Some of the Parts by Hannah Barnaby

bit
too
cautious, because she jumps back on her heels and then falls on her butt. The nail gun wobbles in her hand and threatens to hit the floor, but Amy grabs hold of it with both hands and sets it down carefully before she stands up and pushes her goggles onto the top of her head.
    She squints at me for a second and then says, “Something I can do for you?”
    Talk to me,
I think.
Tell me how you’re doing.
    Instead, I say, “I found the playlist.”
    Amy crosses her arms, a shield. “What playlist?”
    “The one that—the one he made for you.”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But I know she’s lying, because whenever Amy lies, she twirls her hair, and as she says this, her right hand creeps up over her shoulder and entwines itself in her ponytail and starts flipping strands around and around.
    She sees me watching, and stops. “Just leave me alone,” she hisses, and yanks her safety goggles back down, to hide her eyes, to close the door.
    I back away slowly, my heart still pounding, and peer around the gym to make sure no one else was listening, to search for some task that I can perform. My eyes skid across the collection of bodies in the bleachers and settle on a single figure at the top. A boy. He looks back at me.
    This has happened to me before, seeing someone who looks so much like him that I am stunned into a kind of reeling panic. It’s just like one of those dreams where something terrible is about to grab you and you think, frantically,
How do I wake myself up?
But you’ve forgotten how to walk or run or do anything but stare at the beautiful, menacing thing that is going to be the end of you. Closing your eyes is the only recourse you have. But this time, because Amy’s voice is still ringing in my ears and I want so much to be able to undo what I did, and that boy up there looks
so
much like—I want
so
badly for it to be—
    I don’t close my eyes. And even though I know that the boy I’m seeing isn’t my brother, I make myself believe for just a second, just long enough to say his name.
    “Nate,” I whisper to myself, just to myself. I say it, and it stings, but it doesn’t unravel me. I say it a little louder. “Nate.”
    There’s a crash from across the gym, and I look toward it by reflex.
    “Scud!” hollers Mel.
    When I look at the bleachers again, the boy is gone. New loss washes over me.
    Act normal.
I find a paintbrush. I find a wooden board with outlined letters waiting to be filled in. I do what I am supposed to do.
    That empty space in the bleachers looms over me as I paint.

I get all the way home before I can breathe without feeling like there’s a snake tightening itself around my neck.
    I’m caught between wanting to forget how Amy sounded and wanting to get another jolt of the anxious energy her anger shot through me. I’m becoming an addict, a junkie for feelings. It doesn’t even matter if they’re good feelings or not.
    Maybe this is what everyone likes so much about doing drugs. But it’s all a matter of finding the right one.
    What can I do to make myself feel something again, right now? Everything in the house has been sanitized, reminders removed, pictures and trophies carefully boxed up by my father to “give us some time.” There’s nothing here that will shock me. I think about throwing myself into Nate’s room, going through all of his stuff in the hopes of finding more secrets.
    Then I remember the mail in my desk drawer.
    My hands are shaking with doubt by the time I get to my room, but I don’t care. I take the whole pile out and flip it over. Start from the bottom and work my way up. It’s all mass-produced, there’s nothing of him in it, but I open everything and stare at his name on every piece of paper. I hear myself breathing too quickly but I keep going, opening everything, until I get to the Life Choice envelope.
    It looks so much more official, somehow, than the other mail and for a split second I start to tell myself