Very in Pieces

by Megan Frazer Blakemore

  v.

  It seems strange that awful things can happen and yet the sun still comes up. But it does. In fact, it’s a beautiful afternoon outside, the sky a Technicolor blue, so when I get home I walk around the house to the lawn, which slants down toward a wall of trees. I slide through a break between two pines and onto our short, crooked dock that juts out into the bay. Sitting, I let my feet hang down, so close to the water I can feel its cool.

  I pick up a rock and skip it one, two, three times before it sinks. I look out at the ripple line in the water where the current changes from slight to severe. If I lean way forward I can follow the coast as the bay expands, and maybe see the bridge over the bay into Portsmouth, where it opens up to the Atlantic Ocean.

  I dip my toe into the water, too cold for swimming, though when we were kids it hadn’t bothered us. The current around the bridge is one of the strongest in the world. At our beach, the strength’s just a shadow. You have to swim out about twenty yards to get where it’s really strong. I’ve felt it only once. I waded out to where the water was almost neck deep. It tugged at my foot. Incessant. I knew that if I took just one step, one stroke more, it would suck me under. I thought, though, that I could go back. Just turn around and swim back, as simply as I had come. But the water was an invisible force field, holding me there. I began to panic. Dad dove in and swam to me in quick strokes, his head out of the water, eyes on me. He pulled me back out of the spiral by my wrist, tugging so hard my shoulder popped.

  Normally it was Nonnie who walked us down to the water. She sat under her tree and took her thin silver cigarette case from her suit jacket pocket, engraved with her initials, IRW, and pulled one skinny cigarette out and lit it. When she finally quit, she claimed it was because the government kept raising the cigarette tax. “They get enough of my money to fight their tin soldier wars.”

  The cigarette case is cool to the touch when I take it out of my bag. This would please her, I know: that I took the case from her dresser drawer without asking. Others would lay claim to it, of course. My mother first of all. Or the college, maybe, to keep with other memorabilia. Perhaps even Ramona. But I took it, slipped it into my bag before anyone could notice. If they remember it at all, they’ll think it has been lost.

  I run my fingers over the engraved initials, thin as the whorls of fingerprints.

  IRW

  Imogene Rosemary Woodruff.

  Nonnie.

  I flip open the case. Inside is one old cigarette. “I might be shipwrecked, Very. Or maybe I’ll be at one of the great dive bars in New York, and some young man will ask me for a cigarette. You have to be prepared.”

  There is nothing left for her to prepare for. So I take out the just-in-case cigarette and hold it to my lips. It is warm, soft, like a straw filled with sand. I have a pack of matches in my bag, too, from a restaurant in town. It takes a couple of tries to light the match. The smell of sulfur fills the air. Then I hold the match to the end of the cigarette and suck in. The cigarette catches, and my mouth and lungs fill with smoke. Predictably, I start to cough. I can hear her laughing, and she whispers in my ear: You’ll get the hang of it, Very.

  I wonder if Dominic ever smokes, and decide he doesn’t. Not cigarettes anyway. He hadn’t tasted like tobacco smoke. He tasted like something warm and soft and just a little sweet.

  Christian would never smoke. Ever. And that rigidity is probably why Nonnie dislikes him. I needed that steadiness once, back at the start when Nonnie was first getting sick and the possibility of a happy ending still existed.

  I look back over my shoulder, to the tall tree under which Nonnie always sat. If I blink quickly, it’s like I can still see her there in her tapered black capri pants and white T-shirt. She holds her hand up to shield her eyes from the sun, and slowly, slowly exhales.

  nine

  i.

  GRACE HAS MUFFINS FOR me in homeroom. “I made them when I heard Nonnie was in the hospital. They have, like, chia seeds and quinoa flour. We just need to save one for Britta to balance out all the coffee and crap she puts into her system. Do you know what’s in those lattes she drinks?”

  “My mom and I ate a whole box of Twinkies last night.” We sat on the sofa together eating one after another while my dad worked in his office. We could hear his heavy fingers pounding on the keyboard. Finally Mom stood up and said, “She’s not going to die. Not this week.”

