34 Pieces of You (9 page)

“She’s my roommate. She’s in your class. Anyway . . .” Her
voice rises lightly, like she realizes we’ve gotten off to a bad start. “Seriously, though . . .” She sets her jacket on the window ledge and sighs. “Have you gone into hiding?”

She brings her eyes back to mine, but I can’t hold her gaze, because all I can see is that night, that final phone call with Ellie, and suddenly it’s hard to breathe.

“You okay?” she asks.

I stare at my feet. “I’m fine.” I pull my hands away from my temple and the headache that’s been there since I got back from Ohio.

“To be absolutely honest,” she says, her gentle voice piercing, “I heard about your sister, and I thought maybe you needed someone to . . . you know . . . talk to about it.”

I lift my eyes. She’s still watching me, her head resting against the windowpane. “What’s to talk about?” I ask dully.

“I don’t know. When’s the last time you went to class? Any class?” She pauses. “You look like hell. When’s the last time you left this room?”

“Why is that your business?”

Her forehead wrinkles in surprise. She retreats a little then. Looks out the window at the street traffic below. It’s an all-too-familiar view. For the last few months I’ve missed class after class, lost in the monotonous lives of those tiny people, the fascinating
predictability of the traffic lights as they change from green to red.

Amber says, “I can see the bar we met at that one time. It’s right . . .” She extends her index finger toward something beyond the pane, and her voice fades away. Her hand falls to her side. “Do you ever think about probabilities?”

“As in . . . ?” I reply, not quite sure where she’s going with this or why she’s even still here.

“As in what are the chances”—she clears her throat—“of being hit by lightning twice? Or two planes crashing in one week?” She laughs hollowly. “Sometimes, I console myself with probabilities. Like if a plane crashes the week I’m supposed to fly, I say, ‘Well, thank God that’s out of the way.’”

I don’t know what she’s talking about. Or why she’s now striding across the room, stepping over piles of dirty clothes and forgotten bags of take-out food. I only know I’d rather stand at the edge alone than be here with her.

She stops beside a chair and stares down at a large cardboard box filled with letters, sketch pads, and pictures. She tilts the box toward her, her eyes raking the contents. “Ellie’s things?” she whispers.

“Please, don’t.” Hearing her say Ellie’s name is too much, and I feel that all-too-familiar pain in my chest. That pain that
sometimes feels like it could tear me apart. “Just go. There’s nothing you know about this.”

There is a long silence, and then she is beside me, reaching for me. I take a step back and another and another until I am where she began. The cold glass presses against my skin. She’s breaths away. “Jake . . .” She touches the side of my face, but I push her hand off. “What were the chances of us meeting that night, of me being here when she called? It seems so improbable. So unlikely, and ever since I found out, I keep thinking . . .” Her voice cracks. Her eyes fill with tears. “What were the chances?”

“What difference does it make?” I ask, but I know what she knows: I know it made all the difference in the world. And I finally understand the reason for her visit. Why she just gave me her little speech. She needs what we all need: forgiveness.

“Jake . . .” She strokes my chest. It feels strange to have another person’s hand on me, to hear another person’s voice beside me. “If we had never met . . .” Her eyes search mine. “If I had let you go . . .” She presses against me.

“Amber,
please
.” I push against the window, but there’s nowhere else to go. For months my head has pounded with all the
could have
s and
should have
s, Ellie’s words constantly ringing in my ears:
If I need you, you’ll come back for me?

Amber’s lips slide across my neck. She whispers, “I just need
you to know how incredibly terrible I feel. . . . I’ll never forgive myself.” She lays her head on my chest, her guilt soaking my T-shirt, as she says over and over again, “I’m so sorry.”

When she kisses me, I don’t stop her. I let her lead me to the bed. I let her turn out the lights. And when she runs her hands down my back, I tell myself not to think about what comes next. That what we’re doing is okay. That this is what I need to feel better—the darkness of this night. The illusion that love is near.

