All in Pieces

by Suzanne Young

  Walking to the curb, I take a seat on the pavement and wait. I know there’s a chance Cameron might not come back. He wouldn’t be the first guy. Just because he’s rich doesn’t mean he wants to give charity to the poor.

  I hate feeling this way.

  Car lights illuminate the street, but I don’t move until I know it’s him. As the car slows, I see that it is. I’m happy he came back.

  Cameron parks in front of me as I pull my feet off the street. He turns off the engine, and I open the passenger door and get in.

  His eyes widen in surprise. “Wow,” he says. “First time I didn’t have to bribe you to get into my car.”

  I laugh. “Not true. Video games, remember?”

  “Right.” He nods.

  He smells good, like he’s going on a date. His clothes are nice and I look shabby in comparison.

  “You going out?” I ask. I’m a tiny bit jealous.

  “For a little while. Why? You want to come?”

  “No.” It must not be a date if he’s inviting me along. I know it’s unreasonable for me to want him to stay single; I’m the one who keeps saying no to him. But I’m not always rational.

  “There’s a party,” he says. “Pretty low-key.”

  “On a Monday?”

  “It’s not as cool as 7-Eleven, but it’s okay.”

  I laugh. “Thanks, but I don’t think your friends and me would mix.”

  He furrows his brow. “Why would you think that?”

  “Are these friends all rich like you?”

  Cameron looks offended by the question, and suddenly I feel like a real bitch. “Some of them are, I guess,” he says. “Is that why you think they’d be assholes to you?”

  “I didn’t think they’d be assholes,” I lie.

  He watches me for a moment, looking unsure of himself. “Do I offend you?” he asks.

  It catches me off guard. “No.”

  “Then why would you think I hung out with the sort of people who would?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Do you want to come out to a party with me tonight, Savannah?” I can tell it’s his last offer.

  “No.”

  He swallows hard. After a second he reaches behind the seat for a canvas bag and sets it on my lap.

  “It’s really easy to set up,” he says, avoiding my eyes. “Just a few cords. I gave him two racing games and a couple of quest games.”

  “Thanks. When do you want it back?” I ask.

  “Whenever he gets bored of them.”

  “He’ll never get bored of them.”

  “He can keep them as long as he wants.” Cameron seems upset, even a little sad. I want to climb over and kiss him, tell him how much I like him. But I drop my eyes instead.

  “This is really nice of you,” I say. “Thank you.”

  “Anytime.”

  I feel bad because I know that Cameron thought I’d go out with him tonight, that we’d shared something and now we can be together. But there isn’t enough time for him. Not when Evan is asleep in his room, needing me.

  “You know I can’t pay you back or anything,” I say. Of course, he already knows this. I’m just stalling so I don’t have to go inside.

  “Your overwhelming gratitude is enough thanks for me,” he says.

  “Maybe I’ll be nice to you now or something,” I say offhandedly.

  “Maybe you will.”

  “I can try,” I murmur. I lean over, fully intending to put my mouth on his. But at the last second, I kiss his cheek instead. I close my eyes, pausing. His hand touches softly at my lower back, keeping me close. When I pull back, I keep my eyes down.

  “Good night, Cameron,” I whisper.

  I climb out, shut the door, and begin walking to my house with the canvas bag over my shoulder.

  Cameron starts the car, but before he drives away, he calls, “One of these days you’ll say yes, Savannah.”

  “I hope so,” I say to myself, and walk around to the back of my house.

  * * *

  Evan becomes completely obsessed with the video games. I try to hide the system from my father, putting it away before he gets home and telling Evan to keep it a secret. It’s nearly impossible though—Evan can’t lie. He also can’t stop thinking about the game.

  On Thursday night I’m about to fall asleep when I hear my father’s booming voice in the living room. I curse and throw back my covers. He’s probably wasted—even though he knows better than to do this when Evan’s home.

  “I said, where did you get it?” he shouts.

