Missing Pieces Read online

  Title Page

  Missing Pieces

  ...

  Meredith Tate

  ...

  Omnific Publishing

  Los Angeles

  Copyright Information

  Missing Pieces, Copyright © 2015 by Meredith Tate

  All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.

  ...

  Omnific Publishing

  1901 Avenue of the Stars, 2nd Floor

  Los Angeles, California 90067

  www.omnificpublishing.com

  ...

  First Omnific eBook edition, March 2015

  First Omnific trade paperback edition, March 2015

  ...

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

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  Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  ...

  Tate, Meredith.

  Missing Pieces / Meredith Tate – 1st ed

  ISBN: 978-1-623421-79-3

  1. Dystopian—Fiction. 2. Arranged Marriage—Fiction. 3. Alternate History—Fiction. 4. Family Dynamics—Fiction. I. Title

  ...

  Cover Design by Micha Stone and Amy Brokaw

  Interior Book Design by Coreen Montagna

  Dedication

  To my late mother, Jessica Ross Tate,

  who encouraged me to keep writing and follow my dreams.

  And to my two favorite men:

  my father, Paul, and my husband, Vincent.

  Thank you for believing in me.

  ***

  The Irresistible Force Paradox:

  What happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object?

  Part One: Fourteen Years Old

  Piren Allston

  I committed a felony on my thirteenth birthday.

  My parents don’t know. In fact, nobody does. If anyone learns, I’m screwed—a “fate worse than death,” they call it.

  I didn’t murder anyone; what I did was far worse. The crime was quick, it was careless, and it happened entirely inside my head. A wandering mind is a dangerous place.

  I was at the library studying for a history exam when it happened. A girl sat down beside me and pulled out her books, spilling highlighters and pens all over the table. I’ve known the girl a long time; she’s been my best friend since childhood. She flashed her familiar smile, and an unexpected urge shot through me: I wanted to kiss her.

  The forbidden thought flashed through my brain and vanished in seconds, but the intensity lingered behind, as if a magnetic force ripped through my whole body. My eyes grew wide. The pencil slid from my hand and landed on the table.

  “What?” she asked.

  I gaped at her.

  She poked my arm. “Out with it.”

  My mouth opened, but no words came out. I shook my head, backing my chair away from the table. Heart thudding like a bass drum in my chest, I bolted from the library.

  Lying in bed that night, my mind raced, struggling to recall the exact wording of the Law I just broke. They made us memorize it in fifth grade, but only pieces clung to me: Only desire your Assigned Partner. Only kiss your Assigned Partner. Attraction to the Unassigned is forbidden, punishable by Banishment.

  Tracy Bailey is not my Assigned Partner; she’s not even supposed to be my friend.

  I hardly slept that night, but woke the next day relieved that my secret was safe. That’s the good thing about thoughts; they only get you in trouble if you share them.

  My Partner is a girl named Lara Goodren. I met her at the Assigning Ceremony eight years ago, when I was six.

  “I love you, Lara Goodren,” I said to her, when prompted by the Master of Ceremonies.

  “I love you, Piren Allston,” she replied.

  The audience erupted, clapping and hooting their approval. Mom and Dad snapped a million pictures as I wobbled on the stage, staring at the ground. Then back to our seats, and on to the next couple. The whole exchange was awkward as hell, but I did it anyway, as expected and without question.

  That was the first time I said “I love you” when I didn’t mean it. It wouldn’t be the last.

  Tracy Bailey

  My Partner’s name is Sam Macey. He’s got chocolate-brown hair, dark eyes, and a shit-eating grin. Piren says he looks like a cartoon character when he’s concentrating real hard. He says when I’m married to Sam, I’ll sound like an idiot, because my name will be Tracy Macey. He calls me that when he’s trying to piss me off. It works.

  I remember at our Assigning Ceremony, Sam was picking his nose. He was probably the first person everyone noticed upon entering the Ceremony Hall, shamelessly digging for gold in the center of the room. The moment I saw him, I scrunched up my face in disgust.

