Pieces of Me

By Amber Kizer

When high school oddball and introvert Jessica Chai is killed in a car accident, her parents decide that Jessica would have wanted her organs donated to those who so desperately need these gifts of life. But Jessica is angry about dying and being dismembered. Taking the idea of cell memory to the next level, not only do the recipients get pieces of Jessica, but gets pieces of their memories and lives moving forward—she knows what they know and keeps tabs on their growth, recovery, and development. This begins her journey to learn her purpose as she begins to grasp that her ties to these teenagers goes beyond random weirdness. It's through their lives that Jessica learns about herself, as she watches the lives she literally touched continue to interlock.

Also by Amber Kizer

Gert Garibaldi's Rants and Raves: One Butt Cheek at a Time

CHAPTER ONE
I ignored the printed flyers for the upcoming homecoming; cheerleaders encouraged school spirit with painted signs hanging haphazardly above rows of lockers. I spun the combo lock until open. I smashed against the metal lockers trying to stay out of everyone's way. Freshman jocks crowded below me, grabbing blindly while someone with hooves stepped on my foot but didn't notice.
The girl next to me smiled--what was her name? Becky? Becca? She told me once, back in freshman year when we were assigned these spots. I stared at the empty cavern of my locker and carefully removed the biology textbook and lab notebook I needed next period. She opened her locker door and a postcard fluttered out. I grabbed it, before it hit the floor and got trampled under clumsy jock feet. I studied the glossy photograph before handing it back. The image of an adobe chapel and cerulean skies was gorgeous. Haunting.
She waited and let me look, then answered my unspoken question. "That's El Santuario de Chimayo in New Mexico. Cool, huh? They say the dirt is miraculous."
I let go and she restuck it to the inside of her locker next to dozens of postcards seemingly from all over the world: Buddhas and temples, pyramids and caves, battlefields and shipwrecks. It was as if she'd crammed the Travel Channel into the tiny cubicle.
She saw my glance and said, "My cousin likes to send snail mail. We want to travel together someday."
"Oh." I didn't know what else to say, so I nodded. Had I gotten a postcard this year? Ever? Did I want to travel?
She shrugged as if waiting for harsh judgment and slammed her locker door before scurrying to her next class.
"Thanks," I called quietly, unsure why I felt the need to thank her and pleased she didn't seem to hear me.
I turned the corner toward bio and drew up sharply when the Skirt crew popped out of nowhere. I dodged and weaved, thinking I was in their way. No. They're circling me.
I stopped and froze, but didn't take my eyes off the Captain with her matching hair ribbons and school mascot in glittered tattoo on her cheek.
"You have a lot of hair." One of the Skirts spoke from behind me. I felt her hand on my braid, encircling it and tugging down the length until her hand was somewhere below my butt.
"Yeah." I clutched my books tighter against my chest, wishing instead for armor, or a Kevlar vest.
Another girl said, "We're holding a hair drive." It was as if she opened the floodgates because they all started talking at once, like a flock of gulls fighting over a clam.
"You know? For kids without hair."
"Wigs."
"You have a lot of hair."
"And it's so blond. Do you bleach it?"
I shrugged and shook my head, trying to answer and dodge their gazes at the same time. My hair was so purely blond it appeared white, especially in the summertime. I never dyed it, and I only trimmed the split ends every few months. I brushed it one hundred times before bed each night, even when I had the flu. I loved my hair. I am my hair.
The Skirts' Captain refocused the conversation. "West Haven is also holding a hair drive."
Like puppets, they reiterated, "There's a trophy."
"We want the trophy."
"We deserve the trophy."
As they saw the football team's quarterback approach, one Skirt tittered and called, "Hi, Leif, good luck in the game tonight!"
"Thanks, girls." He winked at the others and waved without stopping. But when his eyes met mine, he frowned and turned away. I wasn't worth a wink. Or a wave.
"We'll see him at the game. Focus," Captain snapped to the others.
"Uh." I tried to step around again. I was already late for class and the empty hallway made my heart thump and shift within my chest. What did they want? My hair?
"Look, we need your hair to win. You need an invitation to Kaylie's Halloween party."
"She does?" a Skirt asked from behind me.
"I do?" Seniors-only party. Only worthy underclassmen were exceptions. As a sophomore I didn't qualify, and I certainly wasn't worthy. "Oh."
I wanted to ask why, if they needed hair so badly, I saw none of their perfectly highlighted and toned lengths cut short for the cause. But I couldn't force the question out of my throat.
"So do we have a deal?" The Captain stepped closer. The circle tightened like a tourniquet. I felt hands reach for me.
How do I get out of here? Where's the roving teacher to break up loitering in the halls? "Uh. Let me think about it--"
She lunged closer. "What's there to think about? Don't you want to come to the party?"
