Very in Pieces

by Megan Frazer Blakemore

  “I didn’t realize the scourge of child soldiers was so prevalent in the dragon world.”

  “You’d be a good dragon army leader.”

  “Uh-huh,” I say, and navigate down Main Street. It’s tricky. You never know when a student might lurch out into the road.

  “Oh sure. Organized. Capable. Patient. Maybe a little ruthless.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I don’t want to be the princess in the tower. And I can’t be a dragon. I’m not the sorcerer. What’s left?”

  “I don’t know, Ramona.”

  “Let’s go to the library. I need to get some fairy-tale books.”

  “We already passed the library.”

  “So turn around.”

  “Not today, Ramona, okay? I have things I need to get done.” I’ve promised myself that today I will go online and read up about Minnesota colleges.

  She nods, and her body is still for a moment, but then she sees a collection of balloons tied to a street sign. “Oh, do you think it’s a birthday party?”

  And so it goes the whole ride home. Every tiny detail elicits a comment from her, from a leaf spiraling in the center of the road to an off-kilter mailbox. It’s the same things we pass every day, but suddenly they are alive with meaning for her.

  When we get home I forget to look at her jeans. We both bolt out of the car: she heads into the living room and I toward the kitchen for a snack, stopping to look at the bottle caps on my way. The sculpture has grown more detailed. There are maybe three times as many bottle caps, and they are starting to form patterns and shapes: swirls like a night sky.

  I wonder when and how the artist added to the sculpture. It must be one of the students at the college. He or she could know Nonnie is sick and would have the free time to do something like this. I walk forward and touch the bottle caps, hot in the sun.

  With a shake of my head, I go inside to the kitchen, where I open up the walk-in pantry. All I want is crackers or maybe a granola bar, but we have no typical American family snacks. We have condiments and sauces: three different kinds of mustard; seven varieties of salad dressing; gourmet pasta sauce; mild, medium, and hot barbecue sauce. We also have things that came in cans: anchovies, marinated artichokes, something pink and slimy-looking. But after Ramona and I cleared out the kitchen for the family dinner, we have nothing that I can just sit down and eat.

  Mom has probably forgotten to send in the grocery order. Now that Dad has stopped picking up meals, the responsibility for food falls on her. She never goes to the store, but orders online and has it delivered. Only she rarely remembers to place the order, even though you can set it up to send you the exact same thing every week—Oh, but we need variety, Very! It is a wonder we aren’t all emaciated and writhing on the floor from hunger.

  v.

  “I’m going to the store,” I announce on my way through the living room.

  Mom and Ramona are sitting on the couch, their legs all tangled up. “Wonderful, I’ll come along,” Mom says. She’s not the best shopping companion, but I agree. It’s not like I can say no.

  “Me, too?” Ramona asks.

  There’s this market in town that used to be a glorified convenience store but then decided it wanted to be all gourmet, so now you pay twice as much for so-so food. Ramona disappears while Mom loads up at the ready-made section, Dad’s old stomping grounds: rotisserie chicken, half-baked eggplant Parmesan, mashed sweet potatoes, macaroni and cheese, baby-size pork dumplings. “When are we going to eat all this?” I ask.

  “This week,” she says. “Sometime.”

  She heads off to the olive bar, carefully selecting the most ovaline of the varieties. “I’m buying a pound of these. I haven’t decided yet if I’m going to eat them or paint them in a still life. Look at that color and shine!”

  I peek down the baking aisle and see Ramona standing in front of the cake decorations. She’s holding a jar of rainbow sprinkles, the kind that look like they should taste good but feel like wax in your mouth.

  Moving on, I round the corner into the cereal aisle and pick up some of the Cocoa Krispies Nonnie likes, and some granola for the rest of us. I’m reading the labels trying to decide between Golden Berry Almond and Autumn Honey Harvest when I hear an all-too-familiar clomping.

  “Very Sayles-Woodruff,” Dominic says.