  Herded to the side of the stage, I stood among the throng of ribbon-clad, six-year-old girls. A couple of smug five-year-olds joined our group, added to our class to even up a slight gender disparity. Giggling and whispering, we speculated on the potential identities of our Assigned Partners. Tightly-suited boys fidgeted in anticipation across the room.

  “Look at that one, with the red hair,” one girl said, pointing.

  “He’s so cute!” said another.

  “I want him.”

  “No, he’s mine.”

  Hundreds of spectators took their seats, thrumming with excitement. There was so much noise in that damn room, it was like crowding inside a buzzing bees’ nest.

  “Ew, look at that one,” a girl said, pointing at the nose picker.

  We giggled until our cheeks ached. One fact became clear: no one wanted to Partner with the chubby kid with his finger wedged up his nose. The girl unlucky enough to land him as a prize would surely be ridiculed forever.

  Much to my horror, an hour into the Ceremony, the unthinkable happened.

  “Sam Macey,” the announcer said into the microphone, “and Tracy Bailey.”

  My heart stopped.

  Giggling rabidly, the other girls released a collective sigh of relief. I dredged my miserable feet up to the stage, fists clenched at my sides. Taking one for the team wasn’t exactly what I pictured when I envisioned meeting my future husband.

  “I love you, Tracy Bailey,” Sam said, fiddling with his tie.

  I could hear the other girls laughing behind me. My cheeks burned.

  “And I love you, Sam Macey!” I said in the most hyperbolic, sarcastic chortle I could muster. They could force me to Partner with Sam, but they couldn’t force me to be nice about it.

  Sam waddled off the stage, and I followed, sinking into a curtsy for the crowd.

  Even for a precocious six-year-old, sassing at the Assigning Ceremony was a bold move. Luckily, the announcer went straight to the next couple, oblivious to my contempt. I wasn’t so lucky, however, when it came to my parents. The moment we got home, the lecture commenced: I had not respected my Partner, and if I don’t respect my Partner, then I’m everything that’s wrong with society. What an unthinkable sin I committed. I should pay penance for my attitude. Blah blah blah.

  The chiding continued for days. One measly week of Assigned Partnered bliss and I already loathed the word “Partner.” Every time I heard it, I wanted to vomit.

  It took a week of smiling and nodding to smooth things over with my parents. I was almost in the clear when I opened my big mouth. I wondered aloud a question no one, no matter how audacious, is ever, ever, ever permitted to ask.

  “What if I don’t want to marry Sam Macey?”
<
br />   My father backhanded me across the face. I stumbled backward into the coffee table and tumbled to the floor. Paralyzed with shock, I cowered on the carpet.

  “How dare you!” he said, towering over me, half-empty scotch bottle dangling from his right hand.

  Gripping my cheek, I floundered in a feeble attempt to stand. My father then delved into the next installment of his screaming lecture: the computers are never wrong. Never, ever, ever, and we never question our Assignments. How dare I get the nerve to ask such a stupid question? Blah blah blah. Sam Macey’s my Partner, picked for me based on our genetic codes at birth, the only person in the entire town with whom I can produce strong offspring, and if I don’t recognize the sanctity of this, then I’m a selfish bitch who doesn’t deserve a Partner. Blah blah blah.

  I learned a simple, albeit valuable, lesson that day: “Question the Assigning” equals “get beaten up.” I needed to learn to keep my trap shut.

  Mom sent me upstairs with no dinner. I sulked on my bed, racked with hunger, whipping a tennis ball at the ceiling. On each hit of the ball, I pictured Sam Macey’s face.

  Piren Allston

  Tracy Bailey was the first girl to insult me. We were seven and standing in line for lunch at school. The cafeteria offered ample choices, and I couldn’t make a decision to save my life. Behind me, Tracy tapped her foot while I weighed the pros and cons of a turkey sandwich.

  She knocked into my arm. “Move it, Fat Head.”

  Everyone giggled. I could feel my face flush.