  My heart seizes in my chest, and I trip over my shoes as I race out of my room. When I get out into the hallway, the house is dim except for a low light in the living room that I recognize is the TV. I can hear Evan whimpering, and I fly into a rage before I even ask what’s going on.

  Dad stands in front of the television, lit by the blue screen, and Evan is cowering near his feet. That fucking bastard.

  “Get away from him!” I scream, ramming both of my palms into my father’s chest and knocking him back a few steps. I quickly gather Evan in my arms.

  “I didn’t touch him,” my father says with a sneer. I can smell the alcohol on him.

  “But you yell at him? He’s seven!” I cradle Evan in my arms, his tired tears soaking into the sleeve of my shirt.

  In the light of the TV, I watch my father’s eyes flick to my brother—a moment of regret, before he turns away. “Put him to bed,” he says gruffly. “And then come back so I can talk to you.”

  “No,” I say. “I have school tomorrow. I don’t have time for your—”

  “Put him to fucking bed, Savannah!” he yells. I recoil and tighten my arms around my brother.

  I do what he asks, tucking Evan into bed and kissing his head.

  “Daddy’s mad at me,” he whimpers. I have to bury my anger to keep him calm.

  “He’s not mad at you,” I say. “He’s mad at me. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “I sneaked out to play games. I’m sorry.”

  “I said it’s not your fault,” I whisper. “Now go to sleep. You have school in the morning, and then you’re going to Aunt Kathy’s this weekend. Don’t . . . don’t tell her about this, okay?”

  “Okay,” he answers, and rolls over, tucking his little hand under his cheek. He’s up way past his bedtime; tomorrow will be a nightmare for all of us.

  My heart is pounding as I leave his room, closing the door, and return to where my father has calmed down. He sits on the couch, the light from the kitchen now on.

  “I swear, if you ever—”

  “Where did you get the game from?” he asks.

  I stare at him, confused for a moment. “What?”

  “The video game. Where did you get it? Because I sure as hell don’t have that kind of money.” He probably thinks I stole it.

  “Retha,” I lie quickly. “Her boyfriend got her a new one, so she gave me hers. I thought Evan would like it.” I use Retha’s name because I know my father doesn’t have the balls to tell her to take it back. And he doesn’t know she’s in Cleveland with Travis; just in case he feels a bit brave.

  My dad looks over at the system again, and then gets up to shut off the TV. “We don’t take charity,” he says.

  What he doesn’t realize is I’ve been taking charity every time I let Travis buy me lunch, every time Retha and her mom bring us food. No—he doesn’t ask for charity. He gets to keep his pride, leaving me to sacrifice mine instead.

  “It was a gift,” I say, although I feel ashamed for taking it.

  “Same difference,” he says. He goes into the kitchen and turns off the light, leaving me alone in the living room with just the soft glow of the television.

  * * *

  After my father goes to bed, I call Retha, relieved when she answers.

  “How is he?” I ask immediately.

  “The nurse says better,” she answers, sounding exhausted. “He’s awake and talking. He asked where we were.�
��

  I press my lips together, crying softly.

  “He’s going to make it,” she says. “He’s going to make it this time.”

  And our relief is tempered with the honesty of her statement. This time.

  “How long before you can see him?” I ask.

  “They’re not saying, but I think by the end of the week, if he keeps recovering. Although it’ll probably be like those supervised jail visits.”

  “Bake him a file cake,” I say, making her laugh.

  “You know I’m a shitty cook,” she responds. “Now how’s my little guy doing?” she asks. “Is he behaving?”

  I want to tell her about what my father did tonight, how he yelled at Evan. But that would be selfish. Retha has huge problems of her own. I won’t dump mine on her too. Not this time.

  “He’s been real good,” I say. “In fact . . .” I force my voice light. “He met Cameron today.”

  “Whoa,” Retha says. “I think you need to start from the beginning. Please tell me you’re finally getting some.”

  I laugh, feeling better for real, and tell her about my afternoon, exaggerating where I think it’ll entertain her most. When I’m done, I glance out the window and see the sun is about to rise.

