his car and look over at him. “Everything okay?”

  He gives me a small smile, one that tells me to mind my own business. I respect his privacy, and I figure it’s between him and Retha.

  Travis stops at Retha’s house, and she comes outside like she’s been waiting for us. Travis waves at her, but Retha purses her lips and sets her hands on her hips.

  “Yikes,” I say under my breath.

  “I’ll catch you later,” Travis says, switching the car into gear. I scrunch up my nose, feeling bad for him even though I don’t know what their fight is about. I say good-bye and climb out of the car.

  I meet Retha on her porch, and we watch Travis drive away. When he’s gone, I look sideways at her.

  “I see things are going well.”

  “Oh, girl.” She shakes her head, and then yanks open the screen door. “Don’t even get me started on him.” She goes inside the house, but I take another look at the empty street, feeling torn, like a kid whose parents are fighting in front of her.

  “Savvy,” Retha’s mother calls in her thick accent as I close the door.

  “Hi,” I say, walking into the kitchen to give her a quick hug. I tower over her small frame, and we both look at the table when Retha’s little brother wails from his high chair. “Hi to you, too, Raymond,” I say, wiggling my fingers at him. He smiles and drools all over himself.

  I love coming here. Retha’s house smells like cooking oil and spices. Her dad is always working, but when he’s here, his booming laugh is just like Retha’s.

  This entire place is loud and messy. It’s like a home.

  “So how’s Evan?” Retha’s mother asks, stirring a pot of soup on the stove. “You haven’t brought him in a while.”

  “He’s with our aunt this weekend. I’ll bring him over next week.”

  “You got enough to eat there?” she asks, tapping the wooden spoon on the side of the pot with a clank. “I’m going by the food bank next week.”

  “We’re okay,” I say, even though we never have enough. But I hate asking her to help us with groceries. She has her own family to take care of. She shouldn’t have to take care of mine, too.

  She pats my hip. “I’ll bring it by on Tuesday.”

  I smile and thank her. Retha stops at the kitchen table and spoons yellow baby food into her brother’s mouth, wiping away what he spits out. She kisses the top of his head, and then tells me she has to get ready.

  I follow her to her room, saying hi to her little sisters, who are piled on the couch watching cartoons. Retha closes her bedroom door, and I turn to her.

  “Your mom doesn’t have to get us food,” I say, slightly embarrassed.

  “She likes to help,” Retha says. “Don’t be stupid about it.”

  “Not trying to be; I’m grateful. I didn’t even have enough for hot dogs this week,” I admit.

  “That’s because your dad is an asshole,” Retha says, shaking her head. “I’ll pick up some hot dogs and drop them by.” She stops at her dresser and positions a compact on the edge to use as a mirror. She picks up her eyeliner and swirls it around her left eye. Before lining the other, she spins to face me.

  “Did Travis tell you why we’re fighting?” she asks.

  “No. He probably figured you’d want to be first.”

  “Or he knows enough to be ashamed.”

  “I don’t think I want to hear about it,” I say. Their fights are rarely one-sided—they’re usually both at fault. I lean back in the cushions of the bed, pulling a small stuffed alligator from under my thigh.

  Retha’s bedroom cracks me up. She shares it with her two little sisters, but the amount of pillows and stuffed animals in here is ridiculous. Her cousin works for a company that fixes those claw games, so Retha’s an expert. She can get you anything you want on the first try.

  I whip the alligator at her leg.

  “Ow, bitch,” she says, making me laugh.

  “Fine,” I say, knowing that my lack of curiosity is what’s really annoying her. “What did Travis do now?”

  She smiles. She would have told me whether I wanted to know or not. “Remember Casey?” she asks.

  “Casey the girl or Casey the guy?”

  “Travis’s girlfriend in middle school. The one with those dumbass pink streaks in her hair.”

  “Did she used to be a cheerleader?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Ugh,” I say. “I hate that girl.” And I sort of do. Once upon a time, when I cared about things, she kissed one of my boyfriends and talked shit to me. It’s been a long time since I’ve had problems that simple.

