Pieces of Us (2 page)

Katie

H
i, baby,” says Ethan, sidling up against me at my locker. He grabs me and pulls me to him, and I drop my books and wrap my arms around his neck.

My cheerleading skirt swishes against his basketball shorts, and we’re the perfect picture. East High’s star point guard and newly crowned Pyramid Girl.

Someone shouts “Get a room!” and Ethan sticks up his middle finger at them, all the while his lips not leaving mine.

I don’t know how long we’re there, kissing amidst the chaos of the hallways, amidst the hoots and hollers and lewd, teasing remarks. Mr. Stevens, last year’s biology teacher, clears his throat and gives a halfhearted “Move it along,” but we ignore him and he moves along. When the bell rings to signal the start of homeroom, we ignore that too. Because teachers pretend not to notice when Ethan saunters in late. Because they fall for his basketball jersey and wide smile and slam dunks. Because I’m up on the list too. I’m Pyramid Girl. And not just Pyramid Girl, but Pyramid Girl as a
sophomore
. Because the two of us together are power, are invincible.

When the next bell rings for first period, we ignore it too. Because we can.

Kyle

~
Philadelphia, PA
~

Y
ou watch your mother hop around in the kitchen, putting on a tasseled boot with one hand and applying lipstick with the other.

“What?” she says, jumping into the other boot. “Don’t I look all right?”

You shrug. At sixteen, you’re not an expert on women, or even girls, so what can you offer? “You look fine.”

“Gee, thanks,” she says, kissing you on the forehead and grabbing her purse. “You sure know how to make a lady feel good.”

You shudder. She doesn’t notice. Maybe you only shuddered on the inside.

“All right then. Numbers for take-out are on the fridge. I’ll be home the usual.” Same speech each time, and yet she feels the need to repeat herself.

“Got it. Have fun.” That’s your usual response, too.

“If only.” Then she’s gone to pay the bills, and you choose not to think about how. If you do, if you allow yourself to think about the snide remarks your friends make, their description of your mom’s body as she slides down the pole, then you won’t be able to eat. Some days you purposely think about it so you can punish yourself or punish her, but today you’re hungry.

You grab the menu for Casa de Fajitas and order the usual. You smile when you hang up the phone. The meal will be extra good because your older brother Alex hates Mexican. You could have compromised and ordered Italian or Chinese—foods the both of you like—but you’re the one who always compromises. Always plays the yes man. Always acts so … conciliatory, as your English teacher once put it, because you have never challenged her on a grade, not even when it was obvious she was wrong. Who needs the conflict? But being so agreeable tears at you. You wonder what would happen if you ever stood your ground. Argued. Said no. It’s not like you’ve never tried, but you gave up too easily. Feared too much.

You’re devouring one of your chicken fajitas when Alex and girl du jour walk into the kitchen. The GDJ reeks of peroxide and chemicals, a smell you recognize from the salon your mom used to work in. As a kid, the smell brought you comfort. Most of your mom’s clients were older women and they brought you cookies and pinched your cheeks. They made you feel safe. But too many of Alex’s hookups smell this way. It only chills you now.

Alex waves his hand in front of his face as if fanning away noxious odors. “You order ass again, bro?”

“Have some,” you say, shoving the fajita under his nose, hoping his disgust for Mexican will send him out of the kitchen.

GDJ grabs the untouched fajita on your plate and takes a large bite. You cringe. Why does he always bring such gross girls home? Or maybe that’s the point. They prove his effed-up theories true.

“Sure,” you say. “Have some too.”

“Sooorry,” says GDJ, shaking her peroxide hair and spreading the fumes more. She doesn’t sound sorry at all.

“Don’t you worry,” says Alex in his I’m-the-cool-big-brother voice. “She’ll make it up to you.” He leers at GDJ, and she winks like she actually knows what he’s talking about. I wonder what he’s going to do next year, after he’s graduated and won’t have an entire high school of girls to choose from.

I count down the days to when I’ll be roaming those halls without worrying about his shadow or the remains of some girl he’s screwed over.

GDJ whispers something in Alex’s ear, and he laughs. “You better believe it, but leave the fajita stench here. I don’t want it in my room.”

“Later,” says GDJ to you as she grabs Alex’s hand. He squeezes her ass, and she squeals.

