Missing Pieces

by Meredith Tate

  “But—”

  “Now.”

  Trace slunk down in her seat, lips curled into a scowl. The moment Mr. Wintle turned his back, she made a face in his direction.

  One morning, we came to class to discover Mr. Wintle moved our assigned seats. As always, he made everyone sit with their Partners, two Partnerships per table. But for the first time in history, he assigned Trace and Sam to the same table as Lara and me. My best friend and I high-fived when we saw our place tags.

  “Do you have a full bladder today, Ms. Bailey?” Mr. Wintle asked as he walked by.

  “Nope.” She grinned. “Emptied it already.”

  From then on, every Wednesday at one p.m., we raced down the hall to art class. We jumped into our seats, eager to spend the next hour goofing off. I zipped through my assignments as fast as humanly possible.

  Produces sloppy work, Mr. Wintle jotted on my progress report. I didn’t care. The hour never felt long enough. Painting, sketching, collages, it didn’t matter what we did; Trace was there, which made everything awesome.

  “Today, I want you to draw your family portrait,” Mr. Wintle said one day, scribbling notes on the whiteboard. “Don’t forget the most important member of your family: your Partner.”

  He passed bins of sticky, decade-old markers around the room and gave us each a thick sheet of poster board.

  For some reason, this assignment resonated with me. I meticulously mapped my entire drawing, shading and outlining when necessary. I squinted as I worked, determined to create a masterpiece.

  As unartistic as I usually was, Sam Macey was one hundred times worse.

  Sam’s family portrait resembled a family of potatoes, the bulbous Trace potato the silliest of all. Trace glanced at her Partner’s monstrosity and snorted.

  “Is that me?” She pointed to the curly-haired potato.

  Sam nodded, not averting his eyes from his work. Trace grabbed a purple marker, and scribbled all over his paper.

  “Stop!” Sam groaned, slapping his hands over his poster board in a feeble attempt to protect it.

  “There. It was already bad, why not add some purple?” Trace loathes purple.

  Sam ripped his maimed drawing out from under her, face puffed into a pout.

  “Looks real to me.” I bloated my cheeks to resemble Potato Trace.

  “Yeah?” Trace said. “Hey, Lara, don’t forget your Partner’s big fat head.”

  She flung her offending marker toward Lara’s drawing, but my Partner held it out of Trace’s reach.

  I dragged my green marker across Trace’s drawing. “How about some fangs for you?”

  Our art war began. Trace and I practically fell off our chairs laughing, arms and markers flying all over the table as we graffitied on everything in sight.

  Within minutes, the damage was done. Sam’s picture, once akin to a family of potatoes, now resembled a family of scribbles. Likewise, every person on Trace’s defaced drawing mirrored monsters familiar to our sidewalk chalk creations. Colorful specks dappled the formerly spotless table. We even managed to add a few smudges to Lara’s family portrait, much to her dismay. She slid her chair away from us, pressing her paper to her chest.

  Despite the fray, I managed to protect my masterpiece; after the battle, it remained the only unharmed drawing on the table.

  Catlike, Mr. Wintle approached our rowdy group. “Hmm…”

  I startled and darted my eyes to the table, still coughing down giggles.

  I thought he planned to scream at me for disrupting the class and getting marker all over the table. Or conversely, maybe he wanted to compliment me on finally putting effort into my work.

  But he had a different mission in mind.

  Mr. Wintle gazed down at my masterpiece and stroked his chin. “Why is Ms. Bailey in your family portrait?”

  What?

  My eyebrows squished together as I studied my drawing. Seven carefully-sketched family members looked up at me from the page: me; my mom; my dad; my brother, Mason; Mason’s Partner, Stephanie; Lara Goodren; and Trace. Blending shades of deep brown to achieve Trace’s hair color was painstaking, and the result made my chest swell with pride. I labored on her eyes until they reached crystal blue perfection. To me, my artwork was flawless and worthy of admiration.

  I shrugged. “She’s my best friend.”

  The class fell silent.

  Mr. Wintle’s eyes narrowed into slits. “Excuse me?”

