Free 34 Pieces of You by Carmen Rodrigues

said, with zero hesitation. “Totally.”
    “Then no . . . I’m not mad.”
    Ellie smiled, her watery eyes suddenly dry. She lifted her hand, extending her pinky with a grand gesture. “So, friends?”
    I let her finger slip into mine. And when she gave it a hard twist, the disco lights casting a shadow across our linked hands, I pushed all doubt aside and said, “Friends.”

11.
     
    Y o ur Christmas card, the o ne with that cheerful picture o f y o u with your family l o unging b eneath a palm tree.
     
    Did y o u n o tice h o w much y o ur little girl l oo ks like me?
     
    It’s pr oo f, d o n’t y o u think?
     
    That n o thing b etween us is sacred, n o t even the m o st invisi b le lines.
     

Jake
    AFTER. FEBRUARY.
     
    Amber comes to my dorm room with her long hair in pigtails and boots on her feet. She doesn’t say hello or wait to be invited in. She simply sways on by. When I turn around, she’s leaning against my window, staring at me.
    She says, “I haven’t seen you in a while, kiddo. You never returned my texts, and Janie says you haven’t been to lit class in weeks . . .”
    I haven’t seen Amber since Ellie died. But I do vaguely recall the texts and e-mails she sent in December, a drunk-dial voice mail on New Year’s Eve, a Post-it note stuck on my door in January. “Who the fuck is Janie?” I ask.
    “She’s my roommate. She’s in your class. Anyway . . .” Hervoice rises lightly, like she realizes we’ve gotten off to a bad start. “Seriously, though . . .” She sets her jacket on the window ledge and sighs. “Have you gone into hiding?”
    She brings her eyes back to mine, but I can’t hold her gaze, because all I can see is that night, that final phone call with Ellie, and suddenly it’s hard to breathe.
    “You okay?” she asks.
    I stare at my feet. “I’m fine.” I pull my hands away from my temple and the headache that’s been there since I got back from Ohio.
    “To be absolutely honest,” she says, her gentle voice piercing, “I heard about your sister, and I thought maybe you needed someone to . . . you know . . . talk to about it.”
    I lift my eyes. She’s still watching me, her head resting against the windowpane. “What’s to talk about?” I ask dully.
    “I don’t know. When’s the last time you went to class? Any class?” She pauses. “You look like hell. When’s the last time you left this room?”
    “Why is that your business?”
    Her forehead wrinkles in surprise. She retreats a little then. Looks out the window at the street traffic below. It’s an all-too-familiar view. For the last few months I’ve missed class after class, lost in the monotonous lives of those tiny people, the fascinatingpredictability of the traffic lights as they change from green to red.
    Amber says, “I can see the bar we met at that one time. It’s right . . .” She extends her index finger toward something beyond the pane, and her voice fades away. Her hand falls to her side. “Do you ever think about probabilities?”
    “As in . . . ?” I reply, not quite sure where she’s going with this or why she’s even still here.
    “As in what are the chances”—she clears her throat—“of being hit by lightning twice? Or two planes crashing in one week?” She laughs hollowly. “Sometimes, I console myself with probabilities. Like if a plane crashes the week I’m supposed to fly, I say, ‘Well, thank God that’s out of the way.’”
    I don’t know what she’s talking about. Or why she’s now striding across the room, stepping over piles of dirty clothes and forgotten bags of take-out food. I only know I’d rather stand at the edge alone than be here with her.
    She stops beside a chair and stares down at a large cardboard box filled with letters, sketch pads, and pictures. She tilts the box toward her, her eyes raking the contents. “Ellie’s things?” she whispers.
    “Please, don’t.” Hearing her say Ellie’s name is too