Every Missing Piece

by Melanie Conklin

  I breathed a sigh of relief, knowing she wouldn’t barge in. I could do without her glare searing into my skin. “What does she do?”

  “She’s been helping Diesel’s dad at the construction office, doing paperwork and stuff.”

  That made sense. Mr. Jessup was a contractor, which was part of the reason why they had such a big, fancy house. My mind raced, thinking of other questions to ask.

  “Where’d y’all move from?”

  He looked down, stubbing his toe. “Asheville.”

  Which is clear on the other side of the state from Fayetteville, where Billy went missing.

  A sinking feeling gathered in the pit of my stomach. I’d hoped there would be some kind of clue inside this trailer, but I didn’t see anything that tied Eric to Billy Holcomb. There were other questions I could ask, but you can only pry so much before a person gets ornery.

  “Want a Cheerwine?” Eric asked.

  I gave him a thumbs-up. Cheerwine is only the best soda in the whole wide world. While he poured red soda into plastic cups, I looked in the Winnie-the-Pooh jars on the counter. The first one held flour. The second, sugar. And the third held a thick wad of cash.

  There is nothing like a pile of money to make your heart skip a beat. I set the lid down as fast as I could without breaking it.

  Eric handed me my cup. “I’m sorry about your daddy,” he said, his voice soft but serious. “Diesel said he was a hero. That he saved your life.”

  For a split second, I felt naked as a freshly shucked corncob. “Diesel said that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, that’s none of his business. Or yours.”

  “I’m not saying that to be mean. Anyway, I’m sorry he’s dead, but at least he was good.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that. You don’t thank someone for reminding you that your father is dead. But you aren’t supposed to yell at them, either.

  “What about your dad?” I asked.

  Eric frowned like he was about to say “none of your business,” and I felt bad for prying so hard, but then Frankie came over and started licking his chewed-up fingers, probably tasting all the spit he’d left there. Dogs can be gross like that.

  Eric rubbed her ears and she head-butted him. He laughed, and suddenly he didn’t look so mysterious anymore, even though he had a cookie jar full of money and those dark eyebrows that didn’t match his Barbie doll hair and that face like Billy Holcomb’s.

  He looked like a kid who could use a friend.

  The truth is, you can bait your trap with peanut butter, but that doesn’t mean you’ll always get squirrels. Sometimes you’ll catch a possum.

  That’s what happened the first time Dad and I tried to catch that mama squirrel in the garage. We filled the squirrel trap with bait, but what we found the next day was a possum lying in it, all limp and not moving. Dad was upset at first because he thought the possum was dead. He got a broom to push it out of the garage, but as soon as he touched it, the possum rolled over and hissed at us with these giant yellow teeth. We both screamed bloody murder.

  “I better go,” I said, and Eric walked out to the road with me and Frankie. That time, before I rode away, I turned back and waved good-bye.

  10

  THE LIVING MUSEUM

  Eric didn’t show up for school the following Thursday. I sat in the library wondering where he was while Miss Rivera told us that we were going to spend the next few weeks building a Living Museum. That didn’t sound too exciting at first, but then she explained that we were going to dress up like historical figures and tell their stories, which was kind of cool.

  “Countless people have made important contributions to our world,” Miss Rivera said. She was dressed as Amelia Earhart, though her goggles looked more like the science kind than the airplane kind. “Each of you will identify a historical figure, research their contribution to the world, and share their story in our Living Museum. Remember, stories are the language of history. We share stories of the past to prepare for the future. Plus, it’s fun to dress up.”

  She struck a pose, and everyone laughed.

  Next to me, Cress was already circling names on the list of historical figures we’d been given. She’d also written another list of her own ideas. Miss Rivera said that if we had a figure in mind who wasn’t on the list, we could make our case for them to get approval. The best costumes and speeches would win prizes. First place was a gift card to the Dollar Tree and a special pizza lunch with Miss Rivera, which wasn’t half bad.

