Missing Pieces

by Meredith Tate

  Veronica plugs in the electric mixer, and it whirs to life. I crack an egg into the bowl and toss the shell across the room, where it plummets straight into the trash.

  “Ten points,” Veronica says. “And Mom would kill you if she saw that.”

  I take a bow, and V pretends to break into a round of applause, tapping her hand against the mixer.

  She shoots me a mischievous grin. “Tell me a secret.”

  “You know all my secrets.” I pluck a chocolate chip from her bag and toss it into my mouth. “You tell me one.”

  “I had a dream about my First Kiss Ceremony last night.” She giggles into her hand, as if her confession is one, surprising, and two, a big scandal. It’s neither.

  I shake my head. “One track mind.”

  “I do not!” She shoves me in the arm, smudging flour all over my sleeve.

  “Hey!” I fling a chocolate chip at her; she attempts to catch it in her mouth but fails miserably, and it deflects off her chin.

  We ball mounds of dough onto a sheet of aluminum, sneaking gobs into our mouths.

  I slide the cookie tray into the oven. “Tell me a real secret—”

  “—I—”

  “—not related to Oliver.”

  She clamps her mouth shut and juts out her bottom lip into a pout. “You suck.”

  “One track mind it is, then. Told you so.”

  “I want to be a dentist.” Veronica claps her hand over her lips.

  “What?” I scrunch my face. “Why?”

  She shrugs, tilting her head to hide her flushing cheeks. “It looks interesting. And I wanna put braces on people.” She runs her tongue across the shiny brackets on her own teeth.

  “That’s an orthodontist.”

  “Well, whatever. Something like that.” She hunches her shoulders. “Don’t tell Dad. He’d flip.”

  “Yeah, he would. Don’t worry, I won’t say anything.” I swipe a few spare chocolate chips from the counter and pour them into my mouth. “You could totally do it, though, if you want. Go to medical school. Be a dentist, orthodontist, whatever gross tooth job strikes your fancy.”

  She tugs at her sleeve. “Really? You don’t think it’s stupid?”

  “No, why would I? You’d make a buttload of money.” I wrap my arms around my little sister and kiss the top of her head. “But I expect free cleanings twice a year.”

  “You got it.” She nestles into my shoulder. “Love you, Trace.”

  “Love you, V.”

  Piren Allston

  “Hey! Get your own.” Mason elbows me away from his soft pretzel bites. “What is this, charity week?”

  “Mom says you have to share with me.” I swoop in and steal one, popping it in my mouth.

  “My baby brother is a thieving little bitch, how ’bout I tell Mom that?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “And you know what happens to thieves.” He scarfs his last pretzel, crushing the cardboard container in his hand. “Their fingers fall off.”

  “You know, the first time you told me that, I believed you for, like, two years.”

  “Seriously?” He rolls his head back. “That’s ’cause you’re gullible.”

  “Or maybe it’s ’cause you’re an asshole.”

  We amble through the mall’s mazelike corridors, whittling away a Saturday afternoon. I’m not sure why we always come to the mall on weekends. We weave around the same stores every time, and it’s a town away. But I love my brother, and he loves the mall—probably for the soft pretzel nuggets.

  “You know, I used to believe all that stupid shit you told me. Thieves’ fingers falling off. Giant killer owl living in my closet. Old Mr. Riley is a serial murderer.” I count his lies on my fingers. “Your so-called brotherly wisdom is nonexistent.”

  “I’m seventeen. You’re fourteen.” He ruffles my hair. “You’d do well to heed my worldly advice…Hey, it’s Ashley! Hey, Ashley!” Mason waves, diverting his course and practically crashing into me.

  “Why do you know so many freaking people?” I trudge behind as he approaches an older girl with jet-black hair and a nose ring. She startles and bites her lip.

  “She’s Steph’s friend,” Mason says to me over his shoulder.

  I crinkle my nose. How does someone as unfriendly as Stephanie Butler get so damn popular?

  Mason and Ashley chatter about some economics exam, and my eyes glaze over.