  My lip trembled. Did I say something wrong?

  “You’re incorrect. Ms. Goodren, here—” he indicated Lara “—is your best friend.”

  Lara sank lower in her seat.

  I could feel everyone’s eyes on me. Blush crept across my cheeks.

  “Class?” Mr. Wintle raised his voice. “Your family is the most important part of your life, which is why I gave you today’s assignment. Your families are the people you love, and love is what separates us from scoundrels and criminals. It maintains order. Your parents, your sibling, and your Partner are the ones you love.”

  He strode around the room, hands clasped behind his back.

  “There should never, ever, be anyone else who comes close to that bond. You have only one best friend—” he enunciated the words as if spitting poison “—and that is the person you’ll be marrying someday. We must learn to differentiate the relationships in our lives: the people we love, and the ones we don’t. It’s inappropriate, it’s foolish, and it’s forbidden to think otherwise.”

  He locked eyes with each classmate as he spoke, circling back to me.

  “Mr. Allston, give me your family portrait.”

  I froze. His gaze bore into me like a laser.

  “Mr. Allston?” He snapped his fingers. “Now.”

  I took a deep breath and slid my paper across the table to him.

  Mr. Wintle held it up for everyone to see.

  “This drawing is an abomination.”

  He tore my masterpiece clean in half. I gasped as he made another rip, then another, until my artwork lay in shreds on the floor.

  Sam smirked, clearly relishing every moment of my torture.

  Mr. Wintle swept up the pieces in one swoosh of his broom and dumped them in the trash. Cramps dug through my stomach as I watched. I wanted to sock him in the face.

  “Now, do it again. Correctly this time,” he said. “And, I’m moving your seat. You and Ms. Goodren, come with me.”

  Glowering, I followed him to the opposite end of the room. Lara hung her head, towing closely behind.

  “You go near Ms. Bailey and Mr. Macey’s table one more time, and you’ll be in Atonement Exercises, Mr. Allston,” he snapped.

  I clenched my teeth and nodded, plopping down in my new seat.

  For the remainder of the period, Lara said nothing to me. I didn’t care, I didn’t want to look at her. Bitterness ate through me like termites on a log. Why couldn’t I love Trace too? Why couldn’t she be my family too? Why was our teacher such an asshole?

  I threw together a new sketch to appease Mr. Wintle. It was quick and sloppy, as per my usual work. The drawing contained me, my parents, Mason and his Partner, and Lara. That’s it.

  The eyes held no emotion, and the drawing was, as it should be, without Trace.

  Tracy Bailey

  Piren and I walk to the bus stop together every morning before school, and home together every afternoon. This daily tradition started when we were seven, and it continues seven years later. Sometimes, we sneak off the road to the treehouse. Other times, we meander the neighborhood streets together until we wind up back home.

  It’s a long walk, granting us legitimized time together not up for speculation by the entire world. We’re neighbors; how can we not walk together? I mean, we share a bus stop. Should I be rude and walk ten feet in front of him so my parents can feel secure with themselves?

  In some ways, I love it when my parents see us walking together. It pisses them off, but there’s not a damn thing they can do, short of moving away.
It’s their fault for living here in the first place—I didn’t choose this house.

  On two occasions in the past year, Mom invited Sam over after school, precluding my walk with Piren. Both times were complete surprises for me; Sam followed me onto my bus home, insisting that my mom arranged his visit. I was irked she went behind my back, but what the hell could I do? I forced Sam to sit in a separate seat, across the aisle.

  Walking home from the bus stop with Sam was a miserable affair. As we walked, he draped his arm over my shoulders.

  “Stop it,” I said for the bazillionth time, shoving him off me. Several paces in front of us, Piren shook his head.

  “Come on.” Sam laced his fingers with mine, but I ripped my hand away.

  “Are you deaf? Keep your greasy paws to yourself.”

  My Partner thrust his hands in his pockets, grumbling as we traipsed the neighborhood streets toward my house. “You can’t do this forever.”

  I flung a curly lock of hair behind my back. “Don’t underestimate me.”