I miss sixth grade and that time y
o
u c
o
nvinced me t
o
play
B
ar
b
ies in y
o
ur
b
edr
oo
m. We drew the shades tightly, afraid that s
o
me
o
ne might use a ladder t
o
scale y
o
ur walls and find us there, still
b
eing children.

BEFORE. JULY.

We crouched in the bushes outside Tommy’s bedroom. Lola heaved loudly, like we had just walked a mile instead of a hundred feet. She looked like she might cry, but as far as I knew, Lola hadn’t cried all year.

“What’s going on?” I finally asked.

She stared at the grass like she was counting the number of blades. A butterfly darted by, and I watched its wings flutter, a smear of yellow and black fighting hard against a sudden current of wind.

“Lola,” I said gently, “can you at least tell me why we’re here?”

She started to cry then, and I couldn’t help but think that her cry was like some sort of a miracle, like seeing Jesus in a grilled
cheese sandwich or something. Eventually, she wiped her hand across her nose, snot clinging to the edge of her wrist. She pushed her hair into her face and shook her head, like she wanted to keep whatever it was to herself. But then she said, “A few months ago I was leaving your house and Tommy was there and he asked if he could walk with me a bit . . .”

She took a deep breath before continuing, her voice nearly mechanical, as if she had gone over this story a hundred times in her head. “We were just walking and joking around about nothing, really, but then he grabbed my hand and said I was pretty.”

The music stopped, leaving us with the light sound of Sarah’s laughter. Lola cringed. When the music started up again, she continued, her voice harder than before. “My mom was out on a date with some new loser, and Tommy had some . . .” She halted; her expression made it clear she didn’t want to tell me.

“What, Lola? What did he have?”

She cleared her throat. “Pot.”

“But you didn’t, right?” Lola had been the president of our sixth-grade D.A.R.E. chapter, and the first person to make fun of anyone holding a cigarette, but I knew that didn’t mean a thing if a boy was factored into the equation.

“God, Jess”—her voice rose defensively—“I said no, okay? Give me some credit. But he wanted to go, and you know I can’t
stand being in that house alone, especially at night. It’s just so spooky without my dad there and all those empty rooms. So I asked him to come in and
just
hang out.”

“So you didn’t smoke?” I asked. The guilt on her face was as good as any answer.

She wrapped her arms around her knees. “I just wanted to know if it was as fun as he said, but it didn’t work. Okay? Tommy says I don’t know how to inhale.”

I rolled my eyes, and she looked away, shrugging. “It’s not that big of a deal, really.”

“Then why were you crying?” I asked.

She was quiet for a long while. “He just kept calling and coming over. And I thought he really liked me.” She paused, and her eyes found mine. “He actually said it, you know? He said, ‘I like you, Lola.’” Again she stopped talking. I could tell she was trying to pull herself together, but when she started up again, it was clear she was still sliding. “I wouldn’t have done it, Jess. I swear, if I hadn’t thought . . .” She started crying again, her tears picking up speed. I pulled her close, trying to muffle the sounds of it with my body.

“Hey, it’s going to be okay,” I said, but my sympathy only made her cry harder. After a while her sobbing subsided, but she continued to cling to me, her wet face pressed to my shirt.

In the silence, her words—and what they meant—hovered above us: big, important, irreversible.

Sex.

This was the biggest secret she had ever kept from me. Finally, I asked, “Are you and Tommy together now? Is that why you’re so upset?”

She shook her head, and in a small voice said, “He barely even looks at me in the hallway.”

I felt a pang inside me, imagining what it felt like to give away so much for so little. Without thinking, I kissed the top of her head and smoothed her hair. It was the only thing I knew to do. It’s what I did to Mattie whenever she was upset, but Lola wasn’t Mattie, and instead of curling into me, she pulled away.