  I turn and face him, a bag of granola in each hand. “This is getting ridiculous,” I tell him.

  “I know. It’s like fate stepping in, isn’t it?”

  “I was thinking more along the lines of stalking.”

  “You’re stalking me?”

  I raise my eyebrows, but he taps at a name tag and I realize that on top of his jeans and white T-shirt, he’s wearing a green apron. DOMINIC, his name tag reads. MEAT.

  “Meat?”

  “I’m a butcher.”

  “Seriously? Isn’t that like a specialized skill?”

  “A butcher in training. An apprentice butcher. At your service.” He looks into my cart. “Not much of a cook, huh?”

  I put both bags of granola into the cart next to the Cocoa Krispies. “We’re busy, and this is easy.”

  “You know what’s easy? Brisket. Just pop it in the oven for a couple of hours. Or pork loin. Put a pork loin in a slow cooker.”

  It’s like he’s speaking another language. “I don’t think we have one of those.”

  “An oven?”

  “Funny.”

  “I tell you what, you invite me over some night and I’ll cook you something. I make a mean set of spare ribs.”

  “That sounds like a line.”

  “A line would be me telling you I make a mean French toast.” Dominic leans in. “Which, by the way, I do.”

  “What’s this all about, anyway?” I ask.

  “I thought it was witty banter.”

  “No. I mean all of this. You and me.”

  “There’s a you and me?” he asks, leaning on my cart with his wolf smile in full effect.

  “You know what I mean. Chatting me up, writing on my locker—”

  “When was I chatting you up?”

  “Right now as a for instance. And then trying to get me to come out of chemistry class.”

  He looks confused for a moment, and then he says, “Oh, that. I wasn’t waving to you.”

  Immediately my cheeks are turning pink and warm: my stupid body betraying me.

  “I mean, I did wave at you once you saw me, but I wasn’t trying to get you to come out of class. I’ve got a”—he pauses—“a friend in that class.”

  “Who?” I demand.

  “Never mind.”

  “Yeah, right. I’m sure you’ve got lots of friends in AP Chem.”

  He smirks. “You don’t think I’m smart enough to have friends who take AP classes?”

  “It doesn’t seem like your circle, that’s all.”

  “Maybe I don’t believe in the narrow boxes of the typical high school experience.”

  “You don’t have to believe in them, but they’re there.”

  “Says you.”

  I frown.

  “You know, if you want me to come and get you out of class, I can.”

  “You wish.” Not a witty comeback, but I’m unnerved by him—his smile, of course, but also the casual way his body leans into mine. I turn away from him, hoping my face isn’t too pink, but I know I am flushed all over. His hand is right next to mine on the shopping cart handle, our pinkies touching. My mother chooses that moment to come around the corner. Her peasant skirt is trailing behind her and she’s holding a box of Twinkies. She looks at Dominic and she looks at me and then she looks at Dominic again and a slow smile spreads across her lips. “Why hello,” she says.

  “Hello,” Dominic replies without moving his hand off of the shopping cart.

  “I’m Annaliese Woodruff,” she introduces herself.

  “I know,” he says. “Very’s mother. I’m Dominic Meyers.”

  “Are you a friend of Very’s f
rom school?” she asks. Nicely played, Mom.

  Dominic turns to me. “I don’t know, Very. Am I?”

  “We have English together,” I say.

  “How nice,” Mom says. “You know I had Ms. Staples, too. She was practically a brand-new teacher back then.”

  “You did?” I ask.

  “Didn’t I ever tell you that? We didn’t start off on the right foot. It was my fault. I walked into that classroom and before she even said a word I told her my name and that she shouldn’t expect me to write any poetry ever. She told me that was a shame. And I said it’s not like poetry was genetic. And she said, I’ll always remember this, ‘Of course not. But it is bloody. And it is essential. Everyone should try it at least once.’”

  “So did you?” Dominic asks.

  “Did I what?”

  “Try poetry.”

  My mom cocks her head to the side. “Never.”

