Missing Pieces

by Meredith Tate

  “What the hell is that noise?” He slurs his words into a jumble. “Sounds like tortured cats.”

  I smirk. For once in my life, I’m grateful for scotch.

  Piren Allston

  Only two blocks from our middle school, Under Five Café makes the best milkshakes. They have twenty different flavors.

  Trace found the café by accident last year and insisted we try it. Always followed by an entourage, she led a group to the circular booth in the back, and we claimed it as our own. Thus, the daily tradition was born.

  The Café Crowd, as we call ourselves, consists of Trace, me, Toni, Amanda, Josh, Alan, Travis, and a few others who filter in and out. I’ve invited Lara in the past, but she invents excuses about hating crowds. Truth is, I don’t think she likes my friends. Her group hangs out at the bowling alley after school, which sounds horrendously boring.

  I squish into the crowded booth between Josh and Alan.

  Trace winks at me from across the table. “So, Piren, I hear they started construction at Laney Park.” Everyone looks on, eagerly awaiting the oncoming story.

  “Yeah? They finally tear down that hideous bridge?”

  “Well, they weren’t going to, if it wasn’t for—”

  “—the sinkhole, that totally—”

  “—destroyed that old guy’s yard—”

  “—but who builds their home on a sinkhole?”

  “Sounds like something Alan—” Trace whips her head toward our friend “—would do.”

  “Because he loves holes.”

  “Hey.” Alan folds his arms over his chest. “Seriously? Why am I always the butt of you two assholes’ stupid jokes?”

  Within minutes, my best friend and I double over laughing. The rest of the table follows suit. I don’t know if they’re laughing because they understand our humor, or if they only do it to fit in, but they laugh regardless. The unamused waitress sets down our milkshakes, and we dig in. Toni, Amanda, and Alan chatter on about some television show.

  My phone buzzes under the table. One new text message: Trace.

  We r totes gonna write that story: Alan vs. Sink Hole.

  I frantically type back. Yes! I’m putting my $ on the sink hole.

  My phone buzzes. It’ll be a best seller. But u have to use ur pen name: Fat Head.

  I type back. Duh. Fat Head & Fangs will b authors on the cover of every book in the library.

  Buzz. Absolutely. And Alan is flexing again…I weep for humanity.

  I type back. Lol. He is practicing 2 fight sink hole. 2morrow, back @ café after school?

  Buzz. Of course, Fat Head! Under 5 = nothing w/o our stories. It’s a proven fact.

  I race to Under Five after school and join a gaggle of the Café Crowd waiting at the counter. Peering around Alan, I keep my eyes on the door. Within minutes, Trace’s curly-haired head bobs past the window. A grin erupts across my face.

  She storms into the Café, arms tight at her sides. Sam lumbers in after her. My shoulders slouch back down.

  Great.

  Trace clomps toward the counter.

  Sam wrings his hands. “Tracy, I’m sorry, I—”

  “Please. Don’t. Talk.” She leans her elbows against the counter edge and scrubs her hands down her mottled face. Her Partner hovers four feet behind.

  I bump against her shoulder. “You okay?”

  “I’m gonna lose it. Sam’s about two seconds from a face punch.”

  “Uh-oh. What now?”

  Toni pivots toward us, banana milkshake in hand. “Oops! Somebody’s in trouble.” She wags her finger at Sam.

  “Shut the hell up.” He knocks her hand away. “Not your business.”

  “Oh-kay.” She flicks her fingers out. “Someone’s touchy.”

  Sam slams his fist on the counter.

  “Hey!” Alan pushes between Sam and Toni. “Knock it off!”

  Sam mumbles to himself, crossing his arms. If he could shoot fire from his eyes, flames would have engulfed the whole restaurant by now.

  Alan takes Toni’s hand, and they lead the others to claim our booth in the back. They step around Sam, leaving him a wide berth as they pass with their shakes, abandoning Trace, Sam, and me alone at the counter.

  Trace sulks against the wall, mouth in a terse line, waiting to order. I stand by the register, mulling over milkshake options. Under Five recently updated their already extensive flavor offerings, throwing me for a loop. Mouth scrunched to the side, I scan the new menu.

