The Thing About Leftovers

by C. C. Payne

  I also wished I had a kitchen like hers. For me, there is no better place on earth than Aunt Liz’s kitchen. It’s big and roomy, but somehow still feels warm and cozy. There are lots of windows and plants and cookbooks; the walls are the color of butter, and it always smells sweet, like there’s a cake in the oven. I’m considering filming my TV show there.

  As usual, while Aunt Liz went to work fixing a snack for me, I picked up the kitchen phone and dialed my mom’s office.

  “Cecily Russo,” my mother chirped.

  “Hi, Mom,” I said. “I’m at Aunt Liz’s house.”

  “All right. How was your day?”

  “Fine,” I said, because this is what I say every day, no matter what.

  “Just a sec,” I heard my mother say in a muffled voice that let me know she had covered the phone with her hand and wasn’t talking to me.

  I waited for a few seconds and then asked, “Red wine vinegar chicken again tonight?” I was hoping—hard—that she’d say no.

  “No, I don’t think so. . . . Yes, I know—I’ll just be a sec,” Mom said.

  “Are you talking to me?” I asked.

  “Yes, you: no chicken,” Mom said as I heard the door to her office click closed in the background.

  “So I get to cook?” I perked right up at that possibility.

  “Uh, no . . . I’ve invited Keene to join us for dinner, so I’ll be cooking,” Mom said.

  Keene Adams is my mom’s boyfriend and I hate it when he comes to dinner. For starters, it means that I don’t get to cook, and that’s just for starters.

  “Oh,” I said quietly. “Well . . . maybe I could just stay here.” I looked over at Aunt Liz, wearing a question on my face.

  Aunt Liz nodded.

  “Did she invite you to stay?” Mom asked, because she’s always worried about me inviting myself places, which I never do, except with Aunt Liz and she doesn’t mind.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Yes, what?” Mom said.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said, because Mom is big on ma’ams and sirs and pleases and thank-yous, and manners in general.

  After everything was settled and I’d put the phone back, I shucked my coat and sat down at Aunt Liz’s kitchen table. Aunt Liz placed a tall glass of sweet tea and a Benedictine sandwich in front of me—Benedictine is a thick spread made from cream cheese, cucumbers, onions, and mayonnaise that was created right here in Louisville, at Benedict’s Tea Room.

  I smiled. The fact is I could probably live on sweet tea alone, but I could surely live on sweet tea and Benedictine because . . . well, sweet tea is sweet tea, and Benedictine tastes so light and clean and fresh, like spring in your mouth! Yum!

  “Thank you,” I said.

  Aunt Liz nodded as she sat down across from me and seemed to wait for me to say more.

  “Keene is coming to dinner,” I announced, crinkling my nose.

  “I kind of figured that,” Aunt Liz said, smiling. Then her face went all serious as she leaned over the table and asked, “Why don’t you like him, Fizzy?”

  I shrugged.

  “I bet he likes you,” she offered.

  “He doesn’t,” I informed her.

  Aunt Liz’s dark eyebrows knitted together above her pretty nose. “What makes you think that?”

  No way was I going to tell her. No way. What if I told her and then she agreed with Keene? What if Aunt Liz stopped liking me?

  Aunt Liz’s face relaxed as she leaned back in her chair. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

  I took a bite of my sandwich.

  “Okay,” Aunt Liz said, picking up the magazine again and flipping through the glossy pages. “Recipes must be mailed by February fifteenth. Each recipe will be tried in the Southern Living test kitchen and finalists will be notified by mail no later than June first.”

  I swallowed and said, “I want to get my recipes in as soon as possible . . . so they can try them and get back to me—quick.”

  “That doesn’t mean they will,” Aunt Liz said. “Even if they like them, they’ll have to compare them against thousands of other entries.”

  I took another bite of my sandwich.

  “There are five categories in the cook-off,” Aunt Liz read aloud from the magazine.

  I chewed and nodded for her to go ahead.

  “The categories are Your Best Recipe, Family Favorites, Southern Desserts, Healthy and Good for You, and Party Starters.”

  “I’m entering all of them,” I informed her.

  Aunt Liz smiled and nodded like she’d known it all along. Happy, excited feelings filled the kitchen, and I wished I could stay . . . forever.

  Chapter 3

  I call my Sports Illustrated alarm clock “Genghis,” as in Genghis Khan, dreaded emperor of the Mongol Empire, who once said, “I am the punishment of God . . . If you had not committed great sins, God would not have sent a punishment like me upon you.” Believe me, Genghis is a terrible punishment who came disguised as a birthday present from my mom’s boyfriend, Keene. Genghis might as well punch me in the stomach to wake me up every morning, because I always feel sick when he starts screaming. That Friday morning was no different. But then, I feel sick a lot.

  The sickness started when Mom and I moved to Lush Valley last May—right after school let out, and after Mom and Dad’s divorce was final. Since Dad got the house in the divorce, we had to move. But the sickness didn’t start right away. No, at first, I’d been happy. Being in a new place seemed exciting, adventurous, almost like a vacation. But after a while, the excitement wore off. It was like that time at the fair when I’d had my fill of funnel cake and cotton candy and I’d ridden the Tilt-A-Whirl one too many times: Suddenly all the hot, sweet scents made me feel pukey and I just wanted to go home. Then and now. I missed my dad, my old house, my old neighborhood, my old friends, my old school—everything. That’s when the sickness came.

  And even though my parents had lived apart for more than a year by then, and even though they didn’t seem to like each other—at all—I still told myself that they’d eventually get back together. And then I’d get to go home. I even believed it. I believed it right up until my dad got remarried last August—and I think Mom might’ve believed it, too, because I saw tears well up in her eyes when I told her that Dad was getting married.