  I take one of the muffins and bite into it. It actually tastes pretty good. Soft and gooey.

  Josh slides into the seat on the other side of Grace and helps himself to a muffin.

  “These are mourning muffins,” she tells him.

  “I’m not mourning. Not yet,” I say.

  “I didn’t mean that. I meant, like, banish sadness.”

  “Sadness banished,” Josh says. “Hey, Very, I heard you went—”

  “Josh, she doesn’t want to talk about the hospital, okay?”

  “You went to the hospital? Are you sick? Did you drink too much at that party?”

  My muffin is crumbling in my fingers.

  “What are you even talking about?” Grace asks. “Very doesn’t drink at her mom’s—well, Very doesn’t drink, period. And anyway, it was her grandmother who was in the hospital.”

  “Oh.” Josh looks at me, at the muffins, then at Grace, and I can see him making calculations. He heard I was at the party in the woods, which means he probably heard I was with Dominic. My money is on Sadie being the one who told him. Who told everyone. Everyone, of course, being a set that includes Christian as one of its elements.

  Mr. Tompkins grabs a folder from his desk before he comes over to us, pushing his hair out of his eyes.

  “Mr. Tompkins, would you like a very healthy muffin? It should help to replenish your muscles after your long hike with, who did you say you were going with again?”

  “I’m not sure I did say, Grace, but it was with some buddies in my hiking club. We knocked off another four-thousand-footer, so only three more to go. I should have it done this year.”

  I imagine him on top of a mountain, the air so fresh and clear. You could see for miles and miles, and the world below and all its problems would seem so little when you were four thousand feet high, wouldn’t they?

  “Listen, Very. We should probably think about rehearsing our presentation. I’ve got my slides all ready. All I need you to do is walk through your slides and then read your narrative.”

  “Sure, of course.”

  “Maybe today after school?”

  “Today?” I ask.

  “We don’t have math team, so I thought it would be good.”

  “It’s just that—” My voice cracks.

  “Very’s grandmother went into the hospital this weekend.”

  “Oh, Very, I’m so sorry. I had no idea. Usually parents—”

  “Usually parents what?”

  “Well, it’s just the type of thing we like to know as teachers, so we can be accommodating, and a lot of times parents will call in, but I know this is taking a toll on them, too. So don’t worry about it.”

  “Okay.”

  “And listen, if something comes up, and you think you’re going to have to reschedule with Professor Singh, just let me know. I’ll take care of it, okay?” He says this, but his face is pinched tightly and I know it would actually be an imposition to try to reschedule with this big-deal professor.

  “Okay.”

  “She’s only here for the day, so.”

  “Okay,” I say again. Okay, okay, okay. Such a hollow little word.

  He looks like he’s about to say something else, but the bell rings, and I’m off to English class. I navigate away from where I think Christian will be, but of course there’s no avoiding Dominic. He’s already in the classroom, so I head straight for Ms. Staples. “I just thought you’d want to know that my grandmother isn’t doing so well. She went into the hospital last night, but we’re hoping she’ll be out tomorrow.”

  “I’m so sorry, Very. Do
you need some more time with the response to Dickinson?”

  “No. I’ve got it. I wrote about the hope one—the thing with feathers and all that. I just thought you should know, since you like her poetry and everything.”

  “I do like her poetry, but I’m more concerned about you.”

  “I’m fine,” I tell her.

  “Well, have a seat and take it easy.”

  Dominic is watching me as I sit down next to Britta. She takes my hand and gives it a squeeze. Dominic raises his eyebrows and mouths the word, “Okay?”

  I shake my head.

  No I am not okay.

  No I don’t need your help.

  No, kissing you was a terrible idea.

  My mind is everywhere but on the poems. On Dominic, who keeps staring at me the whole time—a careful observer. On Christian, and the magical thinking he must be using to explain away the rumors. And Nonnie, of course. Always back to Nonnie.

  Dominic waits for me after class. He sidles right up next to me as we make our way out the door of English class. “Hey, Very.”