  “Never too late, right?” Dominic asks her, and gives her a softer version of his wolf smile, which of course she just eats up.

  “You’re right. Though I think you’re better off working on Very. Get her to try writing poetry, maybe make a little art.”

  Dominic looks at me with eyebrows raised. “Something tells me that she’d be just as stubborn about it as you were.”

  This makes my mom laugh. Not a belly laugh, but a tinkling, trilling laugh. She says, “Oh, Very and I aren’t much alike.” She looks him up and down. “But then, girls are ever-changeable, aren’t they?”

  “I can’t say I’ve ever tried,” Dominic replies.

  “Oh, but you ought to. Everybody should try it at least once.”

  “Mom.”

  She shrugs.

  “Well, I should get back to the meat,” Dominic says.

  “Do you cater?” she asks him.

  “Me or the store?”

  “Either.” She’s still holding the Twinkies in one hand.

  “The store doesn’t, and I’ve never thought about it before. I was just telling Very that I’m a whiz in the kitchen. Maybe with her help I could whip something up for you.”

  “It’s a college event, and I haven’t been too happy with the company we’ve been using.”

  “Mom.”

  “Right. It was nice meeting you,” my mom tells him. She holds out her hand. I half expect him to take it and give it a kiss, but he just shakes it. Mom looks at his hand, his face, then back at me, and then she, honest to God, gives me a wink, which of course he can see. “I’ll be in the next aisle. When you’re ready.”

  We watch her push the cart away, and I expect him to say good-bye and head back to the meat section, but instead he says, “Hey, are you going to the party Saturday?”

  The party. My mom’s party? “Whose party do you mean?”

  “I don’t know. Nobody’s party. Everybody’s party. Up in the woods behind the ice rink.”

  “Well, that’s a dumb place for a party. It’s bound to get broken up.”

  He gives me a funny look. “There’s a party there every year at the start of school. Everyone goes.”

  Not everyone, evidently. “I hadn’t really decided.”

  “You should go. It’ll be cool.”

  “Are you asking me to go with you?” I ask. He laughs, but I say, “Because I have a boyfriend, you know.”

  “Christian Yoo, right? Bring him along.”

  “Maybe I’ll talk to him and see if he wants to go.”

  “You do that.”

  I can tell he doesn’t believe me. “Or maybe I’ll just go on my own.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “Good. I’ll see you there.”

  “Okay,” I agree.

  He grins and shakes his head. He’s probably figuring I’ll never show, and he’s probably right. A party up in the woods doesn’t sound like a good time to me, and anyway, I need to help with my mom’s art-department shindig. “I need to finish my shopping.”

  But before I can go, he takes a step closer and says, “You, me, brisket.”

  “I prefer French toast,” I tell him.

  And for the first time, I end the conversation with the upper hand.

  Mom of course cannot let the appearance of Dominic slide. I try to distract her by asking her about the Twinkies, and this works momentarily. “Lard!” she exclaims. “Did you know that the filling is made with lard? It says ‘animal shortening,’ but I can read between the lines.” She shakes her head as if disgusted, but throws the box in the cart all the same.

  Ramona appears carrying the rainbow sprinkles, a notebook with a kitten on the front, and a bag of frozen mangoes. “We should make smoothies,” she says.

  “We should. Do you know Very’s friend who works here?” Mom asks.

  Ramona looks around. “Britta works here? Or Grace?”

  “A boy. Dominic.”

  “Dominic Meyers?”

  Mom looks at me. “We need to get going,” I say.

  She manages to keep quiet while we check out, but as I drive us home, she reclines in the passenger seat and peppers me with questions about Dominic. Who he is and where he lives and how long I’ve known him and what he says in English class and doesn’t he have a devious smile, but in a good way. Mom puts her feet on the dashboard and begins to pluck the stem and leaves from an oversize strawberry. “Tell me about him, Ramona.”

  “Ramona doesn’t know him,” I say.

  “I know of him.”