  “I’ll meet you in Cherry’s.” I point to the nearby knickknack store. My brother ignores me, so I walk across the hall.

  Cherry’s boasts an extensive assortment of junk that could entertain me for hours. I browse through the magnet display, chuckling at the X-rated slogans. A woman in the magazine aisle gives me a weird look and walks the other way.

  Scanning the rack, I double take as a trinket catches my eye. A tiny vampire-fangs keychain dangles off a hooked magnet, practically screaming Trace’s name.

  Fangs. What better gift for my best friend?

  I pluck out the price tag: eight dollars. My entire week’s allowance. I fidget the toy in my hands, chomping my forefinger in the plastic teeth.

  But it would be the perfect prop for a Fat Head and Fangs adventure…

  I rock back and forth for a moment, then swipe the fangs off the display.

  Worth it.

  I bring the keychain to the checkout line when Mason butts in front of me.

  “What’re you getting?” He tosses a pack of candy onto the counter, clearly assuming I’ll buy it for him.

  “Uh, a keychain…and really? After you wouldn’t even share your damn pretzel nuggets?” I slide the candy back to him.

  He pouts. “Not even for your big bro?”

  “Especially not for you. How many snacks do you need, anyway? Pig.”

  The cashier rings up my purchase, and I dig out my wallet.

  Mason flicks the keychain. “What’s with the teeth?”

  “It’s an inside joke.” I scratch my neck, not meeting his eyes.

  “With Lara?”

  “Uh, yeah, Lara.”

  “That’s what you get your Partner?” He raises his brows. “A fang keychain?”

  “Yep.”

  “Weirdo.” He grabs his candy and struts over to the sports magazines. I take my bag and head back into the mall.

  Plopping down on a bench across from Cherry’s, I pull out my headphones. After three songs go by, I check my watch.

  Mason better hurry his ass up. Mom will freak if we’re late for dinner again.

  My knee bounces as I watch the store entrance. Five more minutes pass.

  Damn it. He gets distracted by the dumbest stuff in that store.

  I pull myself up, ready to drag my brother out by his popped collar, when—

  “Piren! Hey!”

  I spin around. Lara and her mother wave furiously, speeding toward me from the other end of the mall. My hands clench around my blue plastic bag.

  “Hi, Piren!” Mrs. Goodren balances at least half a dozen shopping bags in the crook of her arm.

  “Hey, Mrs. Goodren. I love you, Lara Goodren.”

  “I love you, Piren Allston.”

  “What’re you up to in the mall?” Mrs. Goodren’s eyes drift to my bag. “Shopping?”

  I force an awkward smile. “Just hanging out with my brother.”

  Mason emerges from Cherry’s, clutching two bags filled with God knows what.

  “Hey, Lara, Mrs. Goodren.” Mason nods. He turns to me. “You gonna give her your weird little gift?”

  I freeze.

  “No, uh, not yet. It’s…for Christmas.”

  Lara’s face lights up. “For me? I don’t have your Christmas gift yet, but you can give that to me now if you want.” She reaches for the bag, but I snatch it away.

  “No! Uh, it’s not wrapped.”

  Mason scoffs. “Just give it to her. We gotta get going. Mom’s gonna kill us.”

  I crush my purchase to my chest, the keychain suddenly feeling about as heavy a
s a metal brick. The bag quivers in my shaking hands, and my Partner leans closer, brushing the plastic with her fingers.

  No. No no no. Not for you.

  “What’s inside?” Mrs. Goodren asks, nudging her daughter closer to me. “A surprise?”

  Lara practically devours the bag with her eyes.

  My brother throws his head back. “Come on, we gotta go.”

  Damn you, Mason.

  Cheeks burning, I thrust the bag to Lara.

  Her hungry eyes widen as she digs into it, and I just want to rewind and get my eight dollars back and make this whole awkward situation disappear.

  Lara’s smile falters when she unveils the keychain. My Partner isn’t in the Café Crowd, but the epic Under Five tales of Fat Head and Fangs are widespread knowledge throughout the whole school.

  Her shoulders droop. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” I wring my hands, watching the cracked tiles in the floor.

