34 Pieces of You (10 page)

“Doesn’t your mom care if you smoke in the house?” I glanced at Lola.

“My mom couldn’t care less. Plus, she’s working.” Ellie lit Lola’s cigarette and laughed. “Don’t be such a priss-bitch,
Jess
. Nobody likes a priss-bitch.”

The words stung, but I tried to conceal my hurt. I looked down at my half-painted toenails and hoped the flush spreading across my face might fade quickly.

“She’s so stupid about things like this,” Lola said, coughing.

“Yeah? Like how?” Ellie sounded genuinely interested, which shocked me. Most of the time she treated me the way Lola treated Meg.

“Lola,” I warned, knowing she would bring up the party. It was all I had heard about for the last week. “Don’t—”

“Jessie.”
Lola gave me a look that said
Shut up
and continued without pause. “So, at Todd Michael’s party last week, she”—Lola waved her cigarette in my direction—“wouldn’t go ’cause his parents weren’t home.”

“That’s not true,” I said. “I just didn’t want to go.”

“She’s lying,” Lola said. “She didn’t go ’cause his parents weren’t home, and she’s afraid a boy will try and kiss her if there aren’t any parents around. Like that would be the worst thing in the world. Like, hello? I got my first kiss in sixth grade, and Jess
is freakin’ fifteen and never been kissed. Lame, right? I mean—”

Lola continued to speak, but I tuned her out, my cheeks burning red. I already felt like an idiot where Ellie was concerned, and now . . .

“Is that true, Jess?” Ellie asked.

“It’s so true!” Lola said. “She’s so—”

“Is your name Jess?” Ellie said dryly. “Well,
Jess
, is it?”

I glanced at her curious face, every part of my body tingling with embarrassment. I nodded, and her expression changed, almost seeming sympathetic.

The room was quiet, except for Lola, who coughed nervously.

I stared down at my toes again, waiting for what would come next—some kind of joint taunting—and was surprised when Ellie said, “
Well
. . . we can change that right now.”

Lola laughed.
“How?”

“I’ll kiss her,” Ellie said simply.

“Wh-what?” she said.

“What?” I echoed, snapping my head up. Ellie was walking toward me. The closer she got, the hotter I felt. It was nearly unbearable.

“But that’s fucking gay,” Lola said, and I nodded automatically.

“What are you, a homophobe, Lola?” Ellie was next to me
now. “Besides, I’m kissing Jess so she knows what it’s like. It’s more like practicing.” She arched an eyebrow at Lola. “Right?”

“I—I don’t think so,” Lola stammered.

“Well . . . ,”
Ellie said. “Look at it this way: I’m helping Jess out by teaching her how to kiss. That’s, like, for a good cause. But
you
slept with Tommy because you wanted him to like you. And that’s just sad and pathetic. So, which is worse?”

Lola was quiet. Her cigarette dangled halfway from her mouth. Even though she had it coming, I still felt bad for her. Ellie in mean-girl mode was a scary thing. I couldn’t count the number of times I’d watched her reduce the school’s most confident, popular girls to tears without a blink of her lifeless blue eyes.

“I don’t know where you heard that, but that’s not true,” Lola said, her voice rising. “Okay? It’s a lie. And I don’t appreciate you telling lies about me.”

Ellie rolled her eyes. “Tommy’s telling everyone otherwise.”

“No, he’s not,” Lola insisted, her eyes glassy.

“What did you expect?” Ellie asked calmly. “That he thought you were special? That you were together?”

Lola put out her cigarette in the cup. She turned toward the window and took her hair out of the ponytail.

“Oh, God,” Ellie said in her usual bored way. “She’s crying again.”

Lola shook her head. After a while she said, “I’m done with Tommy, okay?”

Ellie laughed, crossed to Lola, and placed her hands on her shoulders. She glanced at me and winked, like this was our inside joke, but I didn’t understand what any of it had to do with me. “Lola, you can’t be so sensitive. I mean, you were a total bitch to Jess just now, but you don’t see her crying. And you know why? ’Cause Jess is tough and you’re a wimp.”