  I imagine her telling Mom about Dominic’s side job selling pot. She could tell Mom about the graffiti on my locker. She could tell her how he cuts class and hangs out in the library. She could tell her any number of things, but all she says is, “He seems nice enough. He’s a good artist, too. I hear he’s wicked smart.”

  I’ve never heard this about him, but hearing Ramona say it, I realize it’s probably true.

  Mom turns around in her seat to look at Ramona. “Book-smart or smart-smart?”

  “He reads a lot, but I think he’s more smart-smart.”

  “What’s the difference?” I ask.

  “The difference?” Mom replies. “The difference is everything. I’m certainly glad to hear he’s smart-smart. That’s what you need in your life.”

  “Am I not smart-smart?” I ask.

  “Oh, of course you are.”

  “You’re more book-smart,” Ramona says.

  “You’re both, Smart One. Don’t worry about it.”

  “I don’t know why you’re making such a big deal out of this. It was just me talking to a guy I know from school.”

  Ramona digs through one of the grocery bags. “It’s not a big deal. It’s just, you know, I’ve never seen you interested in, like, reaching out before.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Just what I said. You’ve got your friends, and you stick with them.” She pulls the sprinkles out of the bag and gives them a gentle shake. It’s a neutral thing to say—most people, after all, have their friends and stick with them—but the way she says it makes it seem like an insult. “Dominic Meyers doesn’t seem like your kind of person.”

  “What kind of person is that?” I ask, as if I hadn’t just challenged Dominic with the same argument.

  “You’re just you, Very. That’s all.”

  That’s all.

  And in that moment, I decide I’m going to that party.

  six

  i.

  OVER THE WEEK, THE sculpture grows. Each day I note the changes. The bottle caps are closest together in the lowest right-hand corner of the garage—the one nearest the front of the house—then spread out so they look like points on a scatter graph. There are some aluminum cans, too, cut open and splayed out, though they peel back from the wall like birds’ wings. Some are label up, but others show their silvery insides. Most of those are on the bottom of the garage, layered on one another and the building like shingles, with a few bending around to the front of the house. When the sun hits them, the glare is intense.

  Wednesday, stems of
copper pipe twist from the ground up the side of the house, stiff as toy soldiers. It is a false step, I think, these harsh lines against the soft contours of the rest of the piece, but by Thursday, they have been moved back against the garage, and their arcs have been taken in by the curves of the sculpture.

  A bird begins building a nest inside one of the crooks, weaving the sticks through with yarn.

  And all the while, more and more and more bottle caps. They are growing into clusters. Hundreds of them. Where do they all come from?

  Britta says that soon the artist will slip up and leave some salient detail, but I hope he won’t. Maybe it’s Dominic, and maybe it isn’t, but I think that once we know one way or the other, the sculpture will stop. The mystery is as much the point as the piece itself.

  Grace still thinks we should have a stakeout. “I’m going to wear a beret and dark sunglasses and be incognito as an artiste.”

  The pace of the development seems to be gaining. It’s like the bigger it gets the faster it can change: an exponential function. It’s living things that usually chart that way. Yeast expanding or a field of flowers blooming. And so it seems that the sculpture, too, is not so much being constructed as being cultivated, the gardener in shadows.

  ii.

  Only four people are allowed to sit at each table in the library. Ms. Blythe has semipatiently explained to us more than once that there have been actual studies done that show that productivity goes down and volume goes up once you get more than four students together at a library table. So we clump together on the floor on the far side of the stacks, by floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the playing fields.

  Christian and I have our chemistry problem set out, Britta is working on her early-action essay for Brown, and Grace and Josh are supposed to be working on Chinese. Only they each grabbed a copy of this Christian teen magazine that the library subscribes to. It sits on the shelf between Teen People and Fish & Game. Grace laughs. “Okay, so this girl writes in that her boyfriend keeps pressuring her to have sex. She doesn’t want to lose him, but she knows it would be wrong to give in and have premarital sex.”