  I look over my shoulder, back into the classroom, where Britta is talking to Ms. Staples about the poem we were just discussing, something by Adrienne Rich.

  “Very,” he says again.

  I wonder if I can just keep walking and pretend I don’t hear him, but he is so close I can feel him, so I say, “Hey.”

  Heads actually swivel to see us. At least that’s how it seems to me. I’m looking at the black and white tiles of the hallway floor.

  “I want to thank you for listening Sat—”

  “It’s no big deal,” I say quickly. I check back over my shoulder. Britta is still talking to Ms. Staples. “I need to wait for Britta. You should go on to your next class.”

  He grins at that. “English is pretty much the only class I’m on time for.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why do you think it’s so cool to just saunter in late? Like nothing really matters to you? Like you’re just so cool you can’t even be bothered?” I clamp my mouth shut. People are definitely watching us now.

  “Things matter to me.”

  “Okay, sure. Whatever. You’re welcome.”

  “I don’t normally get to talk about my family with anyone.”

  “Well, I am a peer counselor. That’s what we’re here for.”

  He stops then, midstep. “Right, Very. Of course. Keep up the good work.”

  I keep walking without looking back or waiting for Britta. It’s not something I’m proud of. It’s just that all those eyes were on us and the weight of expectations and gleeful gossip was too much on top of thinking about Nonnie. I’ll tell him all of this after school. We’ll meet at the wall while I wait for Ramona and I will tell him this. There will be fewer people around and we can really talk. I’ll explain that he’s a nice guy and most people have him all wrong, which is too bad, but that now, this moment, is a monumentally bad time for me to have a complicated relationship. Also that he needs to stop gluing shit to our house.

  ii.

  Dominic doesn’t show up.

  I wait for him and I wait for Ramona, and neither one of them emerges from the school. Waves and waves of students come out, but not them.

  If they had come, either one of them, perhaps what happened next would be different.

  I drive Nonnie’s car to Christian’s house with the windows down and the radio off. I need quiet to prepare myself. Nonnie going into the hospital delayed the inevitable. I plan out what I’m going to say. My first instinct is to be frank: Listen, you’re a great guy, but this just isn’t working out. We can still be friends, if you want.

  Next I could say that it’s not him, it’s me, and wrap it up with an “I need my space” to give him one humdinger of a breakup cliché. No. Try again.

  I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately, and this is going to be a big year for both of us. We’ve got college applications to do, and decisions to make. You have hockey, and I have Nonnie.

  No. Leave Nonnie out of this.

  I just don’t think I have the energy to devote to our relationship right now.

  The problem is that he’s likely to tell me it’s okay, and he’ll just take whatever I can give him.

  You’ve been wonderful to me, but I just don’t think I feel as strongly about you as I should. It’s not fair to either of us that we stay in this relationship. You deserve someone who can really, really love you.

  Perfect. How can he protest the fact that I don’t love him?

  I coast up Christian’s short driveway. He’s sitting on a bench in his side yard. His hockey stick is clasped between his knees, and he’s wrapping the head of it with white tape. He concentrates, his head nods sharply with each go-round of the roll. When he finishes, he leans forward and uses his teeth to tear it. The roughness of the move startles me. He lifts his head, and a smile spreads across his face. “Very, hey!”

  As I shut the car door behind me and walk to him he stands up, flipping his stick over so he’s holding it by the handle. The words are waiting there on the tip of my tongue, ready to spill out. Before I can do it, though, he leans forward and kisses my cheek, and he smells salty with sweat: real and familiar.

  “I like when you come to visit me unexpectedly,” he says. “It’s a good surprise. Especially lately.”

  “Well, you know, I don’t have too much homework tonight, so I thought I might just swing by.” Swing by? I am not a swing-byer and Christian knows that, but he doesn’t even blink.

  He holds up his hockey stick. “What do you think?”

  “Um, very sticklike?”

  “It’s new. They were having a sale at Philbrick’s and my dad picked it up for me. It’s nice. Trust me.”

