Pieces of Me (19 page)

I forgot about Misty until the tug of her moving away dragged me back to reality. She hurried off.

She headed for the bathroom.

She remembers seeing me
.

Misty slunk into the girls’ bathroom. She hadn’t been inside
this one since that day. That day, right after the Skirts hacked my hair and I ran into the bathroom to see how badly I was mutilated.

Misty beelined for the far stall.

I stayed by the mirror.

Her usual bathroom refuge had been out of service that week, so she’d hid in this one instead. Misty shut and locked the door. She covered the toilet seat thick with paper covers and sat down. Leaned forward against the wall, bracing herself so she could pick her feet up. Then she peered out the tiny gap between the stall supports and wall. Tiny, but big enough to see whoever stood in front of the mirror. Exactly like that day she saw me, but only in her memory. When she started crying, she buried her head in her sweatshirt to muffle the sobs.

“I’m so sorry. So sorry,” Misty repeated.

It’s not your fault
.

Not then
.

Not now
.

Samuel’s sour food soured his mood
, or maybe it was the text from his cousin that launched him into bad-mood orbit.

“Don’t know her. Get last name?”

If he knew Misty’s last name, he’d have included it in his message. He rubbed his neck; the knots in his shoulders were his own fault for spending hours hunched over.

His cousin Rebecca went to the same school I had. She was my postcard locker neighbor. The more these lives unfolded, the more I realized how utterly connected we all were. How related.

“Dammit!” Sam tossed his phone behind him without looking.

“Honey? Are you okay?” his ma called from the other side of the bedroom door. “Is everything all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“Because I’m here if you need to talk or—”

“I’m fine!” Samuel’s shout reverberated. He felt bad, but not bad enough to spend the next hour making up things she could give him advice about to feel useful.

She tiptoed off.

He clicked through his music library and cranked Rammstein’s latest. It suited his mood, but hurt my ears.

When PigskinPaint pinged Samuel, he was beyond ready for the interruption.

Samuel touched the origami crane he’d folded with Misty and wondered if he’d ever hear from her again.

Tell me about it. Philanthropist? Really?

Sam sat back and waited while the cursor blinked. There were no coincidences. He knew this, but he still startled when he saw the connections in action. Of course PigskinPaint Leif goes to Misty’s school. In Samuel’s mind, the world eased into another degree of connectedness.

Of course?

Samuel tapped a few keys and sent a fresh message to another Seattle friend, then clicked back into his conversation with Leif.

Samuel laughed. Maybe.

I totally agree
.

The door to the bathroom swung open
and Misty instinctively held her breath. But between the sniffing and nose trumpeting, it didn’t take long for her to blow her cover.

“Are you okay?” Patent leather sneakers with pink laces stopped in front of the stall door. “Are you crying?”

“No, I’m fine,” Misty answered, hoping she’d go away.

“Are you sure? I think I have tissues in my locker. I can run and get them. Oh, wait, I think they’re in my bag.” The girl bent down and Misty listened to her riffle through her backpack. A couple of pens fell out, along with three postcards that flew under the stall like they were on strings.

“Oops,” she said, but held a packet of tissues with cats on them under the door. “Trade you, if you can grab those.”

Misty saw a hippo riding a bike, some stone temple in a jungle, and a bright blue frog as she scooped the postcards up and handed them back under.

“Thanks!”

The girl made sure Misty took the tissues before she tossed everything back into her bag and moved away. “My locker is right out there. If you wanna talk or—”

“Sure,” Misty replied, but offered nothing else.

“Okay, see ya.”

Misty realized she hadn’t thanked the girl or asked her name.

Rebecca. Her name is Rebecca, and she’s looking for you
.

Leif was up all night
reading a medical textbook on cystic fibrosis. He memorized terms and treatments like he used to do with football drills and plays. Next on his weekend agenda was meeting up with Pirate. Samuel was the only guy Leif confided in. So far Sam hadn’t laughed, or made him feel stupid. That went a long way in Leif’s mind.

The rehabilitation center was about an hour’s drive south, set right outside the joint military bases. Sam refused to tell Leif anything useful about who Pirate was, or why Leif was there to see him.

Leif walked into Saint’s and approached the front desk.
Like there’s another option?
“Hi, um, what room is Pirate in?”

“What’s your name?”

“Leif Leolin. MiracleMan Samuel sent me?”

And the receptionist doesn’t even bat an eyelash? Cool place
.

“He’s probably in the gym. Hang on. Have a seat.” She picked up the phone and started dialing.

The rehab center looked like a huge house but with lots of medical equipment and machines in corners, nooks, and the steady movement of an overcapacity anthill.

“Hey, kid.”

I saw the speaker at the same time Leif focused on him. Tough and wiry, he exuded warrior.
Pirate?

“Hi, I’m Leif.” Leif stuck out his hand, then let it drop when he saw the gloves and pressure bandages up and down Pirate’s right side, visible under a tank top and running shorts. Pirate was missing pieces.

“Pirate.” The man held out his left fist to bump.

The two shiny question marks where his legs used to be immediately grabbed Leif’s attention. “Cool blades.” Leif nodded toward the prosthetics with his chin.

“You got your sneakers on?” Pirate was already moving. I got the feeling sitting still was not in his repertoire.

“Yes, sir,” Leif answered, feeling as though he’d inadvertently signed up for boot camp.

“Good, let’s run.” Pirate waved at the woman on the desk and then headed out the front door. “So, I hear you aren’t sure you want to do football in the fall. Want to be a painter or singer instead.”

Was there anything Sam left out? I smiled, or tried to, anyway.

Leif’s pretty cute when he’s embarrassed
.

“Don’t worry, kid, I’m good at asking questions to get information.”

Leif nodded. The pace pushed his muscles. He’d forgotten how much he enjoyed the burn of working out past his wall. “Sure. How long have you been running on those?” He pointed down at the prosthetics.

“Months. I’m working up to the Iron Man. Burns take a while to heal and skin grafts come in stages.”

“The Iron Man?” Shock reverberated through Leif.

“It’s about self-discipline. You any good?”

“At football?”

“Or the singing? What are you good at?”

“They think I can go pro at quarterback.”

“Ah, that’s a lot of responsibility.”

“It is?”

“Sure it is. Leading your team on the field. All those players trying to take you down. Not for the faint of heart. What about singing?”

“I suck.”

“How long do you work at it?”

“Hours.”

“You feel better when you’re singing or on the field?”

“I hadn’t thought about it like that.”

“You should try. It’s a shame to do something every day that doesn’t make you want to keep going. I’m grateful. Every breath. It’s sappy, but it’s truth. Sometimes it takes an injury to find that.”

“Yeah?”

Pirate held up his hand and showed Leif his fused fingers. “I’d be back out there in a second, kid. With my men. Heading into the field of combat. It’s where I belong, it’s what drives me. Before this? I thought about getting out, going back to school, becoming an accountant or some shit.”

“And that changed?”

“Yes.” Pirate stopped. “I can’t carry a pack yet. This body is now a liability to my soldiers. I’m not going out into combat again. Not soon. But I can teach them everything I learned, everything that got me through that day, and the eight years
of missions before it. I’m not a pencil pusher, not in this body before, and not now. Let me ask you this. Who’s gonna die if you don’t take the field?”

Leif snorted. “I know it’s not the same thing—”

“Which gives you way more room to try things and make choices. Right? So you might make some poor girl’s ears bleed until you figure out you’re a painter, not a singer. Or maybe you’ll miss the football field come September. But you’ve got a choice. No one’s gonna die. They might yell at you, but you stay standing and you’ll find your path.”