Missing Pieces

by Meredith Tate

  Sometimes I wish we could have stayed on that bench in that rural town. Stayed there forever and never looked back.

  Piren Allston

  It’s December. Trace hasn’t spoken to me in three months. Knives plunge through my chest when I think of her, so I force myself not to.

  Mom bought Lara a Christmas gift from me. I have no idea what it is; she wrapped it snuggly in a red Christmas bag. She also bought me a corny card to sign. It has a photo of two heart-plastered red stockings on the front, encircled by the words My Partner is the best, the only one for me, I can’t wait to snuggle with her, beneath the Christmas tree. Probably the last thing that would ever come out of my mouth, but whatever.

  For the past hour, I’ve sat in front of this sappy card, tugging my hair. I haven’t the slightest clue what to write inside. I think I’ve clicked my pen against the table about four thousand times.

  Merry Christmas, Lara.

  From Piren

  I read it again and again. I feel like I should say something more intimate to her, but the words won’t come. I’m no good at being romantic. I twirl the pen in my fingers.

  Dear Lara,

  Merry Christmas, Lara.

  Have a great day.

  From Piren

  Mason pounces into the room and yanks the card from my hands.

  “Hey!”

  “Not even gonna write ‘love,’ little bro?” He ruffles my hair.

  I swat him away. “Right. Give me that.”

  I scribble out “From Piren” and write “Love, Piren.” Great, now it looks even worse, because there’s pen scribbles all over it. I slap my forehead.

  “What’d you get her?” Mason asks.

  I paw through the bag. “Um. A sweater, and some earrings. Mom got it. What’d you get Stephanie?”

  “A pricey necklace.”

  “Let me see!”

  He carefully pries it from his coat pocket. Pink stones surround a sparkly diamond heart. It’s gorgeous, and way beyond my brother’s price-bracket.

  “Wow, she’ll love it.”

  He beams, lowering the gift back into his pocket.

  Stephanie doesn’t love anything; she’s a big downer. But I lie anyway because I want Mason to be happy. Trace never met Stephanie, but from my stories, she nicknamed my brother’s Partner “The Ice Queen.”

  I spin my pen on the table. “Can I ask you something?”

  “What?”

  I stop it with my finger. “What do you think of Stephanie?”

  “What do you mean?” he scoffs. “What kind of stupid question is that? I love Stephanie; she’s my Partner. Don’t be an idiot.”

  “No, I know. I mean, what do you think of her? Do you…like her personality?”

  He squints. “What about her personality?”

  “I dunno, just in general.”

  “I love Stephanie. She’s great. What more do you need to know?”

  “Nothing. Sorry.”

  He rolls his eyes and darts upstairs. For some reason, I caught a hint of insincerity in his voice. Just a hint. A wobble. Something only I would pick up.

  In a few months, he’ll graduate from high school and move in with The Ice Queen. I guess if she has any unusual quirks, Mason will learn soon enough. He’ll have to learn to deal with them. For the rest of his life.

  Around eight, Lara shows up at my house to swap gifts.

  “I love you, Lara Goodren.”

  “I love you, Piren Allston.”

  Mrs. Goodren and my mom exchange pleasantries while my Partner unwraps her present.

  “Cool, thanks.” Lara holds the purple sweater up to her chest, then refolds it and places it gently back in the bag. She hands me a package wrapped in red and green tissue paper. I tear it open, revealing a brown tie, a history book, and a chick flick.

  “Oh…thanks, Lara.”

  “The man at the store was convinced this movie is just perfect for a date night,” Mrs. Goodren says, “so we just couldn’t resist.”

  Lara smiles, her new earrings dangling off her lobes like little brass bells.

  Mrs. Goodren brandishes an envelope from her pocket. “And as my husband’s and my gift for you two. It’s a gift certificate to Ford’s Seafood, so you can have a real date—dinner and a movie.”

  Lara’s eyes light up. “Awesome, Mom! Thanks.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Goodren.” I take the envelope. “That’s very generous of you.”

  A seafood restaurant? What the hell am I supposed to eat there?

