All in Pieces

by Suzanne Young

“Call me,” Retha sings at me as she climbs out. The door closes and I can feel Cameron watching me. I don’t look at him.

  “You know,” I say, my head lowered, “I’m only a few blocks away. I can just get out here.”

  “And end my night?” he asks. “Thought we were having fun.” I turn to him, and he smiles, highlighting how miserable I seem. In truth, I’m not. “You can get out,” he says, “but I’d like to take you home.”

  My breath catches, and I have no idea what to say.

  “You know,” he goes on, “in case anyone else plans to hit you with their shoe.”

  I laugh, and although it’s awkward, I nod and tell him that it’s probably safer that way. He shifts into gear, and even though I didn’t ask him for the soda, I quietly take it and sip from it anyway.

  “Thank you,” I whisper. He doesn’t respond, which makes me feel less like a beggar.

  Cameron stops in front of my house; I’m surprised he remembers which one it is. But then again, he’s probably never been to a neighborhood like mine. I’m sure most of the people he knows live where houses have lawns.

  “Thanks for the ride,” I tell him, grabbing the handle of the car door.

  “Thanks for the excitement.”

  I laugh, and he looks over at me like he knows me. And for a moment I wonder if he does. If somehow he knows that I’m not as fine as I seem. I wait a moment longer than I should, holding his gaze. And then, as if it’s the only response, I lean over and kiss his cheek.

  Before I can think about how unbelievably stupid I am, I get out and jog toward the house, my face on fire. That was so dumb.

  I push heavily on my front door, and before I slam it shut, I hear, “You looked nice tonight, Sutton. We should go out more often.”

  Damn The Shirt.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  When Travis picks me up on Monday morning, he looks terrible. The rings under his eyes are dark and his hair is uncombed. Retha stares out the passenger window, actively ignoring him. The entire weekend has gone this way, and at first I thought it was about Casey. But now I’m not so sure. This seems more serious.

  “Hey, Savvy,” Travis mumbles.

  “Hey.” I look cautiously between the two of them. The car smells like beer and I crinkle my nose. “Damn, Travis,” I say, sitting back. “It reeks in here. You’d better hope the cops don’t pull you over.”

  “He’d better hope his parole officer doesn’t find out how much he’s been getting wasted,” Retha hisses, not looking at us.

  I meet Travis’s eyes in the mirror, expecting him to give me a “she’s exaggerating” look. But instead he turns away.

  He’s hungover. Again. There’s a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. My father’s an alcoholic too, but I refuse to sympathize with him since it comes at the expense of me and my brother. But Travis . . . He grew up with a dad who beat him up, one who dislocated his shoulder when he was five. One who still beats the fuck out of him every time he gets paroled. I know why Travis drinks. And I know why he shoots drugs in his arm.

  I just wish I knew how to help him stop. But I’m not a counselor. Travis will stop when he wants to, and nothing Retha or I can do will change that. No matter how much we want to.

  “We’re just dropping you off, Savvy,” Retha says from the front seat. “We’re taking a ride out to Cleveland today.”

  “For what?” I ask. Even if I did want to skip with them, I wouldn’t go on a day like this. On a day when they hate each other.

  Retha glances at Travis and then turns to me. “His dad’s up for parole,” Retha says quietly. “Travis has to appear at the hearing.”

  “Oh.” My heart sinks. Travis’s dad is the worst of the worst. No wonder Travis is so messed up right now. Retha’s going with him to make sure he doesn’t get high while he’s there. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  The reality of the moment is harsh, and I stare into my lap until we get to school.

  When I walk into the classroom, I see Mr. Jimenez standing at the front with his glasses on the podium and rubbing his eyes. Yeah, I don’t blame him. Eight a.m. is definitely too early to socialize.

  The bruises on my knuckles have faded to a less dramatic blue, but the scratches on my arms have turned to thin scabs. I’m not feeling my best. And the fact that Travis and Retha aren’t here makes me feel all the more vulnerable.

