The Missing Piece

by Jessica Baxter

  “I was grieving. I thought—I thought I was going to lose mom.”

  “This is your fault. We would have been able to avoid this situation entirely if you would have taken your academics seriously. Don't come crying to me because you don't like the consequences of your actions—that's part of growing up. Deal with it.”

  Mom's cancer just came back, I want to scream into the phone, but instead, I try bargaining with my father one last time. “I—I'll get a job. I'll pay back every cent of my tuition.”

  “That's a wonderful idea,” he says and my stomach drops. The tone of his voice tells me that I'm going to regret the next words that come out of his mouth, very much. “In fact,” he says, slowly, menacingly. “I think it would be great if you just paid for everything from now on, so you really get the feel of true independence—”

  “Daddy, please.”

  “Enjoy the last of your allowance. I'm done sending you money to waste on frivolous things.”

  I want to scream, beg, cry until he agrees to let me come home, but it won’t work he’s already made up his mind, and once he’s done that there is nothing that will change it.

  I’m still fuming, mulling over the conversation with my father, trying to figure out how the hell he got mom to agree to his terms as I make my way to the cafeteria for lunch. Little balls of fury dance before my eyes as I find my way to the snack bar line, flickering like the flame on a candlewick.

  My father’s words bounce around my head, like a swarm of bees recently released from a trapped jar. How could he say I chose this? Doesn’t he know I need to see mom? I need to be with her, I need to know that everything is going to be alright, that she is going to be alright. How the hell am I supposed to do that if I’m stuck in Los Angeles?

  The line slowly shifts forward, the petite blonde in front of me quickly snatches the last ooey-gooey chocolate chip brownie up, and I groan.

  Can’t anything go right today?

  I settle for the day-old chocolate pudding that jiggles whenever a fork makes contact with it. I walk towards the back of the cafeteria, to the table my friends and I have dubbed as our own, sit down and slowly scrape the whipped topping off and scoop it into my mouth. My fork doesn’t even make a mark on the jellified pudding.

  Disgusting.

  The door leading to the courtyard opens, a brisk wind brushes my arms and I shiver. I catch a flash of black and blonde hair as the door closes shut.

  Danielle.

  I push my untouched desert—if you can call it that—out of the way and make my way towards the courtyard. Danielle is sitting under a giant Oak tree in the center of the courtyard with Calliope. I’m a few feet away when Calliope says, “I’m worried they’ll kick her out.”

  Danielle’s curls bounce as she shakes her head, the sun catches her nose ring making it glisten in the sun. “She won’t be kicked out. There are plenty of other students who have skipped more school than her and they haven’t been expelled. Besides, the head wouldn't expel someone whose mom is . . . ”

  Dying. I finish, my nose starts running, as clarity sinks in. My mom. Melanoma skin cancer. Stage four. 63% chance of survival. I glance down and am startled to find my hands tightly clutching my shirt. I shudder, take a deep breath and try to push my fears away.

  “Emily?” I sheepishly grin like a child sneaking their broccoli to the dog under the table, when I realize Danielle and Calliope have spotted me.

  “How are you?” They ask, running towards me. Danielle pulls me into a hug and Calliope soothingly rubs my arms.

  “Okay, I guess.”

  “Let's do something tonight—just us girls,” Calliope says.

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Are you sure you're okay?” Danielle asks.

  “No.” I look down at my battered pair of Chuck Taylors. “I’m not going home.”

  “What?” Danielle says. “I thought your dad was flying you home for Thanksgiving?”

  “Yeah, well, that was before I stopped going to class.”

  “Hold up,” Calliope says putting her hand on her hip. “He’s not letting you come home because you missed a few classes? Big deal! Your mom is dy—sick.”

  “That’s not stopping him,” I say, feeling the little balls of fury build up again. “He said it's my own fault and that I need to deal with the consequences of my actions.”

  Danielle tugs on her curls. “But there’s no way you’ll be able to focus on anything until you see her! And she needs you there. It isn’t fair! You should be at home with her!”

