Pieces Of You by Jay McLean
4
Jamie
I haveno visions of my future. I only have plans. One to be exact: to recreate my past. Recreate me. That won’t be for at least another year, and so for now, I’m stuck somewhere in the middle.
I don’t make a conscious effort to think about the things I left behind, but sometimes a single, insignificant item will spark a memory, like the pearl buttons I’m currently doing up on my blouse. Some people might call it vintage. I call it a gift. “This one will do,” Gina had said, her light gray eyes on mine as her hand trembled while she held out the crisp, white top between us.
Gina’s the only thing I miss from my past, the only thing that brings joy to my constant loathing. When I think about it, really, truly, think about it—I wish I’d brought Gina here instead.
* * *
I’ve officially madeit through my first week of school. Sure, I was in a zombie-like state, but I showed up, and that’s all that counts. With work and life and the last-minute decision to join the world of public schooling, I didn’t give myself enough time to adjust my sleep schedule. For years, I napped between work and was forced to stay up all night.
See, my mom was afraid of the dark.
She wasn’t scared of monsters, or evil, or the typical things people fear. She was afraid of herself. So, most nights, when the sun went down and darkness took over, she’d rely on me to keep her straight, keep her focused. We’d stay up all night watching reality television while I sat at the coffee table doing the bare minimum amount of work that home-schooling required. I’d have preferred to spend my senior year doing the same. Unfortunately, according to the program’s “guidance counselor,” if I wanted to further my education, I’d need to do more than what I was doing, and that’s when she mentioned public school. My “situation” had changed, the counselor had said. “So, what’s stopping you?”
Nothing.
Nothing was stopping me, and so in a last-ditch effort to save whatever I could of my future, I enrolled at Townsend High School. It was the only high school in my district. The only problem was my car was sitting unusable in the driveway, and I didn’t have the funds to fix it. So here I am—most likely the oldest person riding the school bus.
It’s a metaphoricalhell on wheels.
But, for a few minutes every morning, I have to be in the presence of two idiot jocks whose lockers just so happen to be right next to mine—those few minutes are literal hell.
After the first three days of ignoring Dean, he finally got the message. G.I. Jock, on the other hand, greets me most mornings with a “’Sup, Grandma?” Clever, right? On Friday, I accidentally dropped a textbook as I was pulling out another one, and when I squatted down to collect it, the dumbass said, completely serious, “If you want to drop to your knees in front of me, you’ll have to get in line.”
Contrary to how I dress, I’m not a prude—not even close—but even that was too much. I physically gagged, and he smirked, of course, and I knew what stupid sexual innuendo-filled crack was coming next. So, I beat him to it. I told him I’d rather swallow razor blades than have his dick anywhere near me.
It was the second set of words I’d ever said to him, and it was about his penis. Nice.
His eyes had widened, and a second later, Dean was pulling him away.
In one week, I have made a total of zero friends.
Surprised?
Yeah, me neither.
The weird thing is that the lack of friends hasn’t come from a place of malice, like I’d expected the moment I realized Dean was now my classmate, and I assumed Bethany was likely to be, too. That assumption was proven the second I stepped foot into first-period English. We both gasped when we saw each other, then quickly looked away. Panicked, I could barely hear a word the teacher said over the thumping of my heart. It’s been four years since I stepped foot in a school, and I was suddenly preparing not only for my last year but also having to fight off or ignore the constant name-calling and accusations.
Strangely enough, no one seems to know who I am.
Either that, or they just don’t give a shit.
* * *
When I getto school on the second Wednesday of the school year, Tweedledee and Tweedledipshit are at their lockers like they are every morning. Dean’s the first to see me walking toward them, and he stops talking mid-sentence, his eyes catching mine. “Jamie,” he says, tone flat.
Like always, I ignore him, turning my back to open my locker.
“You’re not going to talk to me? Ever?”
I heave out a sigh. And then I let my shoulders drop, along with my facade. It’s so draining—trying to be this person I’m not whenever I’m around him now. And I’m tired. Physically spent. I got a total of two hours of sleep last night, and I don’t know if it’s my exhaustion or my weakness that has my walls dropping. Slowly, I face him, the dark-haired boy with big brown eyes… eyes I’d spent most of the summer getting lost in. “What do you want?”