  Piren snickered, glancing at us over his shoulder.

  “Turn around and shut up,” Sam said. “This is none of your business.”

  Piren raised his hands, chuckling. We continued in silence, Piren in front, my Partner and I trudging along behind.

  Sam inched closer to me until his arm brushed mine.

  “Cut it!” I elbowed him in the side. “You’re not sneaky at all. I know exactly what you’re doing. I said no the first time.”

  He smirked. “When we’re married, you’ll have to touch me.”

  Over my dead body.

  “Well, if that’s what you think,” I said, “you’re in for a surprise.”

  Piren quickly morphed his roaring laugh into a phony cough.

  “You keep walking,” Sam said. “And keep your eyes up front.”

  My best friend shook his head but didn’t reply.

  “That’s what I thought,” Sam muttered. “Pussy.”

  I shoved my Partner’s arm as hard as I could. “Don’t talk to him like that!”

  “Really?” Sam spun toward me. “You’re gonna defend him over me?”

  When I didn’t respond, he growled something under his breath and pushed past me, speeding toward my house.

  Piren stopped walking until I caught up to him.

  “What’s with him?” he mouthed, nodding at Sam’s fading backpack in the distance.

  I shrugged. “No clue.”

  Last week, Mom felt the need to address this with me.

  “Tracy, I don’t understand you sometimes. It’s natural to want to touch your Partner.”

  I stirred my ice cream into a soupy mess.

  “You should just go with it,” she continued. “It’s normal.”

  My arms fell onto the table with a thud. “If I ever have sex with Sam—” I leaned back in my chair “—I’ll vomit all over the place—”

  “Tracy!”

  “—and then die. From puking all my guts out.”

  “You’re impossible.” Mom threw her dishtowel on the table in front of me. “It isn’t a joke.”

  Oh. Did she think I was joking?

  My mom attributes my attitude to my age, as contempt for sex in general. She’s full of shit. There are lots of guys I’d love to bone. Just not Sam.

  Piren Allston

  Every February, the school torments us with another boring seminar about the Partner system. Each year’s seminar takes a different theme, depending on your age. For example, the first year after the Assigning Ceremony, the seminar’s theme was “Getting to know your Partner.” We watched a video starring two newly-Assigned cartoon bears. They proceeded to ask each other stupid questions, like their favorite colors and best school subjects. The lady bear squealed with glee when she learned that she and her Partner shared an interest: a mutual love of forest berries. I doodled on my notepad in the back of the room.

  At age twelve, the theme was “Understanding Urges.” For this colorful seminar, the speaker handed out ridiculous pamphlets on sexuality, containing graphic and exaggerated drawings of naked people, with all the best parts blurred out. He rambled on about the dangers of lusting after non-Partners and the penalties of premarital relations.

  “Waiting sucks,” he said, slouching on a chair at the front of the class. Despite his graying hair, his backward ball cap and ripped jeans sent a clear message: Listen to me, impressionable children! I’m one of you!

  “I went through it myself, not so long ago,” the man continued. “I remember long nights in the dark, especially while cohabitating with my wife before the wedding. I wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed with her and consummate our love.”

  I had to clench my teeth together to keep from laughing. Whispers and muffled giggles drifted around the room.

  My phone buzzed with a text from Trace: Aren’t u so glad u know all this about him?

  I typed back. Yep. His sexual fantasies should b @ the top of our required curriculum.

  Buzz. Oh man. Can u imagine the final exam 4 that class?

  Type. I just hope it’d b written and not practical…

  “Ahem.” The speaker cleared his throat, glaring at the rowdy class. “This is serious.”

  I straightened up, tossing my phone back in my bag.

  “As I was saying,” he said, “while you may wish to act out on those urges—especially you boys—it’s important to remain celibate until your wedding night. Premarital sex leads to dangerous consequences, such as teen pregnancy, emotional distress, and of course, Banishment. But by all means, feel free to handle it yourself until then. Goodness knows, I did…”

  That did it. Almost everyone exploded into hoots of laughter. Trace wrinkled her nose across the room as the disgruntled speaker raised his hands in a vain attempt to hush the masses.

