The Magic of Missing Pieces

Missing Piece #4: Part of Teddy

At the sight of Teddy Mascon’s leg — well, the shock of its absence — most of my mental clarity vanished. I must have blinked and stared, like the rude little freak I am, because he pulled half of himself behind the door and lowered his head in an unmistakable glare.

“What do you want?” he snarled.

“Y-you said to catch you sober sometime,” I said.

“What, on Saturday?” he asked.

Dread nestled into my throat. “Um, yeah.”

He blanched. “Shit, I was that drunk? I knew I blacked out, but fuck. What else did I say?”

“Nothing! Nothing personal. Trust me, I was trying to get you to —” To open up.

“To what?” he laughed. “Sleep with a high schooler?”

His memory loss was real. “I’m not a slut. You said so yourself. Come on, I bring tidings of cookies, not sex.”

“Whatever. Just get out of here.”

The disgust contorted my expression before his words even finished computing. “You walked me home from the party. I’m thanking you. I’m trying to be nice. Neighborly. Friendly. Ring any bells?”
   
“Clearly not. Go home and do your homework, kid.”
   
I set my foot against the door. “You’re only three years older than me, Teddy Mascon. We grew up together on this street. Now eat the damn cookies.”
   
A car door slammed. His eyes snapped down to the neighbors’ place, and he beckoned me closer, where the hedges would hide me.
   
“If you’re not gonna leave, get inside before someone notices.”
   
“Notices what?” Was he ashamed to be seen with me? Was my reputation that bad?
   
“My fucking leg, kid. My lack of leg. Get in.”
   
I froze. He’d been so mean, I couldn’t go into his house alone with him — even if it was a pastor’s home. His dad preached at the Methodist church downtown. Did that mean it was safe?
   
He noticed my fear and rolled his eyes. “Oh come on. What am I gonna do? Hit you with my prosthesis?”
   
I frowned. “Would that qualify as hitting or kicking?”
   
“Shut up,” he said, hopping away from the door. “My mom will be back any minute.”
   
Still I hesitated. If he were Mike, I would never have gone in alone. If he’d had both legs, I might have been more afraid.
   
I closed the door behind me. “Can I put the cookies in the kitchen?”
   
He grunted. “Fine. Look, you’ve brought the cookies. Can you please go now?”
   
A flare of rage blurred my vision. “You know what? I think I’m gonna sit my fine ass down on the sofa right over here.” I plopped down across the room from him. The place was spotless except for a cluttered coffee table where Teddy had stacked books, dishes, a laptop, a game console, several bags of chips. The console was a PS1. Crash Bandicoot games were stacked beside it. Cute.
   
“What else did we talk about?” he asked. “On Saturday.”
   
I played with the hood pull on my shirt. “I found out you suck at flirting. When you’re drunk, at least. And then you got on my case for skinny dipping, even though you know it should be on everybody’s bucket list.” Not a completely accurate summary, but close.
   
He snorted. “I’m betting you don’t say that to fat guys.”
   
I sharpened my glare. “You calling me shallow? Is the body all you’ve got going on, then?”
   
Shit. Why’d I say body? Why not abs, or physique? And why admit I was interested?
   
Because I was obvious, anyway.
   
Teddy shot me an amused look. “I still got this going on?” A smirk tugged at his lips.
   
Defensiveness dictated my next sentence, but it came out as a challenge. “You tell me.”
   
Whether all of the implications sewn into that landed, I don’t know. The door opened and Teddy’s mom came bustling in with groceries. So I jumped up to help.
   
“Mock-she!” Mrs. Mascon said. “I don’t think I’ve talked with you since you were as tall as me!” 

“I just brought over some cookies for Teddy.”
   
“Teddy, you answered the door?”
   
“Actually, she broke in,” he said with a straight face.
   
“He thought I was you,” I explained.
   
She noticed his leg. “Wait, is your —”
   
“She knows,” he deadpanned. “Happy, Mom?”

She shoved some cans into the pantry. “He doesn’t want anyone to know how heroic he is, does he?”

What the fuck do you want? Go home and do your homework, kid. Oh yeah, Clark Kent incarnate. “I guess not.”
   
“Would you like to stay for dinner? Oh, you have to take a pineapple.” She motioned toward the cabinets, which were lined with pineapples. “They’re leftover from a church event, so we’re using them for thank yous to neighbors who bring nice things.”