  Cameron is texting at his desk. His hair hangs loose and when he brushes it behind his ear, I roll my eyes at how effortlessly good-looking he is. I almost say hello, but I chicken out and sit down to wait for the bell.

  “Morning,” Cameron says as his thumbs slide over the keys. He doesn’t look over, but I know he’s talking to me.

  “Hey,” I respond, completely self-conscious. I let down my guard on Friday; I even kissed his cheek. I’m not sure if I want him to acknowledge that or not. I mean, I guess not. That would be awkward. But then again, if he’s already forgotten me or if it wasn’t a big deal . . . I stop myself. I’m seriously overthinking this.

  Cameron’s phone buzzes in his hand, and he laughs as he reads the text. He types out another message. I wonder if he’s talking to a girl, and there’s a small stab of jealousy in my chest. Weekends can be long if you’re having fun. He might have met someone. Or, hell. He might have already had someone.

  I take out my notebook and set it on my desk, staring at the front of the class and wishing Mr. Jimenez would start teaching. I hate the silence right now. It makes me think too much. I tap my pencil on the cover of my notebook.

  “You nervous about something?” Cameron asks.

  “No.”

  “Why are you tapping, then?”

  I stop and fold my hands on my desk.

  “Your friends not coming to class today?” Cameron asks. He’s still on his phone. God—why won’t he look at me? He must think I’m pathetic—getting in fights and asking for rides home.

  “No,” I tell him. “They’re not.”

  “Too bad.”

  “Whatever,” I mumble. I’m surprised by how much his texting irritates me.

  “Whatever?” he repeats and turns to me. He sounds amused.

  I don’t answer. Mr. Jimenez exhales loudly from the front, and I pretend to be interested in what he has to say instead.

  “All right,” Mr. Jimenez says. “I know I promised to lecture today, but we’re going to do some writing and cut our day short at twelve. Anyone have a problem with that?”

  “Got a hot date, man?” Gris calls, chuckling at his own joke.

  “No, Aaron,” Mr. Jimenez responds. “I have jury duty and there are no subs available.”

  “Jury duty?” Gris asks. “Anyone we know?”

  And I have to laugh at that one. Because it’s quite possible that one of us would know them. It’s not that big of a town.

  “Not sure. But I’ll keep you updated,” Mr. Jimenez says sarcastically. “Now, anyone else have an objection?”

  The class is silent because who in their right mind would refuse a shortened day of school? Although for me, leaving early isn’t necessarily a great thing. Not only do I not have a ride home; I’ll have more time to spend there. Evan’s bus won’t arrive until three and Retha and Travis won’t be back until tomorrow.

  “Hey, Sutton?”

  I turn sideways to Cameron. He looks dead at me, and I forget why I’m even annoyed with him.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Want to go to lunch?”

  My heart begins to race. “With you?”

  He tilts his head. “Yeah. I don’t have anyone to go to lunch with. Want to come with me?”

  “No.” I do.

  “Please?” he asks.

  “I can’t.”

  “I’ll buy.”

  I’m about to get pissed at him for being a condescending asshole when I realize that he’s not. People with money do stuff like this: offer to buy each other lunch as a bribe to hang out.

  I turn and stare down at my desk. “I’ll think a
bout it,” I tell him.

  “All right.”

  So I think about it. Obsess, really. Over the next four hours, I dream of all the places Cameron will take me and I think of all the reasons I can’t go. So when Mr. Jimenez finally tells us to head out, I’m well prepared with a “Sorry, I can’t” speech.

  Cameron stands up and stretches, his T-shirt lifting high enough to flash the skin above his belt. I run my eyes over him, enjoying the view. He laughs to himself, and I realize he caught me checking him out.

  “So what’d you decide?” he asks as if he knows the answer.

  “I can’t go,” I tell him seriously.

  His expression falters and I think he’s disappointed, but I might be imagining that, because he grabs his notebook and raises his hand in a wave before walking away. There’s a dull ache in my chest. And my stomach growls.

  I gather my things and move slowly out of the classroom. It’s a lonely walk to the parking lot. I hate how stubborn I am—he was going to buy me lunch, not take me on a date. Nondating is okay. Why do I have to be such an idiot all the time?

