Every Missing Piece

by Melanie Conklin

  Stan finally freed his arms from the tangle of netting and sat up. The sides of the pit only came up to his waist.

  “Hello,” he said from the ground. He got to his feet, brushed off his khakis, and extended a hand. “I’m Stan Wachowski. Pleased to meet you.”

  Kelsey gave Stan a quick nod, ignoring his out-stretched hand. He shifted his hand toward Eric, who flinched. Stan let his hand drop. “Sorry for barging in. I was checking on Maddy.”

  “And I was bringing you a pie,” I said.

  Eric held up the pie box, and Kelsey glared at it like it was booby-trapped, too.

  “It’s lemon,” Eric said, but she only glared harder.

  “How many times have I got to tell you?” she said. “You don’t need to build them traps.”

  “It’s your fault we need them,” Eric shot back.

  All the fire went out of Kelsey at once. Eric’s face closed up like a book, and an awkward silence settled over us.

  If I set aside their hair color, Kelsey and Eric looked an awful lot alike. Same stubby nose, same blue eyes, but their ears were different. Kelsey’s didn’t stick out. Her black hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and on second look, it was definitely dyed. A dark blue tattoo peeked out from under the sleeve of her green Lucky T-shirt.

  Before I could figure out what to say next, Diesel Jessup’s father charged around the trailer with a shotgun in his hands. He ran in front of Kelsey and Eric and started to lift the gun.

  “John, it’s me!” Stan shouted, and recognition lit in Mr. Jessup’s eyes.

  He lowered the gun and bent over his knees, his breath coming in heavy pants. “Dang it, Stan. I just about shot you.” He glanced at Kelsey. “You okay?”

  She had her arm around Eric, who actually let her hold him for a second before he shook her off and moved away. “We’re fine,” Kelsey said.

  Mr. Jessup blew out a long breath. “Good Lord. I thought Bob was out here. About gave me a heart attack.” He lifted his hat to wipe his bald head. “Sorry about that, Stan.”

  “It’s okay,” Stan said a little weakly, his eyes still fixed on the gun.

  Mr. Jessup’s eyes settled on me. “Well, hello there, Maddy Gaines. It’s been a while since we’ve seen you.”

  “I’ve been busy,” I said, leaving out the part about Diesel being a jerk. “Are they your family or something?” I said, looking between Mr. Jessup and Kelsey.

  Kelsey’s eyes went wide, but Mr. Jessup gave me a big ol’ smile. “Naw, we’re old friends is all. We go way back.”

  “Maybe you know my wife, then?” Stan said to Kelsey. “Sarah Wachowski. Formerly Gaines. Her parents have since moved down to Florida, but she went to Northern High School.”

  “Never heard of her,” Kelsey said, her eyes hard. “I think you’d best be on your way.”

  “Of course.” Stan nodded. “Sorry again for the confusion.”

  Mr. Jessup tipped his hat. “I’ll see you around, Stan. Tell Sarah I said hello.”

  “Sorry about the trap,” Eric said.

  Stan waved him off. “No worries. Really.”

  “It’s not like it worked or anything,” I joked.

  Eric gave me that sly grin of his. “Good thing I didn’t put the spikes in yet.”

  Stan and I were quiet as we walked back to the road. It was late enough that the stars were coming out, and my mind buzzed with everything that had happened. I needed to get home and call Cress so we could talk in private. Hopefully she’d be willing to help me figure it all out.

  “Well, that was interesting,” Stan said as we climbed on our bikes.

  “You can say that again.”

  “‘That again,’” he said, and I groaned.

  Stan may be a good guy, but he is very, very far from cool.

  13

  THE BIRDS AND THE BEES

  I woke up to the sound of singing. Mom was sitting on the edge of my bed, running her nails over my back while she hummed “You Are My Sunshine.” Dad used to sing it, too, but my favorite was when they sang it together. Their voices were a perfect match.

  I peeked at Dad’s picture on my nightstand, and a pang of loneliness struck my heart.

  Mom hadn’t finished yet, but I rolled over and wiped the sweaty, tangled hair out of my eyes.