  “I hate her too,” Retha says. She doesn’t hate every girl—she’s not shallow like that. But when you don’t have much, you hold on to what matters. You hold on with both hands. “Anyway,” Retha continues, “Casey called Travis last night.”

  My eyes widen and I sit up. “What? Not cool.”

  “Right?” Retha turns back around to ring her other eye with liner. “You know she still likes him.”

  “Is that why she called him?”

  “I don’t know.” Retha snaps the compact shut and leans against the dresser, folding her arms across her chest. “Travis won’t tell me.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask her. Travis is a good guy—he doesn’t do drama for drama’s sake. No, when he messes up, it’s big-time. Like shooting heroin or breaking into cars. Not cheating on his girlfriend. That’s petty.

  “He told me she called,” Retha says, her eyes growing teary despite her hard expression. “But then he said that it wasn’t a big deal and that I needed to get over it.”

  “Get over it?” I nearly shout, climbing to my knees. Telling your girl to get over it without explaining yourself is almost an admission of guilt.

  “Yeah,” Retha says like she can’t believe it either. “He said I would overreact. But what the fuck? Obviously something shady went down. What if they’re hooking up?”

  I’m in shock. Travis and Retha are special together. Sure, they fight a lot, but they love each other. No one’s allowed to ruin that.

  “So what are you going to do?” I ask, my fingers trembling with adrenaline. I know what she wants and it will probably involve hair pulling. I’m sick of getting into fights with Retha, but at the same time, it’s the weekend. There’s always a fight somewhere.

  “It’s Friday,” she says. “Everyone from Kennedy goes to the cornfield, right?”

  “They sure do.”

  “Good. So I think maybe we should stop by. Hang out a little.”

  Her lips curve into a devilish smile. Retha doesn’t want to hang out with those pricks. I’m the one who used to hang out with them, back when I thought I could. Back when I was part of a family, dating the future homecoming king, thinking I was normal.

  But what is normal anyway? Taking care of Evan is my normal. This is who I am.

  “Hello?” Retha yells, tossing a lacy black thong from her drawer at me. It bounces off my chest and I sweep it away with a laugh. “Are you game or not?” sh
e asks.

  “Depends,” I tell her, trying to hide the sudden panic I feel at seeing my old classmates. “Do you think Patrick will be there?” I sound weak. I hate it.

  Retha’s expression softens. She knows what happened with Patrick at the mall, but like Travis, she doesn’t bring it up. “If he’s there,” she says slowly, “I’ll knee him so hard in the balls, he’ll never have kids.”

  “That would be a good thing.”

  “Definitely.”

  We stare at each other a moment, an acknowledgment of fear without the words. Then Retha rubs her lips together to smooth her lipstick and checks her reflection one last time. But my heart is still racing—I haven’t seen anyone from Kennedy since I was expelled. What will they say when they see me? What will they do?

  I can’t be scared of them, though. I can’t let them scare me. I begin to twist my hair around my finger, glancing out Retha’s bedroom window at the sky. This is a bad idea.

  “You want to borrow something to wear?” Retha asks, startling me.

  “No, thanks.” My clothes are faded, a little old and oversize. But I hate borrowing things.

  “Come on, Savvy,” she says. “I’ll even let you wear The Shirt.” She grins.

  Damn. The Shirt. Retha has this one fitted shirt that whenever I wear it, no shit, I hook up. It hugs me just right and makes my boobs look fantastic, or maybe it’s just a random coincidence. Either way, whenever I wear it, I get lucky. Every time.

  And I wouldn’t mind a kiss.

  * * *

  “This sucks so hard right now,” I mumble as we make our way through the crowds of freshmen in the darkened field. We’re not far outside the city, barely in the suburbs, but one farmer used to have functioning cornfields here. He retired, but the corn still grows on his land. Now the locals have carved out a path and use it to party.

  “I swear we were never this desperate as underclassmen,” I say, looking sideways at Retha.

  “Hell no,” she agrees. “They’re nasty.”

  We’ve already been hit on three times and nearly groped by the “key master.” It takes Retha two tries to convince him there are no car keys in her pocket. The second try ended with a heel to his shin. He should have known better than to try exploring her jeans on his own.