  “Shut up!” I slammed my tray to the counter, sending my milk carton flying. Milk splattered in all directions, soaking the floor and drenching me.

  The class nearly fell over themselves laughing as I pawed my wet shirt. My cheeks burned. I blinked back warm tears, determined not to let my classmates see me cry—that’s the type of stuff that doesn’t leave you till after high school. Head down, I sprinted from the cafeteria as fast as I could.

  I spent the rest of the day fuming to myself at my desk until it was finally time to go home.

  After school, Tracy Bailey’s mother showed up at our house, dragging her daughter by her bushy ponytail. A smug grin spread across my face when I saw my enemy in such a humiliating position.

  Tracy’s family lived down the street from mine, and our mothers regularly swapped neighborhood gossip under the guise of friendly chit-chat.

  Tracy slumped in the doorway, her blue eyes fixed on the floor. While I knew next to nothing about her, I recognized her overall broodiness; I’d seen her embody this posture at school toward various teachers and other authority figures.

  I turned to leave her alone in the hallway with our mothers—listening to them blab for an hour seemed a suitable punishment for my curly-haired foe. But Mom grabbed the hood of my sweatshirt and yanked me back, holding me hostage in the doorway. I ground my teeth behind my lips and imagined Tracy vanishing into thin air.

  Mrs. Bailey flicked her daughter’s arm.

  “I’m sorry I called you Fat Head,” Tracy said, cheeks growing rosy.

  I crossed my arms across my chest. “No you’re not.”

  “Piren!” Mom jabbed me in the side. “Don’t be rude.”

  Scowling, I shook my enemy’s hand in atonement.

  “There, isn’t that better?” Mrs. Bailey asked, flipping through my mother’s cellphone photos. Tracy and I nodded, glaring in opposite directions.

  “Good. That’s over,” Mom said. “Piren, take Tracy out and play.”

  I clenched my fists tight as I could bear. Why would I want to play with Tracy Bailey?

  “Now!”

  I shoved past Tracy to get outside. I remember wishing I was a smidge older so playing alone with her wouldn’t be an option. After all, she’s not my Partner, and she’s a girl. That day, however, I was stuck with her. As if it wasn’t bad enough she ruined my morning, now she was ruining my afternoon.

  Seeking an activity requiring the least contact with my nemesis, I dug my ancient sidewalk chalk out of the garage.

  Tracy grinned, but I ignored her, spilling the chalk on the ground at our feet. I longed to tell her, in words more suited to a seven-year-old, to fuck off.

  Crouching on the driveway, I rotated my back to her. I could hear her scribbling behind me, humming. The sound grated into my nerves. I drew a thick yellow line between us.

  “This is my side. That’s your side.”

  We colored in silence for several minutes, until my enemy’s squeaky laughter caught my ears.

  “This is you.” She smirked at her monstrous stick-figure drawing. “Can’t forget your big fat head.”

  Fury churned in my belly.

  “Well, this is you.” I added fangs to a stick figure of my own.

  “You have horns!” She scribbled furiously.

  “You have a big ugly tail!”

  This went on for about fifteen minutes before we fell back to examine our masterpieces. Colorful chalk monsters, they were unrecognizable as ever resembling human beings. We simultaneously succumbed to giggles.

  Tracy tapped my sneaker. “You don’t really have a fat head.”

  “Well, you don’t really have fangs.”

  We spent the next hour drawing cars and pets for our stick figure creations.

  That was how Tracy Bailey became my best friend.

  Tracy Bailey

  The clanging doorbell echoes from the entryway. My little sister charges past me to answer, primping her hair as she yanks open the door. It takes a herculean level of self-control for me not to groan.

  “Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Hughes,” she says with a swoon. “I love you, Oliver Hughes.”

  A wide grin spreads across the face of her lanky Partner. “I love you, Veronica Bailey.”

  My sister and Oliver link arms. They traipse through the threshold, steps perfectly synchronized, eyes glued to one another. Oliver’s parents trail behind, glowing with pride at their son and his eye candy—I mean, my sister. I follow them to the dining room.