The click of stilettos gets quieter as they head to Alex’s room. You don’t smell Mexican anymore, only processed hair. You put your head in your hands and wait until Alex calls you. You could leave, but if it’s not her, there would be someone else.

Alex

T
oday my mother is dressed like a freaking church lady. Dress that stops inches above her ankles, sleeves that go to her wrists, and a lacy collar.

“What gives, Mary?” I ask. “Confession time?”

“I don’t have time for your bullshit today,” she says, putting on her schoolmarm black pumps.

“Whoa, whoa. Harsh words for a religious woman.”

“Jesus, Alex—” She drops her bag and Avon makeup spills all over the floor. “Goddamn,” she mutters.

I shake my head. “And the Lord’s name in vain, too.”

She scrambles to pick up the makeup and I don’t help her. Sometimes, I feel guilty acting like an ass to her, but today is not one of those rare days. I’m still curious about the getup, though. Normally when she’s headed to one of her jobs, she looks like a whore. I pick up a lipstick and hand it to her. “So really. What’s the deal?” Virgin Mary she’s not.

She sighs. “I’m peddling makeup to a church choir. They’re trying to attract a more modern audience. I’m giving them makeovers.”

I whistle. “You never miss an opportunity.”

She glares at me. “Can’t you ever act human?” She points to the refrigerator and recites her take-out menu speech. I say a mental thank you to whoever/whatever that I’m home before Kyle today. Three days since he ordered Mexican and the place still smells like diarrhea.

“Later,” I say. She drops a fifty on the table before heading to the door. “And don’t worry. You look totally saintlike. Just hope none of them bring their husbands.” She slams the door and I call for pizza. It’s here in under twenty minutes.

“Hey baby,” says Jasmine, my favorite pizza slut, when I open the door. “Haven’t seen you in a while. What’s up with that?”

“Haven’t been in the mood for pizza.”

“Oh yeah? Are you in the mood now?” She comes in before I have a chance to invite her and kicks the door shut with her foot. I take the pizza from her and walk toward the kitchen, knowing she will follow. They always do.

I open the box, take out a slice, and tease her with it before putting it in my mouth. She crosses her arms across her tits, creating cleavage. Not sure if she’s doing that on purpose. I take my time chewing the slice, and she flips, just like I knew she would. “Seriously?” she says. “I don’t have all effing night.”

I chew slower. I don’t know why she thinks the rules are any different tonight. Like I’d ever let her be in charge. That’s not how it works.

She clenches her fists. “Fine, asshole. I don’t need this shit. I’m outta here.” If I didn’t know better, I’d have believed her. She’s a pretty good actress, better than most. That’s actually what she’s saving her pizza money for—more acting lessons and commuting money for auditions.

I give her the fifty. “Got change?”

She curses and fumbles in her apron for some bills, then throws them on the table and storms to the door. I wonder if she really thinks she’ll get me to grovel. I wait until I hear her turn the knob and call out, “Jasmine?”

“Yeah?” The smile in her voice makes me laugh. She thinks I’m going to ask her to come back.

“Don’t forget to turn the lock before you go. I’d get up myself but I’m really liking your pie.”

“Fuck you!” she calls, but I hear her turn the lock before slamming the door shut.

Katie

M
y mother is in the bleachers today for the playoffs, wearing our school colors—blue and gold. She even put blue
and gold streamers in her hair like the cheerleaders did. “Those were my best days,” she always says to me. When I became Pyramid Girl two months ago, she cried. Hugged me so tight and wanted me to show her my winning routine (even though she’d seen me practice it dozens of times). She called her friends with the “big news.” We squealed together and went out for blueberry ice cream with yellow sprinkles. “You made it, Katie,” she said. When Ethan asked me out days later, we screamed again, jumping up and down in the kitchen. “Can you
believe
your big sister?” she asked Julie.

Julie rolled her eyes. “Oh, I believe it. I’m screaming on the inside. Can’t you hear me?”

Mama dragged Julie to today’s game, and while Mama is all smiles and eager, Julie is playing games on her cell. Maybe when she’s in high school next year, she’ll see it differently. How awesome, how amazing it all is.

The band starts their drumroll and Mama’s streamers bounce. The announcer’s voice booms out. “AND NOW, LET’S MEET OUR EAST HIGH CRUSADERS!”

