Girl in Pieces

It isn’t that I never noticed exactly, that Jen S. disappeared every night as soon as Barbero fell asleep on the Rec couch. I mean, she would tell me. “I’m going to the bathroom,” she’d say, her long ponytail falling across her shoulder as she leaned in, looking at what I was doing on the computer. “My stomach is really acting up. I might be a while.” Or, “I’m just gonna go jog the halls. I feel a little pent up. Be good.” And then she’d go.

I was, weirdly, getting a little caught up in this class thing. I had finished twelve units so far, putting me near the middle of a mythical senior year. It was kind of satisfying to click SUBMIT and then wait for Jen S. to come back and do the grading with the secret password. School, it turns out, is super easy once you remove all the other kids, asshole teachers, and disgusting shit that goes on.

So I’m waiting for her, and waiting, and sort of watching Barbero snore on the couch, when it occurs to me she might not be doing exactly what she says she’s doing. But before I can even think about what she might be doing, I think about what I could be doing, while she’s gone and Barbero is comatose.

It only takes a few minutes. I open another window, set up a Gmail account, wrack my brain for his last known email address, enter it, hope for the best, and open the chat box. I haven’t talked to him in over a year. Maybe he’s there, maybe he’s not.

Hey, I type.

I wait, picking at my chin. My head feels a little cold now, with all my hair gone. I pull my hoodie up. He has to be there, though, because it doesn’t say Michael is offline or anything.

And then there he is.

OMFG is that rlly u

Yes

R u ok

No. Yes. No. I’m in the loony bin

I know my mom told me Your mom told her

I’m wearing clothes from the lost and fucking found

Im at a show

Who?

Firemouth Club called Flycatcher U know Firemouth? U wd lk them

My fingers hover above the keys. I miss you

Nothing. My stomach starts to squeeze a little. A little bit of the old feeling is coming back to me: how much I like-liked Mikey, how confused I was that it was Ellis he wanted, even though she didn’t like him like that. But Ellis isn’t here anymore. I bite my lip.

I look back at Barbero. One of his legs has drifted to the floor.

Michael is typing…then: Ill have mom bring u some of T’s clothes

His sister, Tanya. She must be out of college by now. Mikey’s house was always warm. In the winter, his mother made fat, soft loaves of bread and big pots of steaming soup.

Chat says, Michael is typing. He didn’t say he missed me or anything. I take a deep breath, try to stifle the growling little voice in my head that tells me, You’re dirty and disgusting, idiot. Why would anyone want you?

Im coming up in May for a show at 7th Street Entry with this band I work with. Be there for two days. Can u put me on some visitor list or something?

Yes! I start grinning crazily. My whole body has turned to feathers, I feel so light at the thought of seeing Mikey. Mikey!

Michael is typing: I hv to go, show ending have class tmrow I cant blv its u u have a phone # too? and I am up and running to the phone on the Rec wall, where the number is written in black Sharpie ink, along with NO PHONE CALLS AFTER 9 P.M. NO PHONE CALLS BEFORE 6 P.M. I’m running back, repeating the number in my head, when my bootie gets caught on a plastic chair and I go sprawling. Barbero’s up in a flash, quicker than I’ve seen him move, ripping the buds from his ears. He whirls around. “Where’s Schumacher? Where the fuck is Schumacher?” As I try to scramble up, he’s busy, reading what’s on the computer.

He presses his fat finger on a key and the computer screen fades to black. Mikey disappears.

“Back to your hutch, rabbit. I’ve got to go hunt down your friend.”