  “I should go,” I say. “School’s really going to suck. Wish you could share the misery with me.”

  “Oh, girl,” she says. “If there’s one bright side, this is it. Now go crash out for a bit. I’ll give Travis your love.”

  I thank her, and after we hang up, I go back to my room. Talking to her has given me some footing again—settled me.

  I miss her, but all I can do from here is try to make my life better before she and Travis come home.

  My alarm goes off an hour later. I find some change in the bottom of the canvas bag Cameron gave us with the video games, and it’s enough to take the bus to school. But by Friday afternoon, I’m out of money. Cameron has court-mandated therapy so he’s not at school, making class nearly unbearable. And I have no ride home. Not to mention I kind of want to see him.

  I begin walking home, thinking about Travis. I’m a few blocks away when I hear someone whistling a song behind me. I ignore it at first, but as it gets louder, I realize they’re whistling for me.

  I turn around.

  “Hey, Slutton,” Patrick says. “You lost? This isn’t your neighborhood.”

  Patrick is wearing a beanie, his hands buried in the pockets of his coat. I’m struck down with panic. What’s he going to do?

  When we dated, Patrick could be a jerk. He’d hurt my feelings. But he never hit me. Now things are different. He wants to hurt me. I can feel the hatred oozing out of his skin.

  “Leave me alone,” I say as if I’m not scared. But I am. He’s completely unpredictable now.

  “Don’t be a bitch,” he calls. “We just need to talk.”

  “Seriously, Patrick. Fuck off and die. I don’t have anything to say to you.”

  He’s approaching fast, but I can’t turn my back on him. Not unless I want a boot kicking me down. I ball my hands into fists and wait. Even if I run, he’d still be able to catch me. I have to stand up to him.

  Patrick pauses on the sidewalk in front of me, looking casual, almost normal. My breathing is erratic; I’m sure he can read my fear.

  “Come on, Savannah,” he says, smiling. “We used to have some good times, remember?”

  “No.”

  “Aw.” He laughs. “You’re hurting my feelings. I used to nail you pretty good.”

  I feel sick. Son of a bitch.

  “Then you started getting all weird,” he continues, “stopped fooling around, spending all your time worried about your retard little brother. . . . Is it any wonder we broke up?”

  My fingernails bite into the flesh of my hand. “You’re an asshole,” I say.

  And before I can react, his hand darts out to grab me hard by the face, and he pulls me to him. He wraps his big arm around me, pinning my hands to my sides. He presses himself against me and brings his face close to mine, his fingers digging into my cheeks.

  “Bitch,” he whispers harshly, his breath thick with the smell of peppermint gum. “You need to learn some manners.” I try to pull away, but he only holds me tighter. His fingers are hurting my face.

  “Don’t cry.” Patrick leans in to lick the tear slowly off my cheek. I close my eyes at the dampness on his tongue, horrified. Vulnerable. Patrick’s hand moves lower, almost on my ass.

  “Stop,” I choke out, but it’s hard to talk with how he’s holding my face.

  He pulls back to grin. “Come on, baby,” he says. “Just tell me you’re sorry.” He leans forward to brush his mouth against mine. “I bet I can make you yell my name like you used to.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut, wishing he were dead. I hate him. I hate him touching me. I hate his mouth near mine. “Fuck you,” I say as clearly as I can.

  He digs his fingers into the hollows of my cheeks until I think he might tear through my skin. I cry, I struggle, but I can’t get free of his grip. I can even feel him hard against me. This is turning him on.

  My tears run freely now, and all I can do is wait for whatever comes next. Because I won’t apologize. I’m not sorry.

  A horn beeps, startling us as a group of cheerleaders yell to Patrick from a Jetta in the street. I almost scream for help, but I know they won’t help me. Not when they all wish they were the ones getting assaulted by the football king. Patrick smiles, still clutching me, still close to my face.