  “We need to get you a haircut,” she said as she finger-raked my bangs, which wouldn’t stay in place. I don’t have the kind of hair that takes orders. “I can’t remember when your hair’s been this long.” She sat back, revealing a church-shaped box on the bed next to her.

  “You got Munchkins?”

  “Of course.”

  She opened the box and we each grabbed a small, round doughnut—chocolate glazed for me and cinnamon sugar for her. The doughnut was still crispy on the outside, the icing flaky and fresh. I inhaled the first one and reached for another as Mom moved Croc out of the way.

  “I heard you had quite the adventure last night,” she said. “You didn’t mind that Stan came along, did you?”

  “No.”

  “Good. He thought maybe you did.”

  Did I? When he showed up and fell into Eric’s booby trap, yes. But other than that, I wasn’t sure. “I thought he was gonna faint when Mr. Jessup ran up with his gun.”

  Mom nodded grimly. “Well, Stan isn’t so used to seeing guns. I assured him that John’s more interested in shooting copperheads than people. He said you didn’t bat an eye.”

  I smiled, surprised by the compliment. “Well, it was a little scary.”

  “I can imagine.” Mom looked off, thinking. “I’ll have to check in with John and make sure everything’s okay.”

  That was just like Mom. She always wanted to help people. I think that’s why she became a nurse. One time when I was little, she threw a hunk of firewood at a black snake in our yard to make it drop a baby bunny. The snake spit that rabbit out so fast. I still remember what Mom looked like, standing there in her nursing uniform, flinging logs over her head.

  “Hey, Mom?”

  “Mm-hmm?”

  “Did you know a girl named Kelsey in high school?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “She’s staying with Eric in the Jessups’ trailer.”

  Mom gave me a soft smile. “Oh, right. Stan said she was quite the character. No, I can’t say I know her. Why?” There it was—a hint of concern in her eyes.

  “She sounds like she’s from around here.”

  “She might be. I don’t know everyone in town.”

  “What about someone named Bob? Mr. Jessup was worried he was there.”

  Mom made a face. “What is this about exactly?”

  “Nothing. Never mind.” I stuffed another doughnut in my mouth and acted cool.

  Mom watched me chew. “You know, when I got my driver’s license, Grandpa gave me this old Ford he had sitting in the garage for years. That truck was the most unreliable thing. Broke down every week, and when I couldn’t afford to fix it, John worked on it for free.”

  “He did?”

  “Yep. That’s how we met. I drove over to visit your dad at the trailer park and the truck died in his drive-way, so he called John to help me out. John’s family didn’t have much, but he and his dad used to fix up old junkers and sell them. You know John put himself through college that way? He’s a good man, same as your father was.”

  Her eyes got all soft and shiny. “Anywho, I hope you’re having fun with Stan on your adventures. I know he is.”

  She smiled, and I felt plain rotten inside, remembering how I’d wished that Stan hadn’t even come along for the bike ride the night before. He was trying.

  “The planetarium was fun.”

  “Good,” Mom said. “That’s great to hear. I know I’ve said it before, but I want you to be happy, Mads. There’s been a lot of change around here, and… well, there are going to be some more changes. You’re growing up, and Stan and I—”

  “Mom. This isn’t a sex talk, is it? Because we already did that in sc
hool.”

  One day in fifth grade they sent the girls to one room and the boys to another room and gave us puberty talks. It was awful. First they started talking about body changes, and then about the birds and the bees. At the end they gave us tiny folded pamphlets that were different for each group and included all kinds of tips on going through the change. We spent the rest of the day trying to steal each other’s pamphlets, even though I think everyone was equally as horrified to find out what was in the other group’s pamphlet as to never know at all.

  “Oh my goodness,” Mom said. “It did sound like that, didn’t it?” She rubbed her hands over her face, her eyes heavy and tired. “I guess you’re almost right. Listen, how would you feel about adding to our family?” She looked at me in a way that said this was a lot more serious than adopting a puppy or something like that. Which could only mean—

  “Like a baby?”

  She nodded. “Like a baby.”