His cheeks flush as his eyes widen, surprised I’m even acknowledging his existence. He steps forward, leaving Thing 2 behind. “To talk.” His hands are up between us, palms out in surrender. “That’s all.”
“I have nothing to say to you.”
“Well, I have a lot to say to you,” he replies.
I can feel my anger brewing—a reminder of the humiliation he’d caused. And because I can’t look at him anymore, I look over his shoulder. A mistake. Because I catch Holden watching our exchange with unabashed curiosity. The kid is smiling as if he’s privy to a secret. An inside joke. And that joke is me. His stupid grin widens when the warning bell sounds, and he slaps his friend on the shoulder, saying, “I love a good daytime drama. To be continued, right? Don’t hit play without me.”
Dean curses, and my gaze snaps to his. Shaking his head, he keeps his eyes on mine when he says, “I’ll see you after school.”
I scoff. “Un-fucking-likely.”
Welp. The last words I said to Dean come back to bite me in the ass. As part of this whole enrolment into public school plan, my guidance counselor suggested I join some clubs to help with college applications. It’s why I was here the day before school started—so Principal Hemmings could tell me what a good fit would be. He suggested the Outreach Club—a kind of community service program organized by a student and overseen by a faculty member. I didn’t have to think twice about it. I mean, how hard could it be? Take the elderly on walks? Read to a bunch of toddlers? Pick up trash on the side of the highway? I could do all that.
By the time I find the classroom where the meeting’s held and rush inside, I’m late—and pissed. Because the person holding the meeting, standing front and center, is none other than Dean Griffith.
Because, of course, he is.
And there’s no doubt he saw my name on the list of participating students, which is how he knew he’d see me here. Asshole.
The man standing beside Dean, dressed in a blue polo, khaki shorts, and whistle around his neck—obviously a coach of some kind—grunts at me, followed by “Take a seat, young lady.”
Young lady? Yeah, this isn’t the place for me, and as soon as I get the chance, I’m bailing.
“I got a seat right here.” My stomach turns at the sound of a familiar voice, and I glance around the room filled with twenty or so students—until I find Holden, who’s sitting on a desk, patting his lap like the cocky little germ he is.
“Shut it, Eastwood!” the coach booms. Then lowers his voice to a more appropriate level. “As I was saying… I’m Coach Griffith.” Griffith? Nooo. I slump down in the nearest empty seat, doing everything I can to avoid slamming my head on the desk over and over. “And you all know my son, Dean.” This cannot be happening. I inconspicuously look around the room, searching for the hidden cameras, because this must be a joke—a sick one. Just when I think things couldn’t get any worse, I lock eyes with her. Dull blue eyes on my hazel ones. Bethany frowns, but she doesn’t look away. I do, though, and this time, I drop my head on the desk. Once. And then again. It’s merely a tap, but it’s enough to have Coach Griffith singling me out and asking, “What’s wrong with you?”
I reply, “Nothing,” at the same time Holden cracks, “I think she swallowed some razor blades.”
I hate him.
And Dean.
And this entire school.
MinusBethany.
Sitting taller, I lift my head and force a smile. “Sorry,” I mumble. “I’m just tired.” So tired.
“Well, buckle up, princess, because it’s just getting started.” Young lady and princess. This man is going to kill me.
I force a nod. “Yes, sir.”
“Now…” He tears off a sheet of paper from a notebook and asks, “What’s your name?”
“Jameson.”
Coach Griffith makes quick work of writing what I assume is my name on the paper, then folding it up and dumping it in one of the two ball caps on the desk in front of him. “Let’s get this started then.”
“Why can’t we choose our partners?” some guy in the back of the room asks.
“Because we don’t want you goofing off and collecting hours for smoking weed in the back of your van, Dwight.” Laughter fills the air and dies down just as fast when Coach grunts. I have a feeling I’ll be hearing that grunting a lot this year. He reaches into both hats with each hand, taking out two names, then unfolds the first one, his lips turned down in concentration. “Holden,” he states.
Whispers, mainly from girls, float across the room while I send out a silent prayer.
Please, not me.
“You’re going to be paired with…”
Please, not me.
Please, not me.
Please, not me.
“Jameson.”
This time, I slam my head on the desk, and I don’t bother lifting it back up. Not even when Holden busts out a laugh. “Game on, Grandma.”