Page 5 of Pieces Of You

“Well, it’s out now,” I say, adjusting the strap of my gym bag as Dean and I walk toward our lockers. “Honestly, I’m surprised Bethany hasn’t told everyone.”

“I guess it’s not something either of us wanted to announce.” Dean shifts to the side to avoid a rushing student walking with his head down. “She has her reasons. Trust me,” he mumbles, stopping in front of the same lockers we had last year, side by side—the same way you can generally find us when we’re not in class.

“I give it to lunch until every one of these assholes is talking about it.”

“I give it five minutes,” he scoffs.

He opens his locker while I lean against mine. “You still haven’t told me what happened.” Not that Ireallycare. It’s just that Dean and Bethany had that whole picture-perfect, destined for eternity thing going for them. I shouldn’t be surprised, I guess. My mom had that with Mia’s dad, and the fact that Mia and Iaren’tsiblings speaks for itself.

“It’s just weird,” I add with a shrug. And it’s not like Bethany and I are friends. At best, we’re acquaintances by association. Personally, I don’t have a problem with her. What she thinks of me, however, is questionable. I’m pretty sure she only tolerates me because I’m friends with her boyfriend.

Ex-boyfriend.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Dean says through a sigh, his eyebrows raised as he shifts his tired eyes to mine.

“Got it.” I press my lips tight and push off my locker to open it—accidentally bumping into something behind me.

Or someone.

I spin quickly, ready to apologize, but the girl’s words cut me off. “Who the fuck taught you to stand?”

Well, well. If it isn’t the teenage grandma from yesterday. Her words do not match her appearance. Neither do those hazel eyes currently burning with fury as she adjusts her overly modest clothes. When she flicks those eyes to me, a wise-ass crack forms, but before I can get it out, Dean says, “Jameson?”

Grandma Jameson.

Suits her: checkered skirt past her knees, blinding white blouse, and a bullshit attitude.

Jameson’s gaze shifts from me to Dean, her eyes widening slightly before she lets out a disbelieving scoff. Ignoring him, she focuses on me again. “You’re in my way.”

“Jamie,” Dean repeats, trying to get her attention.

Jamie reaches up, grasps my shoulders, and not so gently moves me to the side so she can access the locker beside mine. Without another word she opens it, shoves her bag inside.

“Jamie!” Dean again, and I should really ask how the hell he knows this girl because she sure as shit doesn’t run in our circle. “Are you just going to pretend like I don’t exist?”

She doesn’t respond, and I can’t see her reaction because her locker door is blocking her from view.

“Yo, Grandma! Turn up your hearing aid!” I quip, but no one laughs. Well, shit.Ithought it was funny.

A moment later, her locker door slams shut. “I can hear just fine,” she seethes through clenched teeth. And then she steps past me and toward Dean, and before I can blink, she’s slapping a sticky note on his forehead with a single word in thick black marker:LIAR.

4

Jamie

I haveno visions of my future. I only have plans. One to be exact: to recreate my past. Recreateme. 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 andlifeand 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?”

---