  “We’re not done,” he whispers, and gives me a quick peck like I’m still his girlfriend. He pats my ass before letting go and heads over to the car of girls.

  He leaves me on the sidewalk, my cheeks aching, my mouth on fire. I spit on the ground and use the wrist of my jacket to wipe his saliva off my cheek. I don’t want any part of him near me.

  As the car pulls away, Patrick leans out the window. “Think about what I said, Savannah.” I flip him off and he laughs.

  The minute he’s out of sight, a deep sob tears from my chest. I put my palms on my knees and cry. I curse Patrick. I curse myself. And when I can breathe again, I walk back toward the school.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “How’d you get my number?” Cameron asks as I climb into the passenger seat of his car. My hands are still shaking even thirty minutes later, and I keep my head down.

  “I used the school phone to call information,” I say. “I wasn’t sure if you were back from therapy yet. I’m sorry.”

  “Stop,” he says. “You don’t have to say—” He turns to me for the first time, and his eyes widen. “Holy shit, Savannah! What did you do to your face?”

  He reaches to take my chin, turning me so he can get a better look. The gentleness of his touch is startling. I watch his eyes as he checks me over with concern.

  “How’d this happen?” he asks. “You have black-and-blue marks.”

  I can’t tell him. This is too much. He already knows about Retha and Travis, about my family; he can’t know how screwed up every aspect of my life is.

  “It was a Honda full of bitches,” I say, trying to smile. He doesn’t return it and lowers his hand.

  “I don’t believe you,” he says.

  My smile fades, and I turn toward the window. I’m humiliated. But I had no one else to call. Kathy would have had a heart attack if I asked her to pick me up. I couldn’t give her another reason to think less of me.

  “Who did this to you?” Cameron asks softly.

  I shake my head, refusing to say. Not wanting to admit how afraid I am.

  “Was it the asshole from the truck the other day?” he asks. “Do you know him?”

  But before I can answer, I burst out crying. I can still feel the slickness of Patrick’s tongue on my face. His hand on my ass. The pain in my cheeks. Retha and Travis are gone and I have no one to protect me from him. He’s going to kill me.

  Cameron reaches over and brings me to rest against his chest as I cry. He run
s his hand along my hair and he doesn’t say a word. He just lets me feel and holds me until I stop shaking.

  When I quiet, Cameron tucks my hair behind my ear. “Hey,” he says softly. “Can we go to my house for a little while?”

  I realize I’m holding on to him, my fingers knotted in his shirt. I’m becoming dependent, and I shouldn’t do that to him. Not when I have so many problems.

  “Just take me home,” I say, sniffling and straightening up in the passenger seat. Cameron doesn’t argue.

  He drives me home, and when we stop at the curb, I’m surprised to see my dad’s rusted truck in the driveway. He shouldn’t be home yet, and dread coils up in my stomach.

  “Is that your father’s?” Cameron asks, looking past me at the truck.

  I nod.

  “I want to come inside,” he says. “Will he let me?”

  Cameron’s bold. I turn to him and see that he’s staring at me differently. Not the way he used to. Not the “whatever you say, Sutton” look. This is more intense. More expectant, like now he has something to fight for.

  “He won’t let you,” I say quietly. I want Cameron to hold me again. I want to press my face into his neck as he strokes my hair. I want him to tell me it’ll be okay—I might believe him.

  “I should kidnap you,” Cameron says. “Take you to my house.”

  “You’re going to rescue me?”

  “Would you let me?” he asks, nodding out the windshield. “We can go right now. There are a lot of rooms at my house. My parents won’t find you for days.”

  I smile at him. He can’t save me. He can’t change my life. He’s just a guy.

  “Thanks for the ride, Cameron. For everything.” I open the door.

  “Hey,” he calls. He turns his face and taps his cheek. He’s playing around, but I like it. It’s sweet. So I lean in and softly kiss his cheek.

  I get out and walk to my house, and when I reach my door and look back, Cameron’s gone.

  I wish I’d left with him.