Page 26 of Pieces Of You

The woman’s gray eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled down at me. “It will get easier,” she said. “I promise.”

I shoved my hands deep in the pockets of my coat to hide them. I’d spent all night trying to rid the dirt—the evidence of my so-called abuse. After a phone call from school, Beaker had thrown a wire brush at my head and stood over me while I scrubbed and scrubbed until my cuticles bled and the tears that fell mixed with the crimson staining the water.

When I gotoff the bus that afternoon, the elderly woman was there again, waiting. “Do you remember me from this morning?” she asked, and I nodded in response. “Can I walk you home?”

I nodded again, and we fell in step, side by side.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?”

I glanced up at her. “Jamie,” I said. And because I had no idea what was happening or why she was there, I asked her, “Are you my grandma?”

“No, darling.” She shook her head, her eyes sad as she took my hand in hers. “But I can be yourGina.”

13

Holden

I’m in a mood,and I’m not even attempting to hide it. I’m throwing shit around, cursing under my breath. You know, just being a general asshole. Even Esme’s surprise of having her pool fixed and usable, along with her offer of allowing us to use it didn’t bring a hint of a smile to my face.

I drop the wheelbarrow I’d been hauling around, maybe a little too carelessly, and it topples over to one side, dumping its contents all over the ground we’d just cleared. “Fuck.”

“You’re an idiot.”

Oh, and I also have to deal with Whiney Wilma and her wise-ass comments. The last thing I need right now is to be in possession of sharp objects, burning alive under the sweltering sun while listening to Jamie tell me how useless I am.

When I don’t respond, she asks, “Did your mom like the drawing?”

It’s been a whole week since I’ve seen Jamie in more than just passing, and this is the first conversation we’ve had that doesn’t involve me grunting in frustration and her sighing for the same reason. “Yeah, she liked it a lot,” I lie. My mom didn’t even see the drawing. It’s still sitting in my drawer, waiting for the next piece of the puzzle.

“I started doing a proper one on cotton paper with watercolors, but then I wasn’t sure what species she liked best, so…” she trails off, dumping a handful of pulled weeds into the wheelbarrow. “So I didn’t know what colors to use, and it’s probably stupid anyway, like who the hell am I? Thinking my crappy two-minute doodles are worthy of gift-giving?”

I glance over at her, and unlike the many other times I’ve done the same, I don’t catch her watching me. She’s staring off into the distance, chest rising and falling to a steady rhythm. She seems lost, and I don’t know how long she’s been like this because I’ve been too fucking consumed in my own superficial misery that I’ve barely looked twice at her.

“Jamie,” I say, and then I stutter a breath when her eyes meet mine. It’s strange. When I’m not with her, I barely think of her. But when she is around, and she’s this close, she consumes every thought, every breath, every heartbeat. “You should finish it,” I tell her. “I’m sure she’d love it.” And by she I meanme.Iwould love it. “I’m sorry I’m being such a dick.”

Her eyebrows rise. “Wow, an apology?” She’s smiling a half-smile, but it’s enough to pick away at the hardened pieces of me she hasn’t yet seen. Until today. After a shrug, she adds, “It’s okay. I figure you’re just going through something.”

“And you’re not curious what it is?” We’re both on our feet now, facing each other. And The Staring Game doesn’t feel like such a game anymore.

“If you want to tell me, you will. When have you ever held back before?” That’s true. “But I’m here… if you need to vent or dump your emotional baggage on someone.”

“I don’t know that your shoulders are strong enough to carry that weight.”

“You’d be surprised,” she muses, and I have absolutely no doubt she’s right.

“We had our first practice game last Friday.”

She nods as if she already knows what’s coming. “I heard.”

“How much did you hear?”

With a grimace, she replies, “I don’t know shit about football, but your name’s been thrown around, and people seem to be pissed, so…”

“It’s not about the fucking game.” I sigh, motioning toward a bench in the shade where we keep our water bottles. I lead her there and sit, then wait for her to do the same. “I choked in the last five seconds and lost the game, but I feel like that’s all that’s been happening with me lately.”

“Losing games?” she asks, half turning her body to mine.

I shake my head. “Choking in the last five seconds.”

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