And I ask her if Sarah is right, if it is time to say good-bye. But I don’t get an answer. All I hear is the sound of Sarah, her laughter stretched out behind me. And I think that maybe it isn’t time, not yet. Not for me. But I can see that one day it will be.
33.
You want me to have words. But I have cigarettes. I have gin. Can’t you tell how I feel by the way I touch you?
Jessie
AFTER. APRIL.
The Monday after we take Sarah to Mount Holy Oak, Mom forces me to go back to school. I’m pretty miserable by first period. That’s because everyone is talking about me—even Lola, who has changed the location of her locker so it’s no longer next to mine.
Maybe Mrs. Medina senses my dread. Because as soon as we settle down, she writes an essay prompt on the board: What was the one moment that changed your life forever?
That means today will be a silent day. Thank God.
I pull out pen and paper from my bag and set it on my desk. Then I stare at the board, thinking of the last year and all the moments that have changed me: Ellie kissing me, the stolen sketch pad, standing up to Lola, losing Ellie and then finding her box, and Sarah . . .
But even with these larger-than-life moments before me, I start writing about something safer—our move to Smith.
“This assignment totally bites ass,” Lola whispers loudly behind me. A few girls snicker. I glance back and see her pass a note to Bianca. She laughs, adds something to the note, and tosses it to Melissa, who reads the note, makes a face, adds something else to it, and passes it up to Kelly. Mrs. Medina starts discussing the parameters of our essay, and I turn my attention back to the front of the classroom.
“You’ve got until the bell rings to complete this assignment, so that’s exactly forty-five minutes. It should be roughly four pages.”
“Can we skip lines?” Bobby yells from the back of the room.
Mrs. Medina gives him a tolerant look. “No, Bobby, and no cursive or excessively large letters. I want each essay to be written in your neatest print. If I can’t read it, you fail. Period.”
There are groans throughout the room. I notice the note is making its way toward me. Lola giggles, and I turn to look at her. She shrugs and rolls her eyes. Then she begins to write her essay.
Now the note is at my right. Clara reads it, but she doesn’t laugh. She puts it in her notebook and returns to her work.
Lola whispers, “Hey, Clara, pass that on.” But Clara ignores her. “Psst, Clara, what’s your deal? Pass it on.” Clara’s pen freezes, but her eyes stay on her paper. “Hey, just pass the freaking note already.”
Clara gives Lola a dirty look. Then she glances at me, her eyes full of sympathy. I decide to go back to my essay, but I can no longer focus. I want to know what that note says. I want to know if it’s about me. Finally, I set my pen down and whisper, “It’s okay, Clara. Let me see.”
Clara shakes her head, crumples the note into the ball of her right hand. She opens her mouth to speak, but Lola interrupts her. “Let her see it, Clara.”
Several people behind us laugh. Mrs. Medina puts aside a paper she’s grading and surveys the class. “If I continue to hear this nonsense, I will cut your time.”
There are more groans and the sounds of papers being shuffled as the class get back to work. Mrs. Medina returns to her grading. Clara smiles at me stiffly and whispers, “Jessie, it’s so not important.”
“If it’s not important,” Lola hisses, “then pass it.”
Clara’s face turns bright red, and in her outside voice she says, “You’re a bitch, Lola.”
From the back of the classroom, Bobby yells, “T-and-A fight!” This is followed by hoots and hollers from several guys.
Mrs. Medina snaps her grade book shut and stands up. “Class—”
“What? What did you say?” Lola asks Clara. Her voice cracks at the end.
Bobby yells, “She called you a bitch!” And this makes most of the class laugh.
The lights flick off and on. “I said”—Mrs. Medina’s voice is filled with authority—“settle down.” The class is immediately silent. Mrs. Medina stares at Clara, a perplexed expression on her face. She’s probably trying to understand how one of her favorite students—this bubbly, confident class president who geeks, freaks, goths, and jocks all find legitimately nice—had an outburst in her class.
“I’ve had enough already!” Mrs. Medina shouts, even though the room is already silent. “Bobby, language like that will get you sent to the principal’s office. And you know how your father is when I call home!” She walks toward Clara’s desk, her palm out. Clara hands her the note. She reads it silently, her face solemn. She looks from me to Lola, takes a huge breath, and says, “Lola, I’ll see you after class.”
“Mrs. Medina, that’s not mine—”
“Stop,” Mrs. Medina snaps. “Just stop. We’ll discuss this after class when we can call your parents.”
“What?” Lola’s eyes are watery, and the cockiness slips from her face. “But what about Clara? Are you going to call her parents?”
Mrs. Medina shakes her head. “I suggest you worry about the consequences of your own actions and leave Clara to me.”