  “Teeth?” Mrs. Goodren cocks her head. “What are the teeth for?”

  “It’s, uh…”

  “It’s just this thing from school. No big deal.” Lara drops my gift back in its bag. “Should we go?” Her eyes glimmer with a hint of pain.

  We awkwardly hug good-bye.

  The entire ride home, I glower out the window, ignoring my brother’s attempts at banter.

  The stupid keychain cost eight dollars, and my Partner will just throw it away.

  Thanks a lot, Mason.

  Tracy Bailey

  Bouncing on my toes, I thrust my signed permission slip into our teacher’s waiting hands.

  “Oh, phew, Ms. Bailey. Last one in. Was a little nervous you wouldn’t be joining us.”

  “Wouldn’t miss this one for the world, Mrs. McDonald.” My cheeks ache from grinning, but I don’t care.

  I line up with the rest of the eighth graders. Piren sidles up to me.

  “How’d you finally get your dad to sign?” he whispers.

  I cup my hand over my mouth. “Waited till he was plastered. Told him it was the cable bill.”

  We snicker.

  “Field trip day!” Our classmate Alex pumps his fist, plowing into the line and knocking my elbow. “Field trip, field trip!”

  I grimace, tapping my foot on the ground.

  “We all know what day it is, Mr. Harper,” Mrs. McDonald says. “Thank you very much.”

  “Field trip, field trip!”

  “Oh my God, if he does that the entire way to the Lab, I am going to strangle him.”

  Piren smirks. “He’s just showing his excitement.”

  “I’ll give him something to be excited about…”

  The teacher ticks off names as we filter onto the bus, one by one.

  “Wow, full class,” she says as I step on board. “Funny, the eighth grade end-of-year trip always has perfect attendance. Every year.”

  I beam. “Guess everyone’s eager to tour the Lab.”

  On any other day, kids will fake anything from a scraped knee to a sneeze to manipulate their parents into calling them out sick for class. But on Assignment Lab Day, malaria could strike the town and the entire frigging class would still show up for school.

  I sit beside Toni on the bus.

  “How do you think they do it?” she asks.

  Amanda pops her head over our seat. “Do you think we’ll actually get to see the computer?”

  “I dunno. That’d be pretty badass, though.”

  “I read a book about it once.” Piren leans in from across the aisle. “Data goes through the main computer, and they Assign your Partner from there.”

  “Everyone knows that,” Alan says. “I want to see them do it.”

  Toni squeals, grabbing my hands as we pull through the gates and into the parking lot. Everyone rises to their feet before the bus screeches to a halt. We shove and elbow, bulldozing through each other to reach the towering metal doors.

  I tug Piren’s arm as we walk inside. “Bet you a dollar they bring up that stupid Pioneer State thing within the first five minutes.”

  “You’re on.”

  Our state was one of the first ten in the country to mandate Assigned Partners; the others jumped on the bandwagon soon after, and then it became federal law. Every public building in this whole frigging state feels the need to display this fun fact on a prominent sign.

  Lo and behold…

  “You’re currently residing in one of Assigning’s birth states,” our bubbly tour guide, Melanie, says. “That’s right, we’re pioneers of innovation. It all started right here, folks.”

  “Told you so,” I mouth to Piren across the room.

  He makes a face at me. I rub my fingers together to show him I expect my payment.

  “What you’re about to see here today are the tools that make it all possible.” Melanie clasps her hands together, brandishing a toothy smile. Behind her, dozens of screens and buttons flash and beep, as if creating the Lab’s own theme song. “Now, who can tell me why we need Assigning?”

  Sam’s hand shoots up. “So people can produce healthy kids.”

  “Yes, great! What else?”

  Amanda pipes up. “I think someone told me, before Partners, people would date a bunch of people, or even marry more than one person and get divorced. Or, like, be with someone and then, like, sneak around with someone else behind their back. You know, before affairs were illegal.”