"Can I bring a friend--" Part of me thought that might kill the deal. But part of me wanted to go to that party. At least be the one who was invited and said "No, thank you" on my terms. I wasn't brave enough to decline.
"Sure, whatever." She snapped gum and waved her hand toward the Skirts behind me.
"Okay, then I'll tell you tomorrow, first thing--" Trying to buy myself time and distance. Find oxygen not polluted with the latest cheap, and fruity, body spray. Formulate a plan. Like getting really sick before school tomorrow. Like appendicitis or tuberculosis. Mono wouldn't cut it with this crew. Janey-the-back-flipper had it last year during Spirit Week and they put her bed on wheels and made her attend cheer finals.
"I have to ask--" But I didn't even finish my sentence before they whipped out the ponytail elastic and the gleaming shears. I froze. There, standing in hallway 6B, between classes, the hair I'd grown my entire life disappeared. I heard it, every snip, and snap, and slice. I knew hair didn't have nerve endings, but I felt each crack, each break of each strand.
In the three minutes between third and fourth period.
When I struggled, they grabbed and held with perfect manicures and manacle hands.
My breath faded, then returned.
My heart stuttered, then raced.
My eyes closed, then teared.
My hand groped until I felt the cold metal of a locker bank to my right. My head floated above my body. Faint white spots flew across my vision. I leaned against that piece of wall as if it was the only thing keeping me upright.
"Are you okay?" One of them peered down at me as though I was an odd science experiment. I wondered if she'd catch me if I fainted, or just move to the side and let me splat against the cement floor.
I didn't speak, didn't answer her stupid question as the late bell rang.
"This totally puts us over the top. Trophy time." They high-fived and turned to leave.
I managed to say, "Please?" Was I begging for my hair back? Was I begging to time travel? I knew I wasn't asking for the party invitation, and yet that was what they heard.
One Skirt thrust the flyer into my hand. An ugly sneer shiny with lip gloss instructed me, "Don't dress like a prude, though, okay?"
With that, they disappeared, spiriting away my braided hair, into the maze of hallways. Hair I brushed one hundred times a night before bed and shampooed with organic natural ingredients. Hair I let fall in front of my face so I didn't have to make eye contact with the classmates on either side of me.
I reached a hand up to my head, palming neck skin and airspace I hadn't recently noticed. If ever. The back of my neck felt soft and downy, like brand-new. Like it hadn't been in the sun or wind or rain. Ever. The ridges on either side of my neck, the concavity between them, felt especially tingly, like the nerves there fired rapidly, trying to figure out what happened.
Hair fell against my chin in odd points, but the whole back of my head was a chopped-up mess of layers. I headed for the bathroom. I didn't know if I wanted to see the damage.
So fast. That happened so fast.
The bathroom door swung shut behind me, and I felt a storm of desolation threaten to cut off my air supply. Can't breathe. Can't breathe.
I leaned over the sink, unable to focus my eyes on the mirror's reflection. Choking. My heart raced. My stomach clenched painfully, leaden, and burned.
Sounds of crying filled the bathroom with sniffles and snorts and sobs and . . . for a moment, I thought I'd lost my tenuous grip on my sanity. No, it's not me.
I turned toward the stalls and my bag thumped against the paper towel dispenser. The sounds cut off as if the crier held her breath, knowing she wasn't alone. I opened my mouth. What do I say? "Wanna cry together?"
Instead, I ran from the bathroom and from the sadness that seemed to cling to me like a bad reputation.
I wasn't watching where I was going, because next thing I knew I was sprawled on the ground and Vivian-the-monster-cough-girl bounced up, trying to pull me to my feet. Then she coughed like she was giving birth to an alien. Ew. She wiped her mouth with her hand.
"I'm sorry. I'm always too much in a hurry. Can't sit still when I don't have to. Are you okay? I didn't hurt you, did I?" She gave the door a scathing look, as if it had gotten her in trouble on purpose.
I didn't answer, just nodded.
"You sure you're okay? I gotta get to chem lab--I'm so behind and there's a test today--but I can walk you to the office if you want to see a nurse? Are you sick?" She whitened, then backed away a little, as if the thought of illness scared her. I must look really terrible for her to give me that horrified expression.
Shaking my head, I simply turned away and walked out of school. Mrs. Harding, the school's ancient secretary, who had an amazing memory and name recall, shouted, "Stop! Jessica Chai, you do not have permission to leave school early today."
My step hitched and for a moment I wondered about breaking the rules. I didn't break the rules. Ever. But then, behind me, someone did me the favor of puking, hacking all over the reception desk, and diverted all attention from the front doors. From me. Maybe it was Vivian. Or the crier. I didn't look back. I didn't care. I needed out. Now.
I acted like a class-cutting pro. Screw it. I hiked toward the Metro bus stop. I will get myself home. Get home and fix it. Borrow a hat from my brother. A scarf from my mother.
If I'd had any idea what losing my hair meant, I wouldn't have gone to school at all that day.