  “You will begin your research this morning in the library,” Miss Rivera said. “This project is across departments, so you’ll also get the opportunity to create props during Art and write your speech and long-form essay in English Language Arts. You’re welcome to work here during lunch or study hall at the end of the day—the choice is yours. Remember, as Amelia Earhart said, ‘The most effective way to do it is to do it.’ Now break!”

  Nervous chatter broke out as everyone started talking about who they might become.

  Cress chewed her lip. “I can’t decide who I want to be.”

  “You don’t have to choose right now.”

  “I don’t want to waste any time. You’ll help me with the props, right? You’re so good at making models. I hate papier-mâché. It feels like cold snot.”

  I laughed. “Sure, I’ll touch the snot for you.”

  She smiled in relief. “Thanks.”

  I followed her over to the computers, thumbing my list. Cress’s mom is a big-time attorney whose favorite saying is “Don’t put off till tomorrow what you can do today.” Sometimes I think Cress takes that too seriously. I liked doing a good job in school, but I wasn’t the best in my class. And I had absolutely no idea who I wanted to be. It felt like a big responsibility, bringing history to life. An idea caught in the corner of my mind, but it scuttled away before I could grab hold of it, like a crawfish jetting under a rock.

  While Cress hemmed and hawed over whether she should be Michelle Obama or Katherine Johnson, I typed in “Hillary Clinton” and started reading, but I couldn’t concentrate.

  My mind kept wandering back to Eric.

  It would be so easy to make friends and act like everything was normal. Then I wouldn’t have to worry about disappointing Mom or getting in trouble with Sheriff Dobbs. But then I thought of Dad, and how I could barely remember the feel of his hand in mine. How he was here one day and gone the next, and I knew I couldn’t act like everything was normal.

  Because it wasn’t.

  There was something weird going on with that kid.

  Cress was busy making a list of pros and cons, so I brought up Billy Holcomb’s picture again to see if I’d missed anything. Some small scar or mole that was an undeniable match to Eric. This one picture came up over and over again: an old school photo where Billy isn’t really smiling, just sort of staring at the camera. He’s squeezed into a faded T-shirt that’s way too small for him, and his hair is so big and bushy that it puffs out like a helmet.

  Eric’s and Billy’s faces were so similar, but Eric’s cheeks were leaner and Billy’s skin was more tan. Eric was pasty white, like he hadn’t been outside much lately. Plus, Billy’s hair was brown, and I couldn’t see any stick-out ears hiding under it, but they did have the same dark eyebrows and half smile. The longer I looked, the faster my heart raced.

  “What’s that?” Cress asked.

  I shut the window. “Nothing. I was checking something.” After the Skate-A-Thon, I’d promised Cress that I’d stop freaking out. She didn’t want me to be the school weirdo, either.

  Her eyes squinched up. “That was the kid who went missing last fall, wasn’t it?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Why’re you looking at pictures of him?”

  I winced. Could I really tell her what I thought about Eric without her thinking I was freaking out again? “Well…”

  She rolled her eyes. “Blood oath, remember?”

  I took a deep breath. “Yo
u know that kid Eric?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I think… I think he might be that kid who went missing last fall.”

  As soon as I said it, I felt silly as a goose.

  Cress brought Billy’s picture back up on the screen and studied it. She stared and stared at his face while she worried at her lip like she was going to chew it clean off.

  “You know what,” she said. “I think you might be right.”

  11

  PATTERNS

  According to Cress, our brains are wired to see patterns in everything. Rock formations. Paint splotches. The random folds of bark in an old tree. We look for patterns in everything we see, finding ears and eyes and mouths and noses. Anything can look like a face if you stare at it long enough, like the people who found Jesus in a slice of burned toast. But if Cress thought Eric looked like Billy, too, that meant I wasn’t imagining it.

  “His nose definitely matches,” she said. “See how stubby it is?”

  “Yeah. And his smile.”