  I shake Mrs. Goodren’s hand and hug Lara good-bye.

  “What a nice family you’re marrying into,” Mom says.

  I nod. She’s right; they’re lovely. Very proper, very nice.

  They just don’t know me at all.

  Tracy Bailey

  I lie face-down on my bed. My parents scream obscenities at each other downstairs. They’ve shouted non-stop for two frigging hours. The deafening noise drowns out my blaring music. I didn’t know it was physically possible for lungs to work that hard.

  What an awesome Christmas Eve.

  Some families are the “cuddle and smile around the magical Christmas fireplace!” types. My family is not. I guess I’m luckier than some families where the fighting gets physical. My parents don’t punch when they fight, but their words hit hard as fists.

  Together forever. Till death do you part.

  You work out the problems within your family and shut your trap about it. Bitching and moaning to the world falls on deaf ears.

  Sometimes I wonder if my parents would be better separated. If there was a legal way to leave. Maybe they’d be happier alone. Kinder. Better parents.

  A slew of F-bombs reverberate up the stairwell, flooding through my closed door. I bury my face in my pillow.

  Dad’s drunk; Mom is, from the sound of it, “so fucking sick of your drinking!” I’d argue he’s drunk in honor of the holiday, but that excuse doesn’t cover the rest of the year.

  I roll onto my back and clamp my eyes shut. I’m about a notch from obliterating my eardrums under my headphones, but I crank the volume higher. A few tears leak from my eyes, leaving damp patches on my pillow.

  This sucks.

  Glass shatters downstairs. One of my parents probably threw a dish at the other, as usual. Guess it’s another night I’ll wait for them to fall asleep and sneak downstairs with the dustpan. I’m not taking anyone to the frigging ER for a glass-shard-speared foot. No way in hell I’m explaining any of this shit to some nosy doctor.

  I guess Assigning can’t predict rampant alcoholism.

  What if Sam becomes an alcoholic? Maybe my father’s alcoholic genes Assigned me to someone else with a predisposition. Goose bumps prickle down my arms.

  Mom slams into my bedroom door, ripping it open.

  “Go to Toni’s house!” Her body heaves, her eyes wild and raging. “Spend the night there.” Her hair hangs limp, strewn across her sweaty face.

  My father screams from downstairs, and Mom twists back around. “Yeah? Say it louder, jackass!” She brushes hair from her eyes.

  “Mom, are you okay?”

  “Just get the hell out. And call your sister, tell her to stay at Oliver’s for the night.” The door slams behind her. Her screams echo in the hall. “…And another thing, you wretched son of a bitch…”

  I slip out of bed.

  Guess I’ll be spending Christmas with someone else’s family.

  Mom feeds into his problem. Between her holiday schnapps, Christmas booze, and fancy wine, she enables him. She brings it home and wonders why it’s gone in two days.

  Spend the night elsewhere? With pleasure.

  I throw a fistful of clothes in a bag and dash downstairs. Silence consumes the house like white noise in the aftermath of a tidal wave. I slip into my heaviest jacket and tiptoe out the backdoor, stepping around my unconscious father—who puked all over the kitchen tiles.

  The door slams, and bone-chilling air envelopes me. I wrap my arms ar
ound my chest.

  I don’t have a plan.

  I can’t go to Toni’s place. Her parents pack that frigging house with relatives at Christmas, and I’m not about to spoon with some stranger on the floor. Amanda’s too far away.

  The Maceys are only a couple miles from here…

  I choke out a gag.

  No chance in hell.

  I can’t identify the worse option: Sam’s home for Christmas, or my own. They both equally blow. Camping alone in the treehouse would be a viable option, if it wouldn’t freeze me into a Tracesicle within hours.

  A bitter winter breeze stings my cheeks, blowing my hair across my face. Shivers echo through my core and down my spine. Trudging through ankle-deep snow, I trek through my yard and up to the road. Water seeps into my sneakers, dampening my feet and numbing my toes.

  Maybe I’ll freeze to death, and it’ll be over.