And then I understood. In her own twisted way, Ellie was defending me.

“Okay?” Ellie said, and I saw her grip on Lola’s shoulders tighten.

“Yeah, whatever,” Lola said, and Ellie let her go.

“Maybe you should go home,” she said.

Lola nodded slowly, but didn’t move.

“Go on,” Ellie repeated.

“Jess?” It was just like before, only this time it wasn’t Meg giving me the pleading look; it was Lola. I wanted to feel sorry for her, but I couldn’t.

“Jess is staying,” Ellie said. Her words set off some sort of sensation inside me that I couldn’t identify. I just knew I wanted to stay as much as I wanted to go.

“Right,” Lola said, still frozen. Finally, she dragged her feet
across the floor. A minute later, the front door slammed shut.

I looked up, and Ellie smiled. “I don’t know why you put up with her. She’s such a bitch.”

“She’s not always like that,” I said. Ellie gave me a doubtful look, so I added, “Her parents just got divorced.”

“So, what’s that got to do with anything?” Ellie said. “My mom’s on her third marriage.”

If anything, Ellie was proving my point, but I knew better than to say as much. We were quiet then, and Ellie picked a Polaroid off her desk and stared at it absently, flicking the edge of the photograph with her finger. She seemed jittery. “Are you mad at me?” she asked.

I shrugged my shoulders, feeling torn. Nobody had ever stood up for me like that, and Lola did kind of deserve it, but still . . . “I don’t know what to think. Maybe I should go,” I said.

Ellie set the Polaroid aside. She moved closer until, once again, our fingers touched.

“Ellie, please . . .” There was that sensation again. It felt almost like a jolt of electricity.

“She had it coming. You can’t always be so nice, Jess,” she said.

“You can’t always be so mean,” I replied, without thinking. It was the most honest thing I had ever said to her.

She smiled, nearly appreciative. “See,” she said, “that’s better. You weren’t nice, but you were fair.” She set her palm against my cheek, and my chin began to quiver. I was filled with both an irrational desire to press my lips to her palm, and a fear that I wouldn’t be able to control this strange impulse. I tried to stop the shaking by making my body rigid. I locked my knees and stiffened my arms, but nothing worked. I debated fleeing when Ellie pressed forward, her lips drifting lightly across mine.

She leaned back to gauge my reaction. “Is that okay?” Her hand was suddenly on my waist, sliding up my abdomen until her fingers rested tentatively below my breasts.

I didn’t think very much before I nodded.

“Good.” She smiled. Then, once again, she pressed her mouth to mine. This time her lips were firmer, her tongue soft and wet. I closed my eyes, and even though I knew it was wrong, I let her kiss me for a long time.

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AFTER. FEBRUARY.

“So, are you ready to begin?” Concerned Therapist taps her pen against her temple and releases a sigh that rustles her plump lips. She seems tired today. A headband pulls hair away from her face. Her eyes are puffy. Her mascara is slightly smeared.

It’s another Wednesday, another session, and I’m watching her, wondering how long she can keep up this
I’m really interested in your life
charade. I bet it’s not for long. The sigh is just the first crack in our relationship. Soon there will be more sighs, or Concerned Therapist will begin to watch the clock. Or she’ll forget to set her cell phone to vibrate, or she’ll hide her yawn behind the fabric of her sweater. Things will fall apart, just not today. Today, Concerned Therapist decides
to sit up straight and stare at me in an appropriate Concerned Therapist way. She says again, in a clearer voice, “Are you ready to begin?”

The truth is, I’m not ready to begin, but in here that doesn’t really matter. Three months of therapy have taught me that nobody is interested in that type of honesty. So I settle into the worn leather sofa, pull a silver pillow onto my lap, and say, “Yeah, I’m ready.”