  Cress ran a few more searches on the library computer, looking for better pictures of Billy, but only a couple popped up—the school photo and another one that was fuzzy, like the photographer zoomed in on a picture taken from far away.

  “I guess his family wasn’t into taking pictures,” she said.

  “Or they all got destroyed in a fire.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Not everything is a disaster, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “I mean, other than your hair.”

  I smacked her arm and she laughed, but I did take a second to redo my ponytail. It was still all lumpy on the top. Some people have a talent for things like hair and clothes, but my skills lie more in stubbornness and determination.

  After school, I made the world’s easiest lemon pie from a box of instant filling and one of Mom’s frozen piecrusts. She always makes two at a time and sticks one in the freezer for later. She thought it was sweet that I was making a pie for my new friend. I wasn’t about to tell her that it was only an excuse to go over there and spy on him.

  While the pie set in the fridge, I tried to knock off some homework. Miss Rivera had given us a thick packet of worksheets for the Living Museum, and it wasn’t the kind of stuff I could copy from Cress’s packet, either. It was all personal questions about people we admired and history we wanted to explore. I got the first page done and felt like I needed a nap, so I helped Mom get dinner ready instead—broccoli-potato soup with slices of crunchy baguette.

  Mom had a shift at the hospital that night, so we ate as soon as Stan walked through the door. That way she had plenty of time to put her feet up. By then, the pie had to be ready, so it was all I could do to sit still while Mom and Stan ate and talked about boring everyday stuff.

  “Did you finish the big project you were working on?” Mom asked Stan.

  “Almost,” he said. “I might have to go in on Saturday night to oversee the conversion. We were planning to leave the rollout to the office in India, but they’re having problems with their network, so we might have too much data loss.”

  Mom made a sympathetic noise, and I tried not to moan into my soup. I have nothing against computers, but Stan made them sound about as fun as watching paint dry.

  “I have an extra night off this week,” Mom said. “Friday.”

  “Maybe you’d like to join us on Saturday?” Stan looked at me. “What did we decide? Disco bowling or the nature center’s river walk?”

  I was so focused on shoveling in my soup as fast as possible that I couldn’t remember for a second. “Sorry. The river walk, I think?”

  Mom smiled. “That sounds lovely, but I’ll leave it to you two. It’ll be nice to catch up on my shows while you’re out.” She stood and stretched. “I’m going to put my feet up for a bit.”

  “I’m going to take that pie over,” I said, slurping the last of my soup.

  “I’ll come with you,” Stan offered. He glanced at Mom. “As long as you don’t mind.”

  “Go right ahead. I’ll enjoy the peace and quiet.”

  She kissed him on the cheek and I tried not to pace as he straightened up the kitchen and took forever lacing up his sneakers—seriously, how long does it take to tie shoes? I must have been staring pretty hard because Stan cleared his throat and smiled sheepishly at me, which sent a stab of guilt through my heart. He was being nice. He didn’t know that I needed to get to Eric’s trailer ASAP.

  Or why.

  Finally, we headed out, this time leaving Frankie behind. She watched us go with big sad eyes, but tonight, I needed all my focus. Cress agreeing with me about the similarities between Eric and Billy had made things more serious. If Eric really was Billy Holcomb, then he was lying to everyone about who he was. You don’t change your name and hair color for nothing.

  Cress said the reason our brains sort images into patterns is a matter of survival. Brains that recognize threats stay alive. The ones that don’t get eaten. I wasn’t freaking out. My brain was simply doing what it had evolved to do.

  I pumped hard on the way to the Jessups’ while Stan coasted along, admiring the breeze and the tiger lilies blooming in neighbors’ yards while I tried not to explode from impatience.

  “Is this pie for your new friend?” he asked. “Your mom said you’ve been hanging out.”

  Oh my God. Mom was talking about boys with Stan. “Yeah. I guess.”

  “Are you… do you, um…” Stan searched for the words, stumbling like he was playing pig-pickin’ charades. “Are you just friends?”

  I nodded. No way on earth was I talking about boys with Stan.