A few kids gasp. Mrs. Medina is never this tough. Need a bathroom pass? No problem. Have to run to your locker? No problem. An extension on your homework assignment? Sure. Mrs. Medina always gives the benefit of the doubt.
“Class!” Mrs. Medina’s voice moves our attention from Lola to her. “You have exactly thirty-five minutes to complete your essay. I suggest you start now.”
The class protests. Mrs. Medina raises her hand, and again there is silence. “If you have an issue with the grade you receive on this essay, I suggest you find the time to take it up with Lola after class.”
There is another collective groan. Several people from the upper rows turn to glare at Lola.
Everyone can hear Lola crying. I don’t turn around, but I imagine her face looks the same as it did the afternoon we spied on Tommy.
I feel strange. I look at Clara. She’s busy working on her essay. I glance back at Lola. Her head is on her desk, her legs curled up onto her seat, like she’s trying to disappear.
I take out a clean sheet of paper and start writing—not about my move to Ohio, but about my first kiss with Ellie. My hand moves swiftly across the page, the first of many secrets escaping.
* * *
After class, I head for the school’s double doors. I’m expecting security to pounce on me or an alarm to sound, but there is nothing. Just concrete steps, the flagpole, a whole lot of brown grass, and me, breathing in the icy air.
It’s supposed to snow today. A spring snowstorm that doesn’t seem so freakish now that it’s happened several times in the last few years. The world is changing. Nothing fits where it’s supposed to. Even the snow is confused, Mom said yesterday. We were sitting on the couch, everyone except Sarah, and I could tell from the way she kept looking around, she missed her. I missed her too.
The night before Sarah left for Mount Holy Oak, Mom called Sarah and me into the kitchen and said, “Sometimes you want to save someone, but you can’t. Some people—like Ellie—want to stay lost, and if someone wants to stay lost, there’s nothing you can do to help them. You just pray that one day they’ll find their way.” She grabbed our hands and pulled them close to her heart. “But you never blame yourself for what anyone else does, the choices they make.” She looked at me, her eyes wet. “There’s been too much bad stuff. And I couldn’t take losing either of you, okay?”
Afterward, I decided it was time to show Ellie’s box to Sarah.
“What is it?” she asked when I set it between us on my bed.
“It belonged to Ellie.”
“Is it about you?” She looked away, cleared her throat, and then turned back to me, her brown eyes serious. “Is it about you and Ellie? You know . . . being together.”
I stared at her, slightly stunned.
“I found th
is . . .” She stood and went to her closet. She took out a slightly larger box and set it on the bed beside the shoe box. She slid off the lid and reached inside, past dozens of photos of Ellie, and pulled out a notebook. From the pages of the notebook she removed a single Polaroid of me sleeping peacefully on Ellie’s freckled shoulder. Ellie must have taken it the night of our last fight.
I didn’t know what to say. And maybe I didn’t need to; maybe the tears streaming down my face said it all.
Sarah pulled me close and held me for a while. When I moved away, she nodded toward the shoe box. “What’s in it?”
“I guess,” I said, my voice rough, “I guess it’s also about all of us—you, me, Jake, Tommy, Ellie’s mom. It’s what Ellie felt about all of us.”
I read the hesitancy in her face. She said, “I can’t . . . Not yet.”
“When you’re ready . . . ,” I said, and then I set the box on the top shelf of my closet, and asked her if she would tell me about Ellie’s final hours.
And so she began to talk about that night, how Ellie didn’t seem like herself, how she seemed incredibly sad but also determined to pretend she was happy. “If I’d known everything, I’d have never let her near those pills. But I didn’t know, you know? I just . . .” Her voice faded. She was crying, but she continued on, and near the end she told me about the hot-pink fishnet stockings Ellie had worn that night.
The stockings were my only gift to Ellie, and I remembered how surprised she’d been when I’d handed her the small box with its purple ribbon, and how she’d put them on immediately and in a matter of minutes picked them apart, exposing both her knees.
And the crazy thing is, out of everything Sarah told me, Ellie dying in something as outrageous as those stockings made the most sense. I don’t know why, but it did.
“Do you think,” Sarah said, looking out the window toward Ellie’s house, “that she did it . . .” She stalled, but I knew that she wanted to ask the questions I had been asking since Ellie died. Did she have a plan to end it that night? Or was it just a hasty decision made in a moment of extreme sadness and pain? Or maybe it was as my mom had said that morning—an accident?
I stared out the window too, thinking about all the times I had seen Ellie walking in and out of her house. It was hard to believe I’d never see her again. That she’d never tell me if she ever really loved me. “I guess we’ll never know,” I finally said.