CHAPTER TWO
"Jessica? Oh my good lord, what did you do?" The usual polite veneer flaked off my mother's voice because my appearance shocked her.
What's she doing home early?
I didn't have to turn around to imagine my mother's eyes bulging out of her head. The whites rolled back like a horse scenting smoke. I swallowed. She'll make this about her in . . . one . . . two . . .
"And I couldn't go with you to the salon? To see my girl become a beautiful swan? Who did you see? This isn't even a five-dollar discount cut." She peered at me like I was a circus sideshow. Her perfectly manicured nails bit into my upper arms as she twisted and jerked me around.
"It happened at school. For little-girl wigs." I'd been lying so long to my parents, before and after the divorce, about my life, that it never occurred to me to tell her the truth.
"Oh dear. Don't they know who you are? How did this happen? I kept my hair long until my senior year." She touched my head, my shoulders, as if trying to feel out understanding, rather than listening.
I know.
I shivered, unused to her touch. Unused to her interaction.
"This is a mess." She caught herself and backed up a step. Back into her own personal space. From there, she didn't touch me but ran her hands around the outside of my space bubble. The more she studied me, the more disappointed she seemed. "Did they pay beauty school students to do this, or the special education department? Atrocious."
"Mother." I blinked at the venom spewed in that single word. Atrocious? The hack job or me? I wasn't sure.
"Well, I'm sorry, but you did a nice thing and you should be prettier for it, not looking like a pile of . . ."
Insert excrement and wrinkled nose.
She brightened almost instantly. "I know. I will call Dmitry right now. He'll fit us in tomorrow morning and we'll get you red-carpet ready and go to lunch and shopping afterward for a fresh wardrobe."
"Tomorrow is a school day," I reminded her, trying not to dampen her enthusiasm too fast. So little about me made her happy.
"You can't go to school looking like this." She shook her head and vetoed scarves and hats and hoods. "I'll call in favors. We'll go now instead. Right now."
"But--"
"We'll buy a new dress too. Wouldn't you like that? You'll take a mental-health day tomorrow. Then you can go to the gallery fund-raiser with me Saturday night. It'll be fun."
Her latest paramour must be busy.
She didn't wait for me to say yea or nay. Simply dialed her cell and demanded to speak with Dmitry. Listening to her explain what happened to me, she made it sound like I was both a saint and a victim of a terrible crime. She didn't know how close she came to the victim part.
"We're set up for three o'clock. Shall I make dinner reservations at Allehambra's? Everyone's talking about their tapas, and the chef is supposed to be Michelin-star-worthy."
I didn't have time to respond, not like it would have mattered, before she dialed again. Then she whisked me toward the door with a "We have to hurry."
I had no idea who to expect. I'd never met Dmitry. Never been invited to my mother's sanctum of beauty and potions.
The floating notes of flutes and smooth piano played throughout the salon via live musicians stationed in the lobby. Marble, chrome, and glass made the salon seem both modern and like Ann Boleyn might have had her hair done here. Right before they beheaded her, of course.
I have also never, ever, heard a man cluck and fuss quite like this.
"Isn't it awful?" my mother commented under her breath, but loud enough to draw sympathetic glances from middle-aged women around us who wore diamonds to get their hair done. They shared her pain.

Also by Amber Kizer

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