  Sam pushes past me to stand by Trace in line. Within moments, their heated bickering grows to the precipice of a screaming fight.

  “Come on, Tracy. I said I was sorry.”

  “No, Sam. Just leave me alone.”

  “What can I do to make it up to you?”

  “Um. Learn the meaning of the word no? Ingrain it into your thick skull?”

  It’s almost comical. From what I can gather, he tried to touch her yet again, and she told him—loudly and vulgarly—where to put his hands. Typical Trace.

  Seven tense minutes later, I make my choice: the old but reliable strawberry milkshake. I approach the register to order. Trace shoves past her Partner, dropping her purse down on the counter beside me.

  “I’m cutting you.” She winks at me.

  I release an exaggerated gasp. “How dare you.”

  She sticks out her tongue.

  A twenty-something waitress with an eyebrow ring emerges from the kitchen, wiping her hands down her green apron. “What can I get for you?”

  “Chocolate milkshake, please.” Trace leans further over the counter and raises her voice. “And don’t let Charlie skimp on the whipped cream.”

  The plump cook in the back peeks through the kitchen window and salutes her with his spatula. “You got it, Tracy.”

  Trace waves to him. “You’re the best!” She lowers her voice so only I can hear. “Unlike a certain temperamental dude I know, who’s about to get bitch-slapped.”

  I shake my head. “You guys are something else.”

  “Something else indeed.”

  I poke her arm. “And chocolate again? Boring.” I blow out a theatrical sigh. “No variety at all, Bailey. What am I going to do with you?”

  She returns the poke. “I know what I like.”

  Sam wedges his mass between Trace and me, squishing me between the metal counter and his sweaty back. I shudder and jerk away. That guy sweats more than anyone I know.

  The cashier struts back from the kitchen, balancing Trace’s chocolate milkshake on her wobbling plastic tray. She sets it down on the counter, whipped cream overflowing over the rim of the glass. Trace dips her finger in and pops it into her mouth.

  The waitress punches some numbers into the register. “Four twenty-five, ma’am.”

  “You got it.” Trace rummages in her wallet.

  Scooting as far away as humanly possible from Sam’s damp body, I place my order at the next cashier. Trace dumps a pile of coins on the counter and starts fishing through it. The cashier grumbles.

  Sam’s harsh gaze softens. “I’ll get it for you.”

  “Shut up.” Trace rifles pennies from a handful of paperclips. “I have enough.”

  “No, I really don’t mind,” he says. “I love you. I’m allowed to buy you—”

  “Stop. Seriously. Just shut up.”

  The cashier clicks her claw-like fingernails on the counter. I imagine the Under Five employees aren’t thrilled that a group of teenagers infests their restaurant every damn day. Trace scrapes a handful of dimes from her wallet and counts it in her palm.

  “Tracy, I can just loan—”

  “No, Sam!” Trace knocks his hand off her shoulder.

  His grin fades to a frown. “What, my money’s not good enough for you?”

  She ignores him, pawing through her purse.

  He snorts. “Never thought I’d see a rich girl counting pennies.”

  Trace whirls around. “Excuse me?”

  “I just find it fun
ny. Without Mommy and Daddy around, you’re broke as shit like the rest of us.”

  “Don’t you ever—”

  “All right.” The waitress cuts between them. “Are you taking this or not?” She pushes the milkshake toward Trace.

  Pink flares across Trace’s cheeks. “Just send it back.” She grits her teeth. “I won’t get one today.”

  She rips her purse off the counter and storms off empty-handed, abandoning her pile of coins. The cashier sweeps them into her tip jar. “Next.”

  Sam orders his own milkshake. Drink in hand, he proceeds back to the table after his Partner.

  My knee jiggles as the waitress returns with my strawberry shake. I sway back and forth on the balls of my feet.

  Trace is going to sit for two hours watching us enjoy our drinks?

  I bend my knees, then straighten.

  “Actually, ma’am, I’ll take that chocolate one too.”

  “You got it.” She rings it up and hands me both purchases.

  I walk back to our booth with two shakes and conversation abruptly stops. Trace stares at me like I have three heads, her face frozen in a wide-eyed gape.