  “Okay, good. I like it. It’s swell.” I follow him into his garage, willing my lips to move. He puts the stick into a stand with several others and grabs a different one.

  “Help me practice?” he asks.

  “All right.”

  I mean, why not? It’s not like there’s any other reason I came to his house this afternoon.

  He takes another stick down, this one with a bigger flat part, and hands it to me. “Is this like the lady stick?” I ask. “Why does the lady stick have a bigger head? I mean, the puck isn’t any bigger. It’s not like softball.”

  “Slow down there, Gloria Steinem. It’s a goalie stick.”

  “I’m not playing goal.”

  We are crossing his driveway to a small hockey goal.

  “I just need you to feed the ball to me, and I’ll work on hitting it in. I thought the bigger stick might be easier for you since you don’t play. But we can get a regular stick if you want.”

  “No, this is fine.”

  “Lady stick,” he laughs. When he laughs his whole face crinkles up like paper crumpling. Next to the net is a bucket of tennis balls. “Just push them to me and I’ll slap them in. Hopefully.”

  I slide the bucket over and take out one of the balls. As instructed, I push it toward him. He holds his stick with one hand at the top and one hand much farther down, and the muscles on his forearm flex as he whacks it straight into the goal. “Score!” I call out.

  “A little faster,” he replies.

  So I push the next one a little faster, and the next one even faster. We go through the whole bucket, and then gather them up. As I resituate myself for another round, he grips and regrips the shaft of the hockey stick over and over again. I clear my throat. And suddenly it seems remarkably easy. I’ll just say the words and it will be over and we’ll both go about our business. “Everything okay?” he asks.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Hand cramp.”

  Not so easy after all.

  “Part of the game,” he replies.

  I pick up a ball and put it on the ground. The voice keeps going around in my head. Break up with him. Break up with him.

  I hit the ball hard toward him, it goes way off course, and he has to jump for it. I
t pings off the pole of the net. “Sorry.”

  “No worries.”

  No worries.

  I line up another ball and slap it. He controls it and knocks it into the net. I shoot another and another.

  “Crap,” he mutters.

  “Am I doing it wrong?”

  “What? No. You’re doing fine. I’m doing it wrong.”

  “It looks good to me.”

  He frowns. He never frowns around me. “I’m trying to get the corners. In the corners the goalie’s chance of getting it are much slimmer.” He shakes his head. “It should be simple physics.”

  “Vectors.”

  “Exactly. But it doesn’t go where it’s supposed to.”

  “Not the ideal conditions,” I reply. “Too many variables.”

  He tugs at a loose bit of grip tape. “Have you ever seen Bobby Orr skate?”

  Bobby Orr. Bobby Orr. The name is familiar, but nothing is sticking. “No, I don’t think so. Does he play for Dover?”

  “No. The Bruins. In the 1960s and ’70s. The way he would skate, leaning so far to one side or the other, his ankles were practically on the ground. And he could shift his speed on a dime. Fast, slow, fast, really fast. Passing, too. He could always get just the right speed, just the right place on the ice. It’s all friction. He was a smart hockey player. He could see the game steps and steps ahead. But if you asked him to explain how the puck moved on the ice, the spin and the friction, all of that? No way. Me, I could do a whole presentation on the forces involved, but, well—” He doesn’t finish his thought but starts picking up the errant tennis balls. I know he tutors half the hockey team, guys who can’t understand trigonometry to save their lives but can hit a slap shot every time.

  The guilt in my stomach grows. How can I break up with someone when he’s just confessed that he wants something so small as to be a decent hockey player?

  He pauses, ball in hand. “Are you doing okay?”

  I nod. “Yeah.”

  “I don’t ask too often because you don’t seem to want to talk about it. About your grandmother, how sick she is. But if you wanted to talk about it—”

  “She’s okay,” I lie. I never told him she went into the hospital, and he doesn’t seem to have heard it from anyone else. Maybe they all assumed that I told him, maybe that he was even at the hospital with me, because they have no idea that anything is wrong between us.