  Alan Carrey leaned toward me. “That’s BS. Lots of people bone before the wedding.”

  My forehead scrunched. “Who?”

  “People. Toni’s older sister.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just do.” He doodled a huge cock onto the censored part of his pamphlet. “It’s kinda obvious.”

  I guess the speaker intended the seminar to provoke meaningful discussion; it only actually provoked crude jokes and piles of defiled pamphlets.

  Last year for our age-thirteen seminar, a woman named Mrs. Prew visited our classroom. She wore her white hair pulled back in a pouf and suffocated us with her overbearing perfume. Old Mrs. Prew strutted up and down aisles of desks, spewing cliché metaphors about love.

  “Think of yourselves as a puzzle piece,” she said. “You’re one solid item on your own, and you’re very important by yourself, but you just aren’t quite whole.” Her eyes lit up, as if her stupid jigsaw analogy was a life-changing revelation.

  “Now, imagine that as a puzzle piece, you’re a certain color—let’s say green.” She paced between aisles of desks, brushing her fingers over the backs of our chairs. “You’re looking around the room and seeing all sorts of other puzzle pieces. There are blue ones, orange ones, pink ones, but none that fit with you.”

  Trace stretched her mouth into an exaggerated yawn.

  “Suddenly, in the back of the room, something catches your eye.” Mrs. Prew flashed out her hands. “You see a big green puzzle piece, made to fit just with you.”

  By this point, most students’ eyes glazed over. Some people texted under their desks, emitting little flares of light from their phones. However, a select group of idiots remained wide-eyed and enthralled with the presentation; Lara leaned forward in her chair, hands clasped under her chin, chomping at the bit to learn more.

  “And, class, that’s what Assigning is all about,” Prew said. “We pair you to your correct puzzle piece—the only one who fits with you. We find the right Partner for you, so you don’t have the burden yourself.”

  I couldn’t look at Trace; every time she caught my eye, laughter boiled inside me.

  “Now,” Prew
said, practically bouncing on her toes, “who wants to share how your Partner is your perfect puzzle piece fit?”

  Several hands shot up.

  “My Partner is perfect for me because he makes me happy every day. He’s my soul mate, and I love him more than anything,” one girl said. At the other end of the room, Trace silently pretended to gag.

  One by one, my classmates shared their stories with Mrs. Prew and the class. The skill it took to re-word the same answer fifteen times astounded me. Everyone rambled how their Partner was their perfect soul mate, repeating the same damn thing. It was exactly what Mrs. Prew wanted to hear; she clapped and cheered, turning each mundane answer into an overt emotional display.

  I leaned back in my chair, enjoying their washed-out answers.

  A crumpled note plopped onto my desk. I unfolded it to find Trace’s distinct handwriting:

  Sam is a big green something,

  but it’s not a puzzle piece.

  I choked on a sputtering laugh. Thirty sets of eyes fell on me.

  Mrs. Prew lunged before I could hide the note. She snatched it from my hands and read it aloud.

  Her brows lowered. “Who wrote this?”

  Across the room, Trace stared at the ceiling. I could see in her tight mouth she was holding her breath, fighting back giggles.

  “I asked you a question.” Mrs. Prew’s mouth thinned to a line.

  “Uh…I…I did, I wrote it.” I clamped my hand over my twitching leg.

  “And who’s Sam?”

  I pointed to Trace’s table, where Sam’s face flushed red.

  Prew’s eyes flashed with fury. “Are you mocking my presentation?”

  “N-No. Of course not.”

  “Well, then, who’s the lucky lady who gets to be your Partner?” She showered me with spit.

  I pointed a quivering finger across the table to Lara.

  Mrs. Prew’s frown morphed into a self-satisfied smile. She rested a hand on the back of Lara’s chair. “Please tell us how your lovely Partner here is your ideal puzzle piece mate.”

  Lara’s ears perked. Cheeks burning, I regurgitated the first answer that came to mind.

  “Um, Lara is, uh, perfect for me.” I scratched my neck.