  Calliope strokes my hair, “I feel so helpless. I wish there was something I could do.”

  “I wish I could stay with you for the break,” Danielle says, pulling me into a hug.

  I rest my head on her shoulder and pull Calliope into our hug. “I know. Me too.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Monday night at precisely 7:30 PM I climb out of my cocoon of blankets and make my way down to the mandatory meeting for all students staying over Thanksgiving break. The sky is overcast and a chilling wind whips through the trees as I make my way towards campus. I much rather be curled up in my bed reading Pride and Prejudice.

  I'm walking past two tall oak trees, making a mental list of all the books I want to read over the next six days when a figure jumps out in front of me and I nearly crap my pants.

  “Boo.”

  My fists go in front of my face as I assume what I believe to be a fighter stance. The figure laughs. “You're doing it wrong.”

  “Ian?” I hiss. “What the hell are you doing? I almost gave you a black eye!”

  “No,” he says, walking towards me. He grabs my fist in his and adjusts my position, into a fighting stance. “You almost broke your hand. If you're going to punch someone, put your thumb over your fingers; don't tuck it on the inside.”

  “Oh. What are you doing here? Didn't you want to go home for the break?”

  “My family doesn't celebrate Thanksgiving.”

  Right. How did I forget about the accent?

  “So,” he says, grabbing my hand. “The real question is, what are we going to do over break?”

  The question sounds innocent enough and I'm sure Ian doesn't mean anything by it, but it makes my heart run laps in my chest nonetheless. “Anything, I guess. I was going to catch up on some reading.”

  “Really?” He arches his eyebrows at me. “Don't you want to go out and explore Los Angeles?”

  I nod. “I do, now that you're here.”

  When we reach the gymnasium we're still holding hands. Mr. Allen stands on a raised platform with a few of the other teachers and Mrs. Baldwin. Our eyes meet and he gives me a warm smile. Ian and I file into the fourth row. The gymnasium is pretty empty; out of the 950 students that attend Baldwin, there are only about 150 students here.

  “What do you think the meeting is about?”

  Ian shrugs. “I'm not sure.”

  As if on cue, Mrs. Baldwin walks to the stand, a placid smile on her lips. “As the Thanksgiving break approaches, I'd like to reiterate a few school rules, that will continue to be enforced even though we are a little understaffed this break. Under no circumstances, is there to be any one of the opposite sex in the same dorm rooms. Secondly, a curfew of 1:00 AM will be implemented. You will be required to check out and check in if you are leaving past 9:00 PM.” She stares everyone down like a vulture circling food. “Breaking these rules will result in severe consequences.”

  “Now,” she says, clapping her hands together. “On a lighter note, a few of our teachers have so graciously offered to host Thanksgiving dinners. If you would like to have a nice home-cooked Thanksgiving dinner, please contact the teacher that will be filling in for your RA and they will help make arrangements for you.”

  Ian pokes my side. “What do you want to do for Thanksgiving? Any special traditions?”

  A wave of courage pushes through me. I don't know if it's because I'll be alone with Ian for a week in the City of Angels or because my fa
ther cut me off. All I know is I don't want to sit here and watch my life pass me by, so I turn to Ian and say, “Something new and daring.”

  Thanksgiving morning, I quickly dress and then clamber up a flight of stairs to Ian's bedroom. I knock lightly on his door and when he doesn't answer I start singing “Zippity Doo Dah” at the top of my lungs. I know Ian doesn't care about Thanksgiving, but he's here, and I'm here, and I am determined to have a fantastic day.

  His door jerks open and he glares at me. “Stop. That.”

  Warmth rises to my cheeks. He's practically naked, except for a pair of vibrant green Batman boxers with the old-school Batman and Robin running around and the words 'Na-Na' sprawled across the fabric.

  “Happy Thanksgiving,” I say, flashing him my best I'm-sorry-I-woke-you-smile.

  He grunts, and then shuffles back to his bed but leaves the door open. My heart beats loudly in my chest as I let myself in. This is definitely something new, now I just need something daring.

