Pieces of Me (12 page)

Misty pulled out an assignment sheet from her backpack and folded it until she could rip the crease straight off. Samuel walked
her through folding a crane, waiting each step for her to type
next
.

Misty’s first crane looked more like roadkill than intricate artwork, and it broke at least six laws of biology and physics.
No way will that fly
. She started the next bird but paused to ask Samuel a question.

Misty understood unhappy better than happy.

Way to sound like a serial killer, Sammy!
I wanted to roll my eyes at his honesty.
Now she’ll never reach out again
.

Misty chewed on her bottom lip.

Misty swallowed, wondering if she was too sick to know when she should be afraid. But she wasn’t fearful, simply curious as to what seemed the safest possible question.

Misty yawned as if she hadn’t slept for days, maybe months. But her stomach rumbled so she navigated her way to the front desk looking for snacks, or candy, or something. She found a stash of old Halloween candy. Tootsie Rolls. Individually wrapped. Half a bag, tossed behind hand sanitizer and a box of tissues. More riffling produced a can of diet shake.

The irony wasn’t lost on me.

She didn’t have her complete dose of meds with her, but she swallowed the yellows and grays and a couple of the whites. There were too many to name. She’d take the rest before school in the morning. She’d just go back to the apartment early. That was only a few hours away. No way that would hurt anything.

Are you sure?

The morning janitorial crew came in weekdays at six. She’d sneak out of the library then.

Leif turned up the volume on Kenny Tislane’s newest country album. He’d listened to it enough that he sang along without even realizing it.

I sang along and I hated country music.
Why does he have to love country?

Leif trolled the Internet looking for “how to play guitar” videos and “how to play Kenny Tislane” blogs the way I suspected he used to troll for porn. I wanted to grab the guitar and hit him over the head with it.

I knew nothing about the instrument, or what it took to play it. Well, I used to know nothing, now I knew a lot.
Thanks, Leif
.

Like chords. His chords sucked. I didn’t know if they were flat, or sharp, or just plain wrong, but they hurt my ears and sounded nothing like Kenny.

Like strumming versus plucking versus whatever he was doing.
At least he’s graduated from holding the guitar like a football
.

His brow furrowed and dug deeper into his sight line with concentration. The last note played in the playlist and he sighed. “No freaking closer.” Frustration dripped out, and off, his fingers.

He mimicked his dad’s favorite phrase. “Closer just is ‘See a Loser.’ ” His dad was almost as full of crap as his mom. It’s no wonder this kid walked around without deigning to speak to mere peasants. Everything was a competition, and if he wasn’t on top, he was on the bottom.

Leif dug his cell phone out of his pocket. His parents took the landline phone out of his bedroom, but forgot to confiscate his cell.
Shows how often he disobeys them, doesn’t it?

“Art and Soul, this is Cassidy.”

Leif winced. He wanted Vivian to answer. “Uh, hey.”

“Hi. Can I help you?”

“Is Vivian working? It’s Leif.”

“Oh, Leif.” She drew out his name as if there was a full stadium of meaning in there. I wanted to giggle.

“Yeah, so is she there?”

“No, she’s not working, but here’s her cell.” Cassidy rattled off numbers and he grabbed a marker, wrote the digits on his arm. “Got it?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“She’s in the middle of a portrait, so she’ll probably be in later tonight.” Cassidy’s voice sounded full of smiles and double entendre.

“Great. Thanks.” Hanging up, Leif stared at the phone. Should he call her?

He dialed the first five when he heard, “Hey, son, dinner’s ready.”

He tucked the phone into his desk drawer and headed down to face the winner’s circle, aka the dinner table.

Misty hesitated
outside the cracked concrete steps of the apartment building. Every time she returned, part of her hoped magic had turned it into a home, but it was as desolate and depressing as always. Most of the inhabitants were either still asleep because they worked late or were already at work and not back to sleep during the sun’s reign.
Uh-oh
.

Her grandmother was up and doing her creepy usual. Even from the outside hallway, Misty heard the chants and prayers and muttering. Her feet cramped, her toes tangled in protest. Immediately, the feeling of loathing crawled up her spine and tickled the backs of her eyes until her head throbbed. The old lady would glare and spit and point. It was their routine.

Misty hesitated. Her pills were inside the apartment. She had to replenish the Ziploc bags she carried with her.

You need your pills. You have to go inside
.

She waited. Debated.

Her hand clenched the key to the deadbolt.

Someone’s footsteps skittered down the stairs above her. A big rat or a small dog?

I wanted to squeal and hop around, but Misty didn’t even react to the sounds. Her gaze glued to the door and what she knew was on the other side.

She turned around. Away from the door, from the apartment, from the pills.

Wait. No, you have to take your pills
.

Misty!

Misty!