We cheerleaders assemble in front of the boys’ locker room door. We shake our pom-poms and do high kicks before forming a tunnel for the basketball players to run through. We each have a number that we scream extra loud, kick extra high, jump extra big for. Mine is “NUMBER 23, POINT GUARD, ETHAN SCHMIDT!” The crowd yells “Schmiiiddy” and stomps their feet on the bleachers. I throw my pom-poms in the air and do a back handspring, then a split as Ethan makes his way through the tunnel. He lifts me high in the air and kisses me until I can’t breathe and runs to the center of the court.

The crowd is on their feet, cheering. “Give him some more good luck, Katie!” someone shouts. I cartwheel to him and press my lips on his again, and the other cheerleaders surround us, shaking their pom-poms.

More players are called to the court and the crowd and cheerleaders scream louder. I wave my pom-poms extra high for Ethan’s best friend—“NUMBER 54, CENTER, CHRIS MAIN!” The crowd explodes—“Yeah, Maniac!”—and Marissa, the one who was next in line for Pyramid Girl, does a forward handspring and a split in the air. She smirks at me like I should worry, but I don’t. The smirk is all she’ll do, because I know about her and Mr. Stevens. She told me about their kisses, back when we were friends. Back when we practiced our routines together. Before I soared to the top of the pyramid and she became second-best.

But I’ll never tell. If our roles were reversed, she would, so she just throws looks my way and hopes I’m not vengeful like her.

Next up is Julie’s math tutor, “NUMBER 12, GUARD DEREK SANTOS!” “Yeah, Sandog!” the crowd bellows. Our co-captains, Trina and Leah, boost me in the air and I flip coming down. Marissa fumes.

Soon, the rest of the team is on the court and a chorus soloist is getting ready to sing “The Star Spangled Banner.” The gym is silent. Our heads our bowed, our hands on our hearts. And then we’re on “the home of the brave” and the noise erupts again. I get ready for our hello cheer, making sure the glitter is in my pockets. Ethan runs up to me one last time. He drags me to the center of the court, lifts me up on his shoulders, and holds the basketball high. “This game is for my baby!” he yells. I laugh, and the crowd laughs, and he kisses me one last time before heading back to his position.

It’s crazy, and it’s wild, and my mother is beaming on the bleachers, and I think hands lift me up to the top of the pyramid.

But maybe I just fly up there.

Julie

I
am not a basketball girl. I’m a nose-in-book, Word Masters, Math Olympiad kind of chick. And sitting here, watching big sister dazzle with extra-wide splits, is torture.

Something else that’s torture: my mother watching Katie like those pom-poms have hypnotizing powers. Her blue and gold ribbons match Katie’s (don’t even get me started on that weirdness). She made me wear my blue sweater, and I did because I thought that maybe we could bond over the silliness of it. No, I’m lying. She would never think it silly. I just hoped we could bond.

Only in basketball could my sister suck face like the guy is her oxygen mask and the crowd applaud her for it. Mama is looking at me like I should be proud, like
I
should want that. I don’t. Until Derek Santos runs onto the court.

Derek is perfection. He’s a jock, but he knows his numbers. The boy can add digits in his head like he has a calculator in there. He’s tutoring me for the Math Olympiad. Kudos to Katie for making that happen. He waves at me from the court, and for a few seconds, basketball is interesting. Katie shows off with a special cheer and then turns to me and points, like she’s saying she’s doing it for me. I smile and nod like I get it. Heck, she’s trying, and it’s not her fault Mama loves her best. Or that every boy swoons at her feet.

Derek, at least, doesn’t look like he’s swooning. He waved at me.
At me
. With the hand that a few days ago squeezed my knee.

The cheerleaders begin their “Hello” cheer. Katie is lifted above everyone’s shoulders. She’s beaming like she’s reached the heavens. Like she could touch the sky for real. She puts her arms up in a V and claps in rhythm. She throws her pom-poms in the air and the girl below her catches them. The crowd cheers. My mother dabs at her eyes. “Victory!” the cheerleaders shout, their tops shimmering.

Then they lift Katie higher. She reaches into her pockets, and the girls throw her toward the ceiling. Gold glitter flies through the air—on Katie, on the rest of the team. The overhead fans blow it into the bleachers. It’s raining gold, and Mama jumps up to catch as many sparkles as she can. I clench my fists and close my eyes against the rain.

But then it stops. I open my fists and they’re filled with gold.