  Veronica Lynn Bailey is two years my junior. Her teachers describe her as “spunky,” but everyone knows that’s code for “obnoxious.” She’s a little brat, but she makes me laugh so hard I spit my water all over the floor. I’ve heard people describe her as the skinny version of me, except her hair doesn’t curl. We’ve got the same cobalt eyes, same pale skin, same freckles on the bridge of our noses. Same dimples. She never knows when to shut the hell up, and if she’s got an opinion, you’re going to hear it. Fills me with pride when people compare me to her.

  That being said, she’s an enormous pain in my ass.

  At their Assigning Ceremony, after the “I love you’s,” Oliver pecked her on the cheek, then sprinted off the stage to hide. The gooey-eyed crowd awwed and pouted, capturing it all on camera. I remember thinking it was weird they didn’t lambaste Oliver for kissing my sister before their First Kiss Ceremony. I suppose the audience was so enthralled, they overlooked that little detail. Convenient. I’m guessing Veronica and Oliver could tag-team a murder, and everyone would gush about how cute it was.

  Around her eleventh birthday, Veronica spent six hours hunched over a piece of poster board, mapping out the entire seating chart for their wedding. My parents hovered over her, goofy smiles plastered on their faces, adding guests to her already extensive list.

  “At least we have one normal kid,” and “at least this one’s not a screw-up,” are common catchphrases my parents love to use to differentiate me from my otherwise twin-personality sister. When the alcohol breaks out of the closet, so do the parental confessions. I bite my lip and keep my trap shut.

  Nothing I can say, short of feigning affection for Sam Macey, could deter them, so why bother? What is there to admire about Sam anyway? His keen deodorant-forgetting skills? His ability to pick his nose in the middle of eighth-grade algebra lab? Sometimes I think it would be funny to idolize these wonderful qualities to my parents, but I can’t take another black eye. Last time I showed up at sc
hool all bruised up, I got sent to the nurse’s office. They handed me some lame pamphlet titled Working Out Family Conflicts at Home. The picture on the cover was some cheesy Photoshopped family, laughing and hugging. It was mortifying, and the brochure went right in the trash.

  My mother kisses each of Mrs. Hughes’ cheeks, and they chatter like a pair of hens, setting out our finest china. My father claps Mr. Hughes on the back, passing him a sweating beer can. We take our seats around the table.

  Oliver and his parents come over for dinner at least once a week. Mr. Hughes and my dad are two peas in a pod. They can plow through a grocery cart’s worth of six-packs in a matter of hours.

  At least once a week, Mom harasses me to invite the Maceys for dinner too.

  “Did you call Sam’s mom yet?” my mother asks at breakfast.

  I twirl my spoon through my cereal. “Um. Sure. I’ll do it today.”

  “Promise?” She crosses her arms. “Because I feel like every time I ask, you say you’ll do it, but you mysteriously forget.”

  I shove a spoonful of bran flakes into my mouth. She’s onto me.

  “Seriously, Tracy, I don’t know what the big deal is. You’ve been Sam’s Partner eight years, and we hardly know his family. You’re fourteen, for God’s sake. It’s time.”

  “Sorry. I’ll do it today, I swear.”

  Nope.

  Mandated alone-time isn’t Law until you graduate and cohabitate, so why rush? People swoon over their Partners at school all the frigging time. I swear, it takes the Jaws of Life to yank them apart. When I see people behave like that, I want to punch them in the face. I mean, I’m going to be married to Sam until I die. Isn’t that more than enough?

  Piren Allston

  By our eighth birthdays, Trace and I were inseparable and didn’t care who knew it. We’d clomp through Harker’s Woods behind my house like we owned the whole forest. Trace’s insatiable need for adventure rivaled that of my own. If an adventure didn’t present itself to us, we’d invent one. We found all sorts of bugs to study, rocks to climb, and streams to wade through. The forest granted us unlimited access to the adventure we craved.