Pieces of Us by Margie Gelbwasser Page B

nervously, and the laugh sounded geeky. Like the kind that kid in your class had, the one who always wiped his nose with his sleeve and then inspected the snot like it was treasure or something. You didn’t want to be that kid. That’s why when Alex said, “Give them a squeeze,” you did it, even though D didn’t look as willing as she did before. But she squealed, “Alex, you’re so bad,” and laughed.
    And when Alex finally let her free, imprints of his fingertips visible on her pale arms, she just ruffled your hair and said, “You just got to second. Congrats, little dude.” And you knew you should have been happy and thought it cool, but you didn’t. You felt nauseated and embarrassed.
    So you looked at her, said “Thanks,” and walked out of the room as fast as you could, ignoring the squeals and laughter behind you.

Julie
     
    S pit,” says Kyle. We’re both straddling a bench, there’s a pile of cards in front of us, and he’s looking oh so cute with his dark, spiky hair.
    I cough up a loogie and coat the dirt under our feet, and he laughs. Then, I take a card from the smaller pile of cards in my hand and toss it into the center. He does the same, his left dimple winking at me as he does it. Has he always been this cute? Sure makes Derek easier to forget.
    Spit is all about speed. We grab cards and match our pairs quickly and lunge for more. I can usually wipe the floor with Kyle. Today I’m distracted. My hands move fast, but not fast enough. I grab for cards at the same time as him and hope our hands touch. Those few seconds of hoping cost me the game.
    “Julie, girl,” he says, when he runs out of cards first, winning the round, “you’re out of practice.”
    “I guess we’ll have to play everyday, then,” I say, trying to be flirty.
    “Sounds like a plan.” He smiles, and I search for its meaning. But what do I know about reading people? Derek used to smile at me a lot. I thought I knew what it meant. Thought he wanted me. Turns out I was just a placeholder for Katie. One day he smiled the same way at her, and she ran away with it.
    I wrote this in my journal after I saw their kiss, and Mama read it. Not only did she read it, but she waited for me in my room, the maroon notebook opened before her. I froze when I saw her, and she greeted me with her icy smile. “This is how you feel? That Katie stole him? Really?” She pointed to the notebook, no apology about reading it, no made-up story about how she stumbled on it while cleaning, just looking from the notebook to me. Her blue eyes were bright and eager like she really wanted to know what I would say, like we were in the middle of an argument, not me walking into an ambush.
    My backpack cut into my shoulders, and I took it off and put it on the carpet in front of me like a buffer. Yes, that was how I felt. Why else would I have written it? But her eyes—same as Katie’s—bore into me, daring me to say something else. I shrugged. “That’s how I felt then.” My voice was shaky.
    She nodded. “And now?”
    “I don’t know.” I stared at the shaggy, baby blue carpet. Katie was jealous when the roof leaked and the first carpet in my room had to be replaced. Hers was old, too, but still holding up. I wanted burgundy carpeting, and not fluffy. I wanted Berber—or a cheaper imitation version—so when I walked across it, I didn’t sink in and forget where I was, so I could always feel the hardness of the floor with each step. But decorating was always Katie’s and Mama’s thing. They loved sitting in the living room with a clutter of open furniture catalogs around them. Katie’s dream room was baby blue “bury-your-toes-deep-within-carpet.” And, unlucky for her, the carpet in her room did not grow mold.
    “The thing is, dear, it’s not your sister’s fault that boys find her attractive.” Mama smoothed a stray hair and tucked it inside her hair clip.
    I knew I should have kept quiet, but I couldn’t help it. Derek was