She leaned her head back against the exterior wall and stared at the sky, tears silently seeping out of her eyes. I held out my hand, and, for once, she took it.

* * *

We didn’t notice Ellie until she sat down beside us, looking like a fairy with her translucent skin, blue crinoline skirt, and sheer peasant top.

“Spying on Tommy and Sarah?” she said. Her pink lips turned up into a smirk.

Normally, Lola led in these kinds of situations, but she stayed
silent, quickly hiding her wet face behind a curtain of hair. I was still trying to think of a response when Ellie glanced at me, her smirk flatlining, and said, “God, these mosquitoes are biting the shit out of me. Let’s get out of here.”

She crawled out from behind the cottage and headed toward the house. We followed. Inside, Ellie said to Lola, “Go wash your face. Come to my room”—she pointed at a half-open door—“when you’re done.”

I had never been inside Ellie’s room, and when we crossed the threshold, I was surprised by its brightness. The walls were buttercup yellow, and stars the color of tangerines hung from the ceiling. Fireflies with watermelon-colored tails were painted in a zigzag pattern around the window, like they had swarmed in from outside. Taped to the desk behind me were dozens of Polaroids of Ellie and Sarah. One looked as recent as yesterday.

“So . . .” Ellie moved beside me, our shoulders touching as she leaned back against the desk. “Spying, huh?”

I was silent. I always had a hard time talking around Ellie. She made up for her small stature with an intimidating personality. After a while, she sighed and went to her dresser. She took out a pack of cigarettes and lit one with a bright blue lighter, the casing covered with a Hello Kitty sticker that looked like the kind Mattie had in her room.

“Smoke?” She held out the pack, but I shook my head. She tucked it into her back pocket. Then, after several puffs, tapped the ashes into a nearby cup and said, “So? You. Lola. Tommy’s window . . .”

Again, I said nothing.

“You’re fucking hilarious,” she said. “You’re like a mute version of Sarah.”

Her eyes were rimmed with blacker-than-black eyeliner and midnight blue eye shadow. I wondered what she looked like without all that makeup. “It’s okay.” She flicked away more ashes. “You don’t have to be embarrassed. Sometimes we all like to watch.”

“I wasn’t watching,” I said. “And I don’t look like Sarah, either.” I squared my shoulders, trying to look tougher than I felt. In the bathroom, Lola coughed loudly.

“God,” Ellie said. “Tommy’s not worth all this drama.”

“You know about that?” I asked, surprised.

She smiled and said, “You catch on quick.”

“And Sarah? Does she know Tommy hooked up with Lola?” I wasn’t sure if I really wanted to know the answer to this. My sister was self-centered, but I couldn’t believe she’d knowingly hurt Lola. Still, people had a way of surprising you.

“Sarah’d be shocked by what she knew if she took the time to
think about it. But for now, I think she’s just happy being oblivious to all this.” Ellie inched forward, filling the space between us with smoke. I coughed nervously, leaning back as far as I could.

“But why don’t you just tell her?” I said to break the silence. “Aren’t you supposed to be her best friend?”

“Why don’t
you
tell her?” Ellie whispered, so close now the tips of our shoes touched. “Aren’t
you
supposed to be her sister?” We stared at each other. Her hand moved so that I felt her fingers graze mine. “No, you don’t look like Sarah.” Her voice sounded bored, but she seemed almost nervous. “I’ve always thought you were prettier.”

She moved away, sitting on the edge of her bed like nothing had happened. I slumped against the desk, my heart beating erratically. I glanced at Ellie. She was still watching me.

“What?” She smiled that weird smile of hers, half nice but also half mean.

“Nothing,” I said.

Lola walked in. She seemed more composed. Her hair was pulled into a neat ponytail, her eyes red but dry. “Thanks,” she said to Ellie.

“Don’t worry about it.” Ellie pulled the pack of cigarettes from her back pocket, flipped the cardboard lid open, and extended it to Lola, who promptly took one.