  Shit.

  “Uh, here, Trace.” I shuffle my feet. “I…I got this for you.”

  I hold out my offering, stomach churning under eight accusing sets of eyes. Sam cracks his knuckles, curled lip baring his clenched teeth.

  Is he going to punch me?

  My hands tighten around the two glasses.

  Damn it. Why’d I do it? No room for a brain in my fat head.

  “Chocolate?” Trace reaches for the drink, dimples budding on her cheeks. “Extra whipped cream too. How’d you know?” She stabs her straw into the milkshake.

  “Lucky guess,” I mumble.

  “Thanks, Fat Head.”

  “Anytime, Fangs.”

  “What the hell?” Sam balls his hands into quivering fists on the tabletop. Nobody responds. “Seriously, what the hell, Piren? She’s my Partner.”

  “Oooh, watch out, Sam. An affair,” Alan says.

  Toni gasps. “Don’t joke about that!”

  “Would that even constitute an affair?”

  “No, that’s not it.”

  “Well, my mom says…”

  The table erupts into heated debate. Trace leans back against the squishy booth wall, slurping her milkshake. I catch her eye, and she winks at me.

  We’re no strangers to affair jokes. After seven years of nontraditional friendship, we’ve heard them all, even the X-rated ones. We usually laugh it off.

  Sam jumps out of the booth, shifting his eyes from Trace to me. Trace chatters on with Amanda, not giving her Partner another glance.

  He mutters something incomprehensible under his breath, then storms from the café alone. The floor vibrates as he slams the door behind him, causing several patrons to look up. I slurp my milkshake, turning my attention back to the conversation.

  Sam can hate me if he wants. Frankly, I couldn’t care less.

  Tracy Bailey

  I love to bake. I’ve been baking since I was a little kid. I make cookies, cakes, pies, cupcakes, you name it. If it requires sugar and an oven, I’m up for the challenge. I mean, who doesn’t love a hobby where you can eat the finished product?

  My mom and I bake together at least twice a week after school. Sometimes, Veronica joins us. Mom says baking is a great way to please your Partner because men love food. Personally, I don’t think Sam needs any more sweets, but Mom disagrees. She always packs my homemade cookies into cute containers and ships them off to the Maceys, as if she’s on a mission to give my Partner Type II Diabetes.

  Today, we baked star-shaped sugar cookies. I squeeze dollops of pink frosting onto the tips, then sprinkle yellow sugar over the tops. Wiping my forehead, I examine my handiwork.

  These stars are pretty damn cute. If I do say so myself.

  I crack a point off one of the stars and toss it in my mouth.

  Taste pretty damn good too.

  Of course, Mom has to totally ruin the moment.

  “Don’t do that.” She snaps her fingers from across the table. “They’re for your Partner.”

  Forging my signature across a square Tupperware, she dapples the package with heart stickers. I unleash a pained moan.

  “Oh, Tracy, come on.” She ties it in a pink bow. “Sam will love it. It’s sweet.”

  “Then why don’t you put your name on it?”

  “Don’t get fresh.”

  I prop my cheek against my hand, leaving my half-eaten star cookie on the wax paper. When Mom’s not looking, I steal another point.

  Beside me, Veronica colors on a pink cookie tin for her Partner. She doodles “Mr. and Mrs. Oliver Hughes” across the top in her best attempt at calligraphy.

  “Eager to buy Oliver’s love with junk food, huh?”

  “Shush.” She sprinkles silver glitter around her container.

  “You know,” Mom says to me, putting the finishing touches on my farce-gift, “you’d make Sam a lot happier if you were more like your sister. You should be the one decorating this.”

  I grimace. “He’s happy enough, thanks.”

  I’m so frigging sick of her packing my cookies, slapping my name on them, and sending them to Sam. What’s it her business if I give them to Sam or not? What if I want to eat them all myself? I worked hard to bake them, why does Sam get to eat them? And he definitely doesn’t need to think I slaved over an oven for hours, baking just for him. Please.

  I slump back on my stool when an alternative plan pops into my head.

  “Hey, Mom, before you pack those, I’ve got a better idea.” I drum my fingers against the table. “I have geography with Sam tomorrow, how about I just give it to him in person?” I blink at her, parading my best doe-eyed innocence.