I shouted and waved and couldn’t make her even hesitate a second.

She never glanced back. I couldn’t shake the sick feeling that this was a horrible decision.

Family dinners with Leif’s parents seemed a legitimate part of his grounding punishment. They gathered at one end of the glass and chrome dining-room table that comfortably sat the starting lineup for the Packers. The dishes were glass with silver edges and matched the tumblers and silverware perfectly. His parents even wiped their mouths with perfectly pressed squares of white linen threaded with silver accents. Together, it felt cold, calculated, chosen solely for appearances.

“What is it you’re listening to up there?” his dad asked with a jab of his fork.

Leif tucked his napkin into his lap. “Music.”

“Not twang country? Crossover rock and roll?”

“What’s wrong with country music?” Leif asked. It wasn’t classical for his brainwave development. Or rock like his dad preferred,
those urban notes that stayed on the surface and didn’t slither in the mud of humanity.

His dad jabbed again, shaking his head. “Those aren’t our people.”

Anger bubbled up but Leif stuffed it deeper. He felt as though in letting one beat of emotion go he’d lose control of all of them. His dad’s view of the world seemed to narrow the older Leif got. Maybe Leif just widened his eyes and his dad didn’t change.

After setting the filled plates down before them, his mom launched into the conversation Leif dreaded most. “We need to talk about the upcoming fall schedule and your training regimen.”

That’s months away
. I cringed for him, but he tried not to react outwardly. Inside, he boiled and raged and screamed for a break.

Leif shrugged noncommittally, keeping his eyes on the plate of perfectly baked salmon fillet, a bare chicken breast, blanched kale, and broccoli trees.
Yummy
. If he was lucky, he’d get a protein shake for dessert. The menu for winners in this family required lots of vegetables and mostly protein; carbs were complex and came with a fiber minimum per serving. His tongue begged for the everything pizza at Vivian’s.

His dad continued where his mom had left off. “I’ve been fielding calls from scouts all spring, son. They’re waiting on offers until they see if you can play up to your potential.”

It’s as if they’re afraid to speak about his injury directly
.

“Because of my leg?” Tension vibrated from each obvious word. He’d been hoping they’d lay off. Give up. Let him breathe. Leif set his fork down. His appetite was gone. Until then, they’d ignored the new loud country music in his room, the secondhand
guitar he’d dragged home, the crayons and paints that littered his desk and bedroom floor.

“All athletes have to lose occasionally. It’s how the great ones evolve,” Mom stated.

He didn’t lose, he was injured. I half expected her to add, “Confucius say.”
Condescending much?

Leif lifted his gaze, hardened and flinty, as if daring her to continue. I shuddered.

The pent-up frustration inched closer to his surface. “And what, I’m a great one?”

“In this family you are. Certainly not a loser.” His dad’s voice rose with the elevating tension.

“What if I can’t?” Leif asked.

His mom gasped. “We don’t use the word
can’t
, Leif. You know that.”

He shoved his plate away. “What if my leg won’t work the way it used to? Would it be the end of the world?”

She paled, her fork clattering to the table. “Give up football? You’re kidding.”

“Now isn’t the time to joke around, son.”

I felt him trying to push back, to hold his ground, without losing his temper. “It’s my life.” He wanted them to hear him, listen to him.

“And you don’t want to play professional football anymore? Is that it? Wanna sell me ice in winter, dumbass?” His dad knocked over his chair when he stood.

He’s trying to appear bigger, more intimidating. Stop bullying your son!

“John!” Leif’s mom sounded appalled, but ruined it by continuing.
“Leif, we are athletes. That is who we are. You can’t waste your talent. We won’t let you.”

“Let me?” Leif pushed back from the table and thrust away from them. I prayed his knee wouldn’t buckle and suck the drama out of it.

His dad isn’t taller anymore—does he know?

“Leif!” Dad yelled.

“Son!” Mom added at top volume.

“Let me?” he repeated, shaking. He’d never disobeyed them. Ever. Their expressions said it all. They didn’t know how to deal. Their perfect son stomped from the room and slammed the front door. He broke into a jog that quickly turned into a full-out sprint. He ignored the shooting pain, the crackling of scar tissue, the pop of a joint still healing.

I wish I could stay behind and listen to his parents
. But then again, they probably didn’t speak for hours. The shock was that epic.

The knock on the glass door of Art and Soul jerked Vivian out of her thoughts, but she ignored whoever was out there. Closed meant closed. She’d been staring at the eyes for the last hour. Eyes made up of tiny butterflies of cream (Pantone 9180) and songbirds in chocolate (Pantone 732). But they weren’t quite right. The richness of the brown mellowed the cream, but didn’t pop. They seemed sad. She frowned when she heard the door rattle again.

Then pounding started.

Someone knew she was inside.