Very in Pieces by Megan Frazer Blakemore

Author:Megan Frazer Blakemore
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2015-07-24T16:00:00+00:00

iv.

A kiss. Lips on lips. Such a simple act, but it spins me loose. I barely even finished my beer, but driving home I can’t focus on the road. I find myself drifting right, then left. This is what it means to change?

My teacher brought a caterpillar in to class in first grade. We watched it build its chrysalis, then waited, waited, waited for the beautiful butterfly to emerge, gorgeous gossamer wings spread wide. Finally one day it oozed out. Its orange wings were crinkled and slimy-looking. I remember Grace saying, “Ew. What a disappointment.” I should have paid more attention. I should have known there was no such thing as metamorphosis.

Our driveway is still full of cars, and I snake up along beside them. Subarus with rusting bumpers, an ancient Mercedes converted to run on biodiesel, tiny cars lined up on the edge of the driveway like children waiting to go to recess. I’m just able to pull Nonnie’s convertible into the garage, then walk around back so I can get into the kitchen that way without having to go through the party.

The kitchen is full of festive detritus: plates with half-eaten appetizers, a stack of plastic cups, a purse, and two sports coats. Voices filter in, too.

On the counter sits a huge bag of lemons, and half a bag of limes. Mom always orders too much of things like this, and not enough actual food. They’re beautiful sitting there, but also sad. I can already picture them molding, and the sour-sweet-sickly smell that will permeate the kitchen until I take them and throw them into the woods. A waste. So I decide to do something with them. I know we have a special tool somewhere that peels off perfect strips of the rind. The rind curls like a spring, and you can drop it into a drink. But I can’t find it in our kitchen, which is more for show than for use. I look in the drawer where we keep all those sorts of random tools—melon ballers, citrus reamers—no luck. Shoving it closed, I move on to the next drawer. This one has another disconnected assortment. There’s string for trussing a turkey, wooden skewers, and knives for spreading dips. I rustle around in it, and then yank my finger back. Shoving my finger into my mouth, I taste blood. I pull it out and see a small cut, just a bit thicker than a paper cut.

“Damn it,” I mutter, and slam the drawer closed. “Screw it.”

Nonnie taught me how to make the twists without the tool. She said it was a necessary skill since fruit twists were one of the ways you could tell if you were in a classy joint. “It’s not that I mind a dive bar. In fact, I’d actually prefer it. But if they’re going to charge me more than the cost of one of my books for a cocktail, it better be the real deal with all the frills.”

I can almost see

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