  I picture my father, plodding out here tomorrow, finding my frozen, lifeless body. He’d notice my absence when no one cleaned up his drunken mess. He’d probably yell at my rotting corpse for dying and dooming Sam to life alone.

  Awesome.

  I press my bag to my chest, fighting back a wave of shakes.

  Gloves and a hat would have been smart. Apparently I’m as dumb as my stupid parents.

  My numb feet traipse forward, forcing me another step. I squint to see through wisps of icy powder in the air. Pudgy inflatable snowmen dapple nearby lawns. Twinkling lights illuminate my neighbors’ towering homes, welcoming the Christmas spirit.

  My spirit is draped in cobwebs.

  Christmas used to mean something else once—something about a deity, before such things were illegal. We learned about it in school. When all other holidays were outlawed, Christmas was allowed to remain as a secular display of lights and gifts because of the positive effect people thought it had on morale. I used to like celebrating, back when my parents actually gave a shit about stuff like this. Now it’s just another day in the Bailey household—another cold day.

  I stand on my tiptoes to peek in the frosty window of a nearby home. My neighbors are hosting a Christmas party. Smiling people chat inside, snacking on mini sausages and drinking from fancy glasses. They look warm, crowding around a blazing fireplace. I wish I could saunter into that party and make them adopt me. Hello! My name is Tracy Bailey. I’m fifteen years old, I’m an honor student, and my family sucks. Can I join yours?

  I exhale a foggy breath cloud into the night air.

  Oliver’s home isn’t too far. Maybe I could stay there and wake up with Veronica on Christmas morning, like old times. My stiff fingers fumble the buttons on my cellphone.

  “Hello?” she answers.

  “Hey, V, how’s it going?”

  “Tray-Tray! Big sista! How ya hangin?” Her words jumble in a heap.

  What the…?

  More incoherent slurs emit from the speaker, followed by my sister’s unmistakable giggle.

  Has Veronica fallen onto the family alcoholism bandwagon?

  “V…have you been drinking?”

  “What?”

  I press the phone to my ear; music blasts in the background amidst a dozen chattering voices. “Have. You. Been. Drinking?”

  “Yeah! I’m with Ollie.”

  My heart sinks. “Look, don’t come home tonight, okay?”

  “What?” Delighted screams drown her voice, followed by the signature pop of a champagne cork.

  “Don’t come home tonight!”

  “Yeah, Ollie! Breaking out the hard stuff!”

  “Veronica, are you even listening to me?”

  “Sorry, Trace, gotta go.”

  Click. She’s gone.

  Howling wind rattles through the trees. I gaze up at the pitch-black sky, and twinkling stars blink down at me.

  I’m all alone.

  Stinging cold paralyzes my legs, stripping my energy. I drop to the ground in the middle of the road, curling into a ball. The frigid pavement numbs my cheek as I press my face to the cement. Maybe a passing car will take pity and kill me.

  No. Get up. Come on.

  I hoist my body to a stance and hobble onward.

  Maybe I’ll spend the whole night walking. Become a living ice sculpture. A thing of beauty.

  My frozen body protests every clambering step. I wiggle my chilled toes, but I can’t feel them move. My teeth click furiously together in a chattering drumroll. Every joint aches in the raw air as I drag my feet toward an unknown destination.

  Delirious, blurred thoughts swirl through my brain. My mind grows fuzzy. Too much cold. Can’t think. Can’t move.

  I have no home. Nowhere to go. Nobody cares. Nobody loves me.

  I look up. I’m outside Piren’s house.

  Piren Allston

  I sprawl over the couch like a corpse, staring at the ceiling. Stale children’s Christmas specials play softly on TV, basking the room in a light glow. My eyelids hang heavy, but I don’t have the energy to blink.

  My parents are at a Christmas party until late. Mason’s spending his first Christmas at Stephanie’s house. It’ll be weird ripping through presents tomorrow morning without him.

  The Goodrens invited me to their Christmas Eve dinner tonight, but I made up an excuse. Lara’s pissed I declined the offer. She called me “insensitive” or some bullshit. I was only half listening.