  Once we reached the Jessups’ place, I had a different problem: what to do with Stan while I went to see Eric. Stan didn’t need to know what I was up to. “I’m going to drop this off real quick,” I said, untying the pie box from my handlebars. “You don’t have to wait for me.”

  “I don’t mind waiting,” Stan said, which made me feel bad for ditching him. When I hesitated, he added, “It’s okay. I’ll keep an eye out for shooting stars.”

  While Stan waited by the road, I crept through the woods, careful not to snag any booby traps. There were more of those cracked bowls out by the trailer, like decorations in a strange outdoor living room. The fading sunlight caught on the metallic cracks, making them gleam. I walked up to the trailer slowly, checking for clues that weren’t there and wishing I had a better plan.

  The door flew open and Eric popped out of the trailer like he spent all day looking out the windows, waiting for me to come by. He was wearing jeans and a faded blue sweatshirt with Carolina written across the front. There was a little triangle-shaped tear next to the second a. “Hey,” I said, glad to see him alive but also wanting to shout, “I know who you are and I’m here to save you!” Only that would sound totally nuts. Even with Cress agreeing, there was still a big part of me that knew I could be wrong. That I was going to let everyone down again. That I was following the same old pattern—one that didn’t do me any favors.

  “I made you another pie,” I said, lifting the box. “It’s lemon.”

  He brightened. “I love lemon.”

  I lifted the lid, but instead of looking awesome, the whipped topping had melted into a sad puddle of marshmallow. “Dang. I should’ve used Cool Whip.”

  Eric swiped his finger through the mess. “Mmm! Tastes good to me.” He started walking toward the trailer and I followed after him.

  “Why weren’t you at school today?” I asked.

  “I had somewhere else to be.”

  “Did you have to go to the doctor? Or the dentist? I hate getting my teeth cleaned.”

  He looked at me like I was acting weird.

  Because I was.

  It was ridiculous, me acting like a junior detective, but from what I could tell, me and Cress were the only ones who had any idea that Eric might really be Billy Holcomb. It was up to me to do something about it, even if I felt ludicrous for trying.

  “So, I was wo
ndering. Y’all came from Asheville, right? Did you grow up there, or somewhere else? Like maybe somewhere out east?” I asked.

  Eric’s eyes widened.

  I could feel the truth hovering in the air between us for a long, slow minute. Then something rustled in the woods and Stan popped out from behind a tree with his skinny arms held out for balance.

  “There you are,” he said. “I got worried.”

  I spotted the twine strung between the trees a split second before he reached it.

  “Stan, don’t!”

  But before Stan could understand what I was saying, his foot hit the trigger and down he went, squealing like a stuck pig.

  12

  THAT AGAIN

  Now, I said before that Stan is a good guy, a great guy even. Because he is. But the one thing he is not is scary. To begin with, Stan is skinny as a swamp reed. He wears glasses. He sniffs every once in a while, like he’s always on the edge of a cold. Flopping around in a booby trap, he looked about as harmless as a baby bird that had fallen out of its nest, but that didn’t stop Kelsey from racing out of the trailer like her hair was on fire, waving a frying pan.

  “Get away from him!” she screamed, swinging the pan in Stan’s direction. When she reached Eric, she flung her arm in front of him, herding him back.

  “Stop grabbing me,” Eric shouted.

  “Would you listen to me for once,” she shouted back.

  Meanwhile, Stan’s arms and legs flailed, his limbs caught up in an old fishing net that had been strung over the shallow pit of Eric’s booby trap.

  “It’s okay,” I said, stepping in front of Stan. “He’s my stepdad.”

  It felt weird to call Stan that. I hadn’t introduced him to many people since he and Mom got married. Usually I called him “Stan.”

  Kelsey blinked. “You’re that girl.”

  “Maddy,” I said. “Maddy Gaines. Eric’s friend? We just came over to visit.”

  She lowered the frying pan, but her grip was still white-knuckled.