  “Bingo!” The guide’s eyes light up. “Moral compasses didn’t always point due north, if you get what I’m saying. Diseases spread, depression, babies out of wedlock, kids with birth defects, divorce…” She counts the transgressions on her fingers. “It wasn’t a very nice place, folks. People couldn’t carry the burden of finding the right mate on their own; they needed help. So, that’s where we come in, and we have—” she points behind her “—one hundred percent accuracy in our Assigned Partners.”

  We push in closer to follow her finger, tripping over each other’s toes in the packed room. Sure enough, a bright yellow sign boasts:

  Assignment Lab: 100% Accuracy!

  Assigning Perfect Partners for Over One Hundred Years

  Not super modest, but okay.

  “Many years ago,” Melanie continues, “broken families overwhelmed us. Kids like you didn’t have stable homes, because without a married mother and father, kids can’t thrive—it’s impossible.” She pulls out a stack of index cards and reads aloud.

  “Between soaring high school dropout rates, teen pregnancy, homosexuality, and rising juvenile crimes, the government had to act. Something had to be done to ensure kids grew up in healthy homes to prevent these travesties. Thus, mandated Partners were created. With a perfect Partner already decided, things like divorce and homosexual behavior became unnecessary.” Her eyes flick up from the cards, and she clears her throat before continuing her spiel.

  “But that wasn’t the only problem. Impoverished people had three, four, five, or even more children, but they couldn’t care for them. The growing population led to thousands of people this country couldn’t feed—the beginning of overpopulation. Kids grew up in poverty and despair, forcing the government to implement the two-children-per-Partnership law to maintain a stable population.”

  Sam’s hand pops up yet again. “So, is that before the Federal Government was dissolved?”

  “Exactly! Yes.” She shuffles through her cards and pulls one out. “The national government was dissolved, and power was distributed to local officials—our Mayor, for example, in this town—to enforce the legal system, state by state. As you may have already learned in school, each of the forty-eight states nominates one of its Mayors to attend the annual Council in Kansas City, at which point propositions of change in National Law are brought to a vote. Around the time this system was developed by our Founders, the United States made the decision to close its borders to immigration and emigration, with the understanding that trade and commerce across American borders would remain easy and accessible to and from all count
ries.

  “Some notable countries, such as Russia, Costa Rica, and Germany, have adapted the American system. Some others, like Thailand and England, also recently began discussions of implementing their own Assignment system.” She lowers her cards. “And given the chance, I would encourage them to follow through with it. Ever since our country took that leap, let me tell you, it’s become a vastly healthier, more positive place. We’re lucky to be alive when we are.” She hangs her head. “Our ancestors suffered through things we can’t even imagine.”

  My classmates’ eyes gloss over as she rambles.

  Enough with the frigging history lesson. Let’s see some action already.

  “Oops, I’ve lost some of you!” Melanie snaps her fingers. Eyes drift back to the front of the room. “As the Assignment system developed, Ceremonies were implemented to protect the sanctity of this process, serving as a rite of passage. Kids had a new direction for their lives, following a guided relationship timeline. If activities like kissing and fornication are scheduled, there’s no need for people to act rashly or on pure emotion. And as a result, teen pregnancy and sexually transmitted diseases have been essentially eradicated. Our ancestors vowed to protect these customs for their children and grandchildren, so humanity could thrive for generations to come.”

  She takes a deep breath, and her elated expression sinks to melancholy. “But things weren’t perfect. Despite the success of the Partnering system, there were some…reprobates—” she enunciates the word “—who decided rules were beneath them. When a select group of people still chose to act recklessly and promiscuously, a new law was created. Farm and desert land in each state was quarantined from the public, devoted solely to these…people. These places were set aside for the uncultured, the criminal, and the rebellious, to live their lives without disrupting civilized society—behind a walled gate. You know our state’s section as Lornstown.”

  Melanie flings out her hand and points to a poster on the wall. A forlorn-looking, tearful woman shivers in the picture, her bony hand clasped around the wrist of a sickly, malnourished little boy. Two dilapidated buildings with smashed windows loom behind her, creating an ominous shadow.

  Banishment to Lornstown: Don’t Let It Happen to You