  She presses her hand over her heart. “Really?”

  “Yeah, it’s more personal that way.” Snort.

  “What?” Her mouth stretches into a glowing smile. “You’re going to start acting like a proper lady?”

  “Yep.” I keep my eyes down. “That’s the plan.”

  She drops the container onto the countertop and wraps her arms around me. “I’m shocked and thrilled. I never thought I’d see the day you showed some initiative to please your Partner.” She kisses my hair. “I’m proud of you.”

  I force a smile. “Thanks.”

  Barf.

  I shove Piren’s backpack as we traipse to the bus the next morning.

  “I like your sweater vest today. Minimizes the look of your fat head.”

  “Well, thanks. Glad you think so.”

  “I wanted to sink my fangs into these, but in my abundant generosity, I thought we could share them instead.” I whip out my surprise. “More fuel for your fat head.”

  “Sam-Cookies? For me? You shouldn’t have.” Piren’s no stranger to my mother’s antics. He tosses one up in the air and catches it in his mouth with a crunch. “Should I send your mom a thank you note?”

  “Sure, just sign it from Sam Macey. And spell some words wrong so it’s believable.”

  His mouth bulges with cookies. “Well, Ms. Bailey, these are excellent.”

  “Well, thanks, Mr. Allston. I aim to please.” I grab a cookie for myself.

  We demolish the entire batch walking to the bus stop.

  At night, my mother flips on the TV and shoos me to the other end of the couch.

  I groan. “Do we have to suffer through another stupid, sappy—”

  “Shhh! It’s starting.” Mom watches with bated breath as opening credits roll across the screen to the sweet sounds of manufactured emotion.

  Perched like an owl on the armchair beside me, Veronica catches my eye and chokes down a giggle. “Mom, you’ve seen these lame movies a bajillion times.”

  “Seriously,” I say, “you must know all the dumb lines by memory at this point.”

  Mom waves out her hand in dismissal, her eyes glued to the screen.

  I sink into the
bolster pillow and grab my bag of chips off the coffee table.

  “Stop crinkling that bag!” Mom hisses. “I’m trying to listen.”

  Great. Another night of pathetic characters bitching about their lives. Tonight, protagonist Rhonda’s Assigned Partner is lost at sea, or the jungle, or wherever the hell else someone could possibly get lost. You’d think the guy’s never used a frigging map before. Rhonda’s all distressed, can’t function without him, blah blah blah, until, spoiler alert! Her Partner Danny will turn up unharmed, with an enlightened sense of the world, and Rhonda’s life will make sense again. It’s the same plot. Every. Single. Time. And the sadder thing is, since the law requires actors playing Partners to be Partners in real life, their pathetic existence doesn’t end on screen.

  “Why doesn’t Rhonda shut up and get a job?” I stuff a handful of chips in my mouth. “Quit complaining.”

  “Wouldn’t it be funny if Danny actually drowned?” Veronica says.

  “What will I do with myself?” I mimic Rhonda’s squeaky voice. “My man up and ran away, and I can’t breathe without him.”

  My sister pretends to faint. “I’m so sad and lonely, I’m going to die.”

  We snicker into our hands.

  Mom mutes the TV. “That what you want? Your Partners to drown? Be alone the rest of your lives?”

  Veronica’s lip trembles as she shakes her head.

  “You should be more respectful.” Mom fuses her eyes back to the TV, and the volume recommences. “Be damn grateful you’re not Rhonda.”

  I roll my eyes. “Oh, I am.”

  Veronica twists her watch around her wrist, her wide smile sunken into a heavy line across her face.

  Way to go, Mom.

  “Hey.” I stroke V’s arm. “Wanna bake some cookies?”

  “Chocolate chip?” She leaps off the couch, and the light returns to her eyes.

  “Keep it down in the kitchen.” Mom toggles up the TV volume.

  My twelve-year-old sister measures ingredients into a cup. A little flour poofs into the air, draping her in a thin sheet of powder. When V laughs, she reminds me of Piren in a way. They both give off this carefree ambience that fills me with warmth, like some sort of sedating drug.