  A baby. Mom and Stan’s baby. My throat got tight just thinking about it. I mean, I knew this could happen now that they were married, but hearing that word made it so real.

  “It’s okay if you’re not excited about the idea,” Mom said. “You might even feel angry or sad. That’s normal. You can tell me and I won’t get mad. Scout’s honor.” She smiled and held up three fingers, which was an inside joke. I got thrown out of the Brownies for not being Scout material. I had Becky Thorpe’s little brother sit on my stadium seat pad to check it for size and sewed it to his shorts. Really, I was just mad that we weren’t out in the woods lighting fires.

  I swallowed hard against the lump that was growing in my throat. I should be happy about a baby. I should want a little brother or sister.

  Mom squeezed my hand. “Change is hard for me, too. Do you remember how many paint swatches I got for the living room before we finally finished it?”

  “A million?”

  “Try two million. Your father would’ve known what he wanted in a heartbeat, but I’m not built like he was. It takes me a while to get used to a new idea. This is a big one, but I think a little brother or sister could be fun for you. Can you imagine Stan changing diapers?”

  She wanted me to laugh, but I couldn’t, though I did imagine little diaper-changing diagrams written in Stan’s precise block letters, like an assembly line for poop emergencies.

  “Oh, honey.” Mom wrapped her arms around me. “Are we okay?”

  I nodded against her shoulder and she said, “Remember, we’re in this together, Mads. You and me. No matter what happens, I’ll always be here for you.”

  She hugged me tight, and I felt how much she wanted me to be okay. I wasn’t a little kid anymore. I was eleven. Almost twelve. Mom needed to know I wasn’t going to freak out. She needed to know she could trust me. I pushed that awful emptiness aside and looked into her eyes.

  “I love you, honey,” she said.

  “I know.”

  “I know you know, but it’s my job to say it as many times as you need to hear it.” She smiled, plucked a powdered doughnut from the box, and booped my nose.

  I smiled back and did the same thing to her.

  14

  ALSO KNOWN AS BOB

  On the bus, Cress’s eyes were sleepy and red. She yawned as I slid into our seat and handed me a purple binder. Inside, the pages were covered in brightly colored Post-it notes. Her neat cursive filled the squares—all notes about Billy Holcomb.

  “Wow, you did all of this last night?”

  She nodded. “After I finished half of my packet.”

  “You did half already?”

  “Yeah. I need to decide who I’m going to be so I can put my name on the list.” Miss Rivera had posted a list in the library with slots to sign up for a Living Museum character. There could only be one of each person. I still had no idea who I wanted to be.

  I smoothed my hand over Cress’s pages. She had organized the evidence into neat rows with guesses as to what each clue meant. Like Eric’s name: Eric Smith. Was that his real name? And his super-blond hair. Either he was a true blond or we’d spot dark roots one day. Cress had listed both possibilities with an empty check box next to each. There were boxes for every other detail about him: his height, his weight, his eye color, and what matched or didn’t match according to the missing-person report and our guesses.

  Then there was the news I’d told Cress last night—how Mr. Jessup was so worried about someone named Bob being down by the trailer that he ran up with a gun.

  “Listen,” Cress said. “I have to show you something. Promise you won’t freak out.”

  “I won’t freak out.”

  “Swear on the blood oath.”

  “I swear on the blood oath, okay?”

  “Look at Billy’s dad’s name,” Cress said, pointing at an article she’d printed out and highlighted, right next to her handwritten notes.

  “Robert Holcomb,” I read aloud.

  “Also known as Bob.”

  “Dirty wipes! Do you think that’s the Bob Mr. Jessup was talking about?”

  “Might be. These are facts. My mom says people lie all the time, but facts do not lie.”

  Spelled out like that, it did look like more than a wild guess. Mr. Jessup could’ve been talking about Billy’s dad. Which meant there was a connection between Eric and Billy.

  “What if this is real?” I whispered. “What if Eric really is Billy Holcomb?”

  I imagined calling the sheriff’s office. The police flooding our neighborhood, surrounding the trailer with searchlights, sirens blaring, like a scene out of a movie. Then I imagined them telling me that Eric Smith wasn’t Billy Holcomb and how Sheriff Dobbs would look at me with that awful mixture of pity and sadness in his eyes.