“I talked to your mom for a bit yesterday.” Concerned Therapist tucks the pen behind her ear and absently rubs the corner of her eye with her right index finger. “She mentioned you and Ellie were part of a foursome.” She looks at her notes. “You, Ellie, Tommy, and Jake. Do you want to tell me a little bit about them? About the things you guys used to do together?”

And here it is: the loaded question.

“You do know,” Concerned Therapist says to my silence, “that everything you say in this room is confidential.” Her finger remains near the corner of her eye, as if she anticipates it will need attention soon. This is an opportunity to push the conversation in a new direction.

“Are you tired?” I ask.

“No, not really,” she says.

“You look tired.” I lean forward, press my elbows into my knees, and give her the empathetic look. “You’ve got, you know”—I point to the area beneath my eyes—“bags.”

“Do I?” She moves her finger away, like I’ve made her feel self-conscious. This small victory makes me happy.

“Sarah, tell me about . . .” Again, she looks down at her notes. “Jake.”

I wonder if she’s picked this name at random or if this is Concerned Therapist’s second trick of the day: the ace up her sleeve. I pull the pillow closer to my body. It smells like Old Spice or something else my grandfather would wear. I wonder if this Old Spice man came to Concerned Therapist to discuss a dead wife, estranged children, or erectile dysfunction. I wonder if he came willingly because he had this aching desire to understand a history he’d bottled up inside. Maybe he did, or maybe he was forced into it by his family.

“Jake is Ellie’s older brother. That’s it,” I tell her.

“That’s it.
Really?
” The therapist crosses her legs and leans forward. Her skirt rides up, and I see the blackish tentacles of a spider vein spreading along the inside of her left knee. I wonder if she knows the vein is there, if it embarrasses her.

“Sarah, your mother seems to think you and Jake were close. Why would she tell me that?” This statement surprises me. It
indicates my mom has a clue about my life, which I’m pretty sure she does not . . .

Or does she? I shift farther into my seat, wondering what my mom does and doesn’t know. Then I finally say, “I don’t know.” It’s plain and simple and the truth. Besides, even if I wanted to talk to her about Jake, which I don’t, I couldn’t begin to explain what we were. We weren’t friends, enemies, or lovers. We were something undefined. “He’s Ellie’s brother, that’s all.”

“That’s all?” she repeats. This is a typical Concerned Therapist tactic, like repetition helps elicit some sort of deeper response. “Jake was your best friend’s brother. You must have spent a lot of time with him, too. You must have learned something about him.”

“I guess,” I say vaguely, and then I make a face like this is a new thought to me and I’m giving it my utmost consideration. “Let me think about it . . .”

Often, to pass the time with Concerned Therapist, I share a variety of insignificant details about my life. I deliver these facts in an overly dramatic fashion, so she believes they carry a lot of weight. That’s what I’m about to do now. After I’ve given it some
serious
thought, I sigh loudly, and say, “Jake’s eyes are nearly indigo, sometimes black.”

“Go on.” She jots something in her notebook. I bet it says
Opening up
.
Good job!

I say with another big sigh, “Jake has a brown freckle in his left eye, just shy of his iris.”

“Uh-huh.” Concerned Therapist writes something else down. I bet it says
Interesting!
Then she looks back at me, waiting for me to continue, but I simply shrug and shut up. And here her face shifts from hope to disappointment. As it does, I think about that brown freckle in Jake’s eye, how I used to wonder about it sometimes, and it is this random, insignificant thought that creates the tiniest wormhole for the past to slide into the present.

“What are you thinking right now?” Concerned Therapist scoots closer, like she senses there are real secrets waiting. Her voice is firm. “Tell me. Tell me what you’re thinking right now.”

“I’m not thinking anything,” I say, but I’m thinking about Jake and Ellie, and everything in between. My mind is suddenly spinning back and forth until it settles on one distinct memory: a year ago, the time when Ellie’s parents were both out of town and I spent the night at her house. We thought we’d be alone for the whole weekend. Then her stepfather returned early from a business trip.

“Sarah?” Concerned Therapist moves to the edge of her seat. “Is there something you want to tell me?”