  Ian's room is messy. Dirty clothes are piled in the corner, candy wrappers litter the floor, half-empty water bottles stick out from under the bed. The contents of his school bag scatter across his desk: blank worksheets and crumpled up notes.

  “Love what you've done with the place.” I move a stack of unopened textbooks from his desk chair.

  He shoves his head back into his pillow and gives me the British finger, before flashing me a smile that could stop World Hunger.

  “You don't have to stay,” he says, but I can feel the longing in his voice. He wants me to be here, in his room. Alone, with him.

  My cheeks flush, and I quickly duck my head. I glance around his room, taking everything in. The Union Jack that drapes over his window like a curtain, the neatly stacked Batman graphic novels that line his bookcase, the K'nex roller coaster that sits at the foot of his bed, the constant hum of the cart creates an alluring lullaby.

  Looking around Ian's room, it's easy to imagine him in his natural element. I can see him hunched over the roller coaster, spending hours at the foot of his bed as he slowly pieces it together. Or sitting at his desk, flipping through different history books about interesting places all over the world. My eyes dart to Ian's bed, he's lying there so peacefully, his eyes are closed and his chest slowly rises and falls. He's so beautiful. I want to run my fingers through his hair, feel his heartbeat under my hand. Ian rolls over on his side and his eyes flutter open. I quickly avert my gaze.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” I say, slowly swiveling around on his chair until I'm facing him again. “So . . . are you ready to party?”

  He sits up, and to my disappointment, pulls a white cotton shirt over his head. “Do I have a choice?”

  Twenty minutes later, when I let Ian into my room I’m a little disappointed to see the Batman boxers have disappeared. He's wearing a faded t-shirt with a mugshot of Darth Vader holding a sign asking for free hugs and brown cargo shorts.

  Ian wanders around my room, slowly, examining everything as if he’s seeing it for the first time. His eyes linger on my desk.

  “What happened to your picture?”

  My face warms. “I cut Mason out of the picture . . .”

  After my birthday, when I received Mason’s email, I was so annoyed and ticked off that I cut him out of the picture and then light his face on fire. It might sound psychotic, but it was really therapeutic and actually helped me move on and finally put Mason behind me.

  Ian raises his eyebrows at me, waiting for an explanation. When I don’t say anything else though, he clears his throat and says, “Well, I think it’s a major improvement . . .”

  I thought my face was warm earlier, but it is nothing compared to the inferno my cheeks feel now. I duck my head, letting my hair fall around my face like a curtain and smile to myself. My insides bouncing around with excitement like popcorn kernels in a popcorn machine.

  When I glance at Ian again, he’s in front of my dresser, inspecting my collection of Disney figurines, DVDs and books. He picks up one of my many Jim Shore figures and raises his deep blue eyes at me.

  I don't really have an explanation for my obsession with Jim Shore's wooden creations. All I know is they're Disney and beautiful and perfect in every way. Seriously, the amount of detail he puts into each one is enough to make me swoon.

  “Mads gets me one, whenever she sees them on sale.” I pause, my voice becoming softer. “Well, she used to anyway.”

  “Is she still not talking to you?”

  “No.” I sigh, a pang of sadness washes over me. “I haven't talked to her since before my birthday.”

  “Do you think things will get better when you go home for Christmas?”

  “I'm not sure,” I say, but the truth is, I've thought about this a lot. When Mads first cut me out of her life, I thought that after a week she would call and apologize or at least acknowledge my existence. After weeks of sending emails and trying to reach her at home with no answer though, I gave up. She didn't even return any of my calls when I found out about my mom's cancer.

  He nods and then wanders over to my desk and puts the Jim Shore figurine down and I cringe.

  Breathe Em, breathe.

  I'll just put the figurine back in its proper place when I get back home later tonight. No biggie. But as I'm trying to calm down my body has plans of its own. I'm barely aware that I walk over to my desk, grab the figurine, put it back where it belongs and then start aligning everything to perfection.

  “Sorry,” Ian mutters.