I continue to think about Ellie now, as I walk these long blocks from school. And I find myself somewhere I never intended—at Falling Creek, standing in front of the tree that bears her name. I drop my bag and kneel at its base, running my fingers over the plaque’s deeply cut letters. I lay my head against the bark, pressing my cheek to its fractured skin. I tell myself that somewhere above, Ellie watches. I tell myself she is no longer alone.
An hour later, snow begins to fall, coating the tree’s stark branches, resting in clumps along the joints. My face is cold, but I’m not worn down by the chill. I am something else entirely.
I stand, pulling my jacket tightly across my shoulders, lifting the hood over my head. I hug my bag to my chest. I blink rapidly and look out at the world just beyond: the brown, patchy grass. A rusted car. The world is still shaky, but not for long. By nightfall the streets will be blanketed in crisp white snow, and everything will look clean again. Everything will feel possible again.
I take one step forward and then another. And soon, I am home.
34.
I like to remember trips to Cedar Point. The summer wind warm on our backs. Candied apples and neon-green bracelets glowing at night. And Jake on Dad’s shoulders, too tired to walk, and Mom holding my hand.
Author’s Note
Dear Reader,
Like Ellie, there have been times when I’ve felt incredibly alone. Over the years, I’ve learned that the key to surviving the darkest days is to ask for help. So if you or someone you know struggles with depression or suicidal thoughts, I urge you to reach out to a trustworthy friend, family member, or adult who will listen and offer support. If someone is not readily available, then explore outside resources, such as the ones listed on the next page. Each is accessible 24–7 and is staffed by caring individuals.
Life is hard, but it’s also crazy-beautiful. Fight for your best life. You deserve it.
With love,
Carmen
Resources
ONLINE
TeenCentral.net
This safe website allows you to post your questions, problems, or thoughts anonymously and receive an answer within a twenty-four-hour period. You can also read other teens’ stories and respond to them with your own thoughts and counseling—again, this is anonymous. This is a great site to find help, hope, and answers from counselors and even other teens while maintaining your anonymity. Log on and work it out!
OFFLINE
Try any of these help lines, which offer live, around-the-clock support.
National Youth Crisis Hotline: 1-800-448-4663
Childhelp: 1-800-422-4453
National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-TALK
CARMEN RODRIGUES earned her MFA in creative writing from the University of North Carolina Wilmington. She currently lives on the coast of North Carolina. 34 Pieces of You is her second young adult novel. Friend her on Facebook at www.facebook.com/thisismyhandstand and visit her at CARMENRODRIGUES.COM.
JACKET DESIGNED BY JESSICA HANDELMAN
JACKET PHOTOGRAPH COPYRIGHT © 2012 BY MICHAEL FROST
AUTHOR PHOTOGRAPH BY SUZETTE DEMATTEO
Simon Pulse
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
SIMON PULSE
An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com
First Simon Pulse hardcover edition September 2012
Copyright © 2012 by Carmen Rodrigues
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. SIMON PULSE and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
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The text of this book was set in Adobe Garamond Pro.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Rodrigues, Carmen.
34 pieces of you / by Carmen Rodrigues.
p. cm.
Summary: When Ellie dies of a drug overdose, her brother, her best friend, and her best friend’s sister face painful secrets of their own when they try to uncover the truth about Ellie’s death.
ISBN 978-1-4424-3906-1 (alk. paper)
[1. Death—Fiction. 2. Secrets—Fiction.] I. Title.
II. Title: Thirty-four pieces of you.
PZ7.R61875Aam 2012
[Fic]—dc23
2011045279
ISBN 978-1-4424-3908-5 (eBook)
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Contents
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1: Jessie
Chapter 2: Sarah
Chapter 3: Jake
Chapter 4: Jessie
Chapter 5: Sarah
Chapter 6: Jake
Chapter 7: Jessie
Chapter 8: Sarah
Chapter 9: Jake
Chapter 10: Jessie
Chapter 11: Sarah
Chapter 12: Jake
Chapter 13: Jessie
Chapter 14: Sarah
Chapter 15: Jake
Chapter 16: Jessie
Chapter 17: Sarah
Chapter 18: Jake
Chapter 19: Jessie
Chapter 20: Sarah
Chapter 21: Jake
Chapter 22: Jessie
Chapter 23: Sarah
Chapter 24: Jake
Chapter 25: Jessie
Chapter 26: Sarah
Chapter 27: Jake
Chapter 28: Jessie
Chapter 29: Sarah
Chapter 30: Jake
Chapter 31: Jessie
Chapter 32: Sarah
Chapter 33: Jake
Chapter 34: Jessie
Author’s Note
Resources
About Carmen Rodrigues
34 Pieces of You Page 16