  “Relax, Mads,” Cress said. “There have to be a million dads named Robert who go by ‘Bob.’ We need evidence that it’s really him—like a photo, or a birth certificate. Something real, that’s on paper. A case lives or dies on the evidence.”

  Cress was right. We needed evidence.

  Grown-ups never believe kids until they’ve seen a thing with their own eyes.

  I let out a long, slow breath. “Mom and Stan want to have a baby.”

  “Wait, what?” Cress said, her eyes wide.

  “It’s weird, right? I mean, they’re old.”

  “They’re not that old. Not like grandparents old.”

  I bumped her arm. “Ew, gross!”

  Cress laughed as the bus pulled into the school parking lot. “Speaking of gross, Mom said I’m getting my braces next week. I’m going to look like such a dork.”

  “No you won’t. Lots of kids have braces.”

  “It’s metal. In my mouth. And rubber bands! Mia says the boys made fun of her every day. They called her Brace Face and said she had germs.”

  “Who cares what boys think? If they say anything, I’ll shut them up.”

  Cress smiled as the bus pulled into our spot and jerked to a stop. We stood up to join the line of kids filing down the aisle, but before we could get out, Diesel cut us off.

  “My daddy said you were on our property again,” he said to me.

  “So?”

  “So, take a hint.”

  “You’re the one who can’t take a hint.” I knew being smart would only make him mad, but I couldn’t help myself. He looked so silly trying to threaten me. Like a big, goofy bull.

  His nostrils flared.

  “Come on, Maddy,” Cress whispered. “Give him a break.”

  And in that split second, I saw something I hadn’t noticed before: While Cress was talking to me, Diesel was looking at Cress, and she was kind of smiling, looking down like she was shy of him. Something shifted in my gut—a deep, gross feeling, like falling off my bike.

  “Come on, Cress. Let’s go,” I said, pulling her past Diesel.

  I tried not to notice when she glanced back at him.

  That afternoon, I tried to work on my Living Museum packet at home. First I searched all the historical figures
on Miss Rivera’s list, but nothing really sparked. Each person was interesting and they’d all done amazing things, but when I tried to write about any of them, I started thinking about Dad and wondering if anyone would ever study him this way.

  Where were the books that recorded ordinary people?

  Every year in November, we celebrate Dad’s birthday. Mom always makes a cake and we spend the day telling stories about him. My favorite is the one about how they met. Mom was in high school, working the funnel-cake booth at the county fair when one of the ride operators walked up. He wanted a funnel cake without powdered sugar, but he didn’t have any money. He said he’d take a reject if she had it. Mom rolled her eyes because people were always asking for free funnel cakes. Who doesn’t like crunchy fried dough? But there was something in Dad’s dimpled smile that changed her mind, a kindness that made her heart swirl.

  “He didn’t look hungry,” she said. “He looked hopeful.”

  On Mom’s break, she brought him a plain funnel cake on a paper plate. It wasn’t even burned, which made her stomach feel like it was full of butterflies. Dad took the funnel cake and asked her to follow him. She didn’t know why she went—maybe it was that hope written in his dimples—but she followed him to the back of the Whirl-A-Gig, and when they got there, Dad crouched down and lifted up a scrap of corrugated metal. Beneath the metal was a family of baby raccoons. They looked like little bandits in hiding.

  Mom took one look at Dad feeding those babies, and that was it. She was in love.

  “How do you know if you love someone?” I’d asked her, when she first told me about Stan. Love seemed like some kind of mysterious force that traveled invisibly between people. It didn’t seem right that you couldn’t see it or control it, and that it could strike at any time.

  “I ask myself if I can live without this person,” Mom said. “If the answer is no, it’s love. That’s how I felt the first time I saw you. Your eyes were squeezed shut, like this world was too much to look at. I brought your little face right up to mine, and finally, you cracked your eyes open. I never thought I could love someone as much as I loved your father, but then you came along and showed me different. I’ve been learning from you ever since.”