  My phone buzzes on the coffee table. I fling out a dead arm to grab it: text from Lara. I toss the phone back to the table, message unread, and tug my sweatshirt hood lower over my face.

  Caroling snowmen parade across the TV, but my eyes blur. I feel drained, like a vacuum sucked every drop of energy from my body. My left arm dangles lifeless over the side of the couch.

  I spring to my feet when I hear a soft scratching at the front door. At ten o’clock. On Christmas Eve.

  Who the F…?

  I crack it open. Trace tumbles inside, and I barely catch her freezing body before she hits the floor.

  “Trace! Are you okay?”

  She wobbles on her feet, lips purple, eyes half-closed, torso hanging limp in my arms. Pieces of snow and dirt cling to her hair and jacket.

  What the hell? Has she been lying on the ground?

  My heart races. Trace hasn’t talked to me in three months, and now she’s here, half dead.

  “Trace? Trace?”

  I pat her pink frozen face, but she doesn’t make a sound.

  “Hey! Hey! Trace! Look at me!”

  She murmurs incoherent garble, head drooping onto my shoulder.

  “What happened? Trace? Trace! How long were you out there?”

  “Piren.”

  Relief floods my body at the sound of her voice. I pull her close to me, pressing her chest to mine. It’s illegal, but I don’t care. I close my eyes and rest my chin on her head, inhaling the flowery aroma of her hair. The curly strands tickle my face, and I squeeze her tighter.

  She jerks her head back and meets my gaze. Her eyes grow wide, inviting me closer, drawing me in. Her lips part slightly, forming a weak smile.

  She looks like she wants to say something, but she doesn’t.

  She kisses me.

  Part Two: Sixteen Years Old

  Piren Allston

  “You know, separation is best for you both,” Dad said, flipping a page in his newspaper as I watched the moving truck pull away.

  “Mm-hmm.” I pressed my forehead to the window as the Baileys’ cars disappeared from view, trailing behind the truck.

  It’s been a year. My stomach still cramps at the memory.

  Trace and I haven’t spoken since.

  A young family lives in her old home now. Mom whipped up a chocolate welcome-cake when they arrived. She and Mrs. Warren are the best of buddies. They started a neighborhood book club together.

  No one knows we kissed. Our parents are the only ones who know about the sleepover, but that’s bad enough. They didn’t tell Mason, and they sure as hell weren’t about to tell Lara.

  My
parents came home in the middle of the night and found Trace fast asleep on the couch, me in my bed.

  Nothing else happened. Thank God nothing else happened. Trace’s parents screamed themselves hoarse Christmas day before hauling her off. She cowered beneath them, tears streaming down her face, and all I could do was watch and wait for it to be over.

  For a week following “the incident,” my dad grilled me: What happened? Did I kiss Trace? Did I have sex with Trace? Nothing, no, and no.

  I’m a big damn liar.

  I forced my leg not to bounce as Dad interrogated me.

  “Piren, if you’re lying, they’ll Banish you, you know that.” His piercing gaze bore into mine. “I can’t let that happen to you. I need to know you’re telling me the truth.”

  “I told you, nothing happened.”

  “If she showed up here and made a move, she’d be the one in trouble, not you.” He leaned his elbows on his thighs. “Look at me, come on. Don’t be scared to tell me the truth. She’d be the one Banished, not you. Hell, they’d probably consider you a hero for catching her in the act.”

  “Stop. Nothing happened, okay?”

  “Okay. I believe you.” He clapped his hand on my shoulder. “Thank you for being honest.”

  I forced a half-hearted smile, but I couldn’t bring myself to look at him.

  Trace is my best friend. Even now, even though we don’t talk, I still intrinsically consider her as such. I couldn’t do that to her.

  Then there’s another fact—the detail I’ve never spoken aloud. I don’t even think Trace knows. It eats away at me inside, burrowing into my brain, but I can’t shake it.

  When Trace kissed me, I kissed her back.

  I’ll take that secret to the grave.

  I passed my driver’s test last week, on the first try, by the skin of my teeth. Today I’m taking Lara out on an official date, with no parental supervision.