  I push through the double exit doors and survey the parking lot. I wish I had bus money. I curse under my breath and start walking in the direction of my house.

  A black Beamer pulls up next to me.

  “The thing is,” Cameron says out his window, as if we’re in midconversation, “I just thought since your friends aren’t here, that maybe you’d want to keep me company so I don’t feel like a loser sitting by myself at McDonald’s.”

  I stop walking and stare at him. He eases his car next to me. I want to go with him.

  “Come on,” he says, smiling, even as his eyes study mine. “I’ll buy you a Happy Meal.”

  I laugh.

  “Is that a yes?”

  “A maybe,” I tell him.

  He waits, holding my gaze, and I feel all sorts of unrealistic feelings for him. The dangerous kind that would complicate my life. I slide my hair behind my ear.

  “I’m really hungry,” Cameron says. “In fact, I’ll be eating too much to talk.”

  “Now you’re tempting me,” I say. “McDonald’s?”

  “Unless you have someplace better in mind?”

  “No,” I say. “I think that would be fine.”

  “Well, great. Then get in before I gnaw my arm off.”

  I debate a moment longer, afraid to start something with him that I can’t finish. I don’t want to get hurt. But logic fails me, and I get in anyway.

  * * *

  There’s a McDonald’s near the school, but I ask him to drive to the one closer to my house. One within walking distance.

  We go inside, and the restaurant is a bit dingier than the other location, definitely not one of those McCafés. But it does have a playground. Before my life fell to pieces, my mother would take us here to play.

  Cameron does indeed get me a Happy Meal, and we find a clean booth near the back. The minute Cameron sits down and opens his box of Quarter Pounder, I tilt my head and look him over.

  “So why are you at Brooks?” I ask him. “What did you do?”

  He smiles. “Who says I did anything?”

  That’s the thing with troublemakers—we cling to that innocent-until-proven-guilty bullshit. Even so, I can’t begin to guess what Cameron is really doing there.

  “Kids with Beamers don’t go to Brooks Academy,” I tell him.

  “I do.”

  “Why, asshole?” I laugh. “Quit acting so secretive.”

  Cameron widens his eyes. “Me? You’re calling me secretive, Miss I-don’t-want-to-get-dropped-off-at-my-house?”

  “You’re stalling.”

  “You’re right.”

  I wait, actually admiring the fact that he doesn’t want to talk about himself. Too many people these days want to talk about themselves all the time. You don’t see me and Retha running around trying to explain ourselves. If people misunderstand, well, that’s on them.

  Cameron takes a sip from his Coke, drawing out the silence. He looks around the restaurant, probably hoping for a distraction, but the place isn’t distraction worthy. Old people and five-year-olds are hardly enough to provide entertainment.

  “Fine,” Cameron says, as if I’ve dragged it out of him. “I trashed a school.”

  I straighten up. “You did?”

  He swirls a fry in ketchup. “Yep.”

  “Bad?”

  “Hundred thousand.”

  I gasp and lean forward. “How the hell did you cause a hundred thousand dollars in damage?” I ask loudly.

  Cameron chuckles and looks around the room, his cheeks reddening. A couple of the senior citizens are staring at us.

  “Can you keep your voice down, Savannah?” he whispers, acting offended. “This is a family restaurant.”

  Again, the use of my first name is a bit of a shock. “Sorry,” I say.

  But I’m fascinated. Is Cameron actually some anger management head case like me? Is that why he talked to me in the first place?

  Cameron eats his fry, chewing slowly. He doesn’t look like he plans on elaborating, but if he thinks he’s going to get away with not telling me about his crime, he’s crazy.

  I kick his sneaker under the table. “How did you ruin that much stuff?”

  He sucks in his lower lip, and when he releases it slowly, I feel the flutters of attraction. Is he purposely trying to sidetrack me?

  “Nice try,” I say. “Now tell me.”

  He shakes his head like he’s embarrassed he got caught trying to charm himself out of this conversation. “Okay,” he says. “I flooded part of the building, broke some computers. A few windows. Some appliances.” He scratches his head. “Maybe the trophy case.”