  “For Mads? It's okay, I mean I miss her, but if she couldn't be there when I needed her the most then she's not really a good friend.” I grab a couple books off of my desk and stack them back on the shelf. “Besides,” I say, winking at him. “I've made some pretty good friends since being here in Los Angeles.”

  “No—I mean yes.” He runs his fingers through his hair. “I'm sorry that Mads turned out to be a crappy friend, but I was apologising because you keep moving everything I touch.”

  “Oh.” I pull my hands away quickly as if my possessions have suddenly turned into lava. “I didn't mean too. It's just I have a place for everything and it bothers me if something is out of place.”

  He smiles broadly at me. “I thought you were a neat freak; this just confirms it.”

  “I just like being organized,” I say, as Ian starts looking around the room intently like he's trying to find a secret passageway into Narnia.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Looking for your planner.” He says, pulling some books off the shelf and glancing behind them. “You must have a step by step itinerary around here somewhere.”

  “Careful,” I say, grabbing my planner out of my top dresser drawer. “I'll make one.”

  “Please,” he says, covering his eyes like the scene in front of him is too much to bear. “Anything, but that.”

  I throw the Winnie the Pooh plush sitting on my dresser at him. He catches it before it hits him, a lazy smile on his face. My insides warm up, slowly, the way a mug of hot chocolate warms you from the inside out after a cold winter's day. It's been so long since I've felt so . . . at ease. I focus on the beautiful boy in front of me.

  The way his hair sticks up a little at the back, the curvature of his shoulders and neck, the way his lips curl into a breathtaking smile, making his dimples pop out.

  “So, where are we going?” He asks, flopping down on my bed. My heart flutters.

  I shrug my shoulders. “We'll know when we get there.”

  “What?” He puts his hand to his chest like he's in shock. “You really don't have a plan?”

  “No,” I say, shaking my head.

  Having everything planned out and scheduled keeps me calm and it's taking everything not to open my planner and jot down Thanksgiving plans. It's okay if everything isn't planned out, I remind myself. Following a strict itinerary isn't daring or new. I might not have everything figured out, and I might always be scared, but I'm going to take that leap of fa
ith and step outside of my comfort zone.

  Ian stands up and walks towards me, his eyes locking with mine. I watch as his eyes slowly flicker down to my lips and back again. He smiles again, but this time his smile is full and dazzling and brilliant and it catches me off guard. My heart speeds up with anticipation as he leans in.

  Should I close my eyes?

  His fingers brush my cheek, and then he pulls away. “Eyelash.”

  Heat rises to my cheeks. “E—excuse me?”

  “You know, make a wish and all that,” he says, a slight smirk on his lips, then he pulls away.

  “Oh.” He holds his hand out, my eyelash rests on his finger. “Is this one of those you-can't say-your-wish-out-loud situations again?”

  “Emily,” he says, looking appalled. “You should never say a wish aloud.”

  I smile at him, mischievously. “Just checking.”

  Then, I close my eyes and wish for Ian to kiss me.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  “There it is!”

  Ian follows my gaze to a granite archway made of stone with a Hollywoodland establishment sign in the upper right corner. The sky is a periwinkle blue, the air feels fresh and light. Nothing like the autumn weather back in Ohio.

  “That’s your plan?” He asks warily. “You want to climb the stairs to nowhere?”

  “The stairs don’t lead to nowhere. Besides, aren’t you up for a little adventure?”

  “I guess.” He says. “But we’ll need some food.”

  We walk past the granite archway towards the Beachwood Café, which is nestled between the Village Coffee Shop and a run-down bookstore. The cafe's door is a vibrant, deep blue with a picture of a sky-blue castle on the window. The words Beachwood Café are written across the side windowpane in the same sky-blue.

  “How's Sophie?”

  “Good.”

  Ian opens the door and the scent of freshly baked loaves of bread, soup, and pastries enter my nose.

  “Really good actually. When I spoke with her last she told me that the doctors are so impressed with the progress she's made that they're going to let her come home for a temporary trial next month. If everything goes well and she doesn't regress, they'll let her stay home for good.”