  “That’s pretty badass,” I say. “Did you get arrested?”

  “Yep. You?”

  “Yep.”

  “Bet our parents are proud,” he says.

  I laugh and pick up my last chicken nugget. I take a bite, and Cameron looks between me and my empty tray.

  “Do you want more to eat?” he asks.

  “No.” I’m still hungry. I’m always hungry.

  Cameron nods and wipes his hands on his napkin. I finish chewing, letting the silence fall over us. It isn’t uncomfortable. I’m glad he’s not the kind of person who feels he has to fill the silence. They were like that at my old school—afraid of being boring, and instead they became boring by talking all the time.

  I play with the straw in my drink, moving around the ice cubes. “Why’d you do it?” I ask, truly curious. It seems so out of character—well, out of what little character I know of him. “Were you failing or something?”

  He winces. “Why? Do I look dumb?”

  “Sort of.” But I know he’s not. He may not participate in class, but I’ve seen him whip through his quizzes. I’ve seen the As.

  “Oh, thanks.” Cameron settles back in his seat. We’re both done eating, but I don’t want to leave yet. I don’t want to go home.

  “What was it, then?” I ask.

  “Apparently I have bad friends.”

  “That’s not a good enough excuse,” I tell him. “Because I had ‘good’ friends and I still put a sharpened number two through Patrick’s hand.”

  Cameron presses his lips together, looking at the table. “What can I say, Sutton? I’m weak-willed?”

  I smile. “Counselor diagnosis?”

  “Yep. And the judge.”

  “Nice.”

  “And you? Anger management?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I can see that,” he says. “Although I think you’ve been managing pretty well since I’ve known you. I mean, other than that time you punched a girl in a cornfield. But I’m sure you had a reason.”

  The fact that Retha and I went there to fight probably negates any reason I had to punch Casey, but I don’t tell Cameron that part. “Technically,” I say, twirling my straw, “you still don’t know me.”

  “Right.” Cameron nods.
“We should change that.”

  He quickly looks away, the dine-and-dash of flirting. He seems well versed, and I have the sudden awful feeling that I’m being played.

  “So, do you take all of your girlfriends to McDonald’s for lunch?” I ask.

  “Girlfriends?” He grins. “Plural, even.”

  I shrug. “I’m sure you’ve got a few.”

  “Are you trying to ask me out, Sutton?”

  “No,” I say. “I’m just wondering if this is part of your game.”

  “My game?” He’s laughing at me. “No,” he says, moving his tray over to lean his elbows on the table. “I do not take girls to McDonald’s to impress them. I was hungry.”

  I look down. I shouldn’t have brought it up—shouldn’t have shown that it bothered me.

  “And just in case you’re wondering,” he tells me, “no, I don’t have a girlfriend.” He says it offhandedly, but I can feel him waiting for me to look up.

  “Good for you,” I say.

  “Do you have a boyfriend I should be watching out for?”

  I glance at him. “Why?”

  “Don’t you think he’d be jealous that I’m charming the hell out of you right here in your local McDonald’s?”

  “Oh, were you being charming?”

  He stares at me, looking pleased, sort of devious. His brown eyes are deep and it’s a good thing he doesn’t look at me very often because they’re filled with electricity. I’d never finish my classwork.

  “Do you have a boyfriend?” he asks again, more seriously.

  My face begins to tingle, almost like he’s asking me out even if he’s not saying those words. And I don’t want him to. “No,” I say. “I don’t have a boyfriend. I stabbed the last one.”

  He nods, not giving away his feelings on the matter. Then he slaps his palm on the table, startling me. “Well, glad that’s out of the way,” he says. “I should go. Let me bring you home.”

  I’ve already let him bring me to lunch and buy it; I can’t get back in his car. Although I’d love nothing more than to roll around with him in the backseat of his BMW, it could get very complicated. Especially if he ignores me afterward or, even worse, wants to date me.

  “No thanks,” I say, standing up.

  “But . . . how are you going to get home?”