  But now I understand that my parents aren’t ever going to get back together. I blame my dad’s new wife, Suzanne, for this. Oh, sure, I know Dad’s at fault, too, and at first, I blamed him and Suzanne and was mad at them both. But it’s hard to stay mad at someone you love the way I love my dad. Suzanne, on the other hand . . . well, I’ve been able to stay mad at her just fine. (The family counselor we saw—a few times—explained all of this and said it was completely normal for me to blame Suzanne, even though none of it was Suzanne’s fault or Dad’s fault or Mom’s fault. He said that no one was at fault. Over and over again. But I figure it has to be somebody’s fault—because I’m pretty upset.)

  Anyway, this morning when Genghis started screaming at me, I sat up in bed, reached over, and gave him a good, hard WHAP! I eyed the clothes hanging on my closet door. I knew they weren’t the “right” clothes, but even so, they were the right clothes for me. Well, except for the same plain jeans that Mom’s been buying on sale at the end of each season for my entire life. I’ve tried to show Mom the error of her ways, but she just says stuff like “Things aren’t important and what other people think about our things certainly isn’t important. People are important, and we only moved to Lush Valley because it’s the best school district!” I’m pretty sure nobody else around here thinks that way—Lush Valley is often called “Luxe Valley” due to all the large, luxurious homes here. We don’t live in any of those. We live in a small, two-bedroom town house, with one full bathroom upstairs—which I share with Mom—and a half bathroom downstairs.


  I dragged myself out of bed and found Mom blow-drying her hair in the bathroom.

  When she saw me, she turned the dryer off and said, “I’m running late.”

  My stomach did a Tilt-A-Whirl. “What happened?” I asked.

  “What do you mean?” Mom said.

  “Why are we running late? Why are we always running late?”

  Mom stiffened. “I’m doing my best, Fizzy. I’m trying to be the best mother, housekeeper, saleswoman, girlfriend, and friend I know how to be. It takes extra effort—and time—to be the best at one thing, let alone five things. It’s hard. And I don’t appreciate being questioned by my own daughter.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry,” I said, and I felt relieved when Mom turned the blow-dryer back on.

  • • •

  I hurried through the empty hallway as fast as my legs would carry me even though I knew I was too late. Again.

  I was right: When I reached my homeroom, the door was locked. I could see Mr. Moss and the rest of my science class through the little slice of window in the door, but when I knocked, Mr. Moss merely glanced at me, shook his head at the boy sitting nearest the door, and went on teaching. That meant I had to go down to the principal’s office. Again.

  Mrs. Warsaw, the principal, seemed to be waiting for me. She wore a tight look of disapproval and a navy skirt suit with pearls. When she saw me, she uncrossed her bony arms, said in a clipped voice, “Come with me, please, Elizabeth,” and took off walking.

  I followed her into her office and sat down when she pointed at a chair.

  Mrs. Warsaw harrumphed into the seat behind her spotless desk and opened a folder. “Elizabeth, do you realize this is your ninth tardy?”

  “No, ma’am,” I said.

  Mrs. Warsaw looked up from the folder. “Well, it is,” she said, like I didn’t believe her.

  I believed her. Really, I did. “I’m sorry,” I said.

  Mrs. Warsaw sighed. “Why are you late?”

  I thought about this. “I . . . I don’t know . . . but my mom says she’s doing her best.”

  Mrs. Warsaw’s eyes narrowed. “Are you trying to blame your mother for your tardiness? Perhaps I should call her.”

  “Please don’t do that,” I said quietly. “She’s very busy.”

  Mrs. Warsaw looked satisfied as she slapped the folder shut.

  I tilted my head back and blinked at the speckled rectangles on the ceiling. I was trying to use gravity to force back the tears in my eyes, because I don’t cry in public. Sometimes I want to, but I don’t do it.

  “Did you just roll your eyes at me, young lady?”

  “No, ma’am,” I said quickly, jerking my chin down to stare at Mrs. Warsaw through shocked-wide eyes.

  “Well. From now on, Elizabeth, I expect you to be on time. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Get yourself an alarm clock. And use it.” Mrs. Warsaw stood. I didn’t bother telling her about Genghis, which was just as well, as she continued, “You’ll receive a tardy slip on your way out.”

  I pressed my—unexcused—pink tardy slip against the window so that Mr. Moss could see it when I knocked on the door. Again.

  • • •

  An hour later, during English class, a note arrived with my name on it and it turned out that the guidance counselor, Mrs. Sloan, wanted to see me.

  Mrs. Sloan looked up from her messy desk when I knocked—at least I think there was a desk under there somewhere—and smiled like she was downright thrilled to see me. “Come in, Fizzy,” she said. “Come right in.”

  Mrs. Sloan was the opposite of Mrs. Warsaw: She had long, wild, curly gray hair and wore loose layers of clothes over her soft curves, with lots of big, bold jewelry—something about her made me think gypsy.

  I did as I was told and shut the door behind me—so that no one would see me in the guidance counselor’s office.

  “Please sit down,” Mrs. Sloan said, coming out from behind her desk and motioning toward a small round table with three chairs.

  “No, thank you,” I said. “I don’t . . . um . . . need to be here.”

  Mrs. Sloan’s eyebrows moved up but her smile stayed put. “And why is that?”

  “I don’t have . . . you know . . . problems.”

  “Everybody has problems,” Mrs. Sloan said easily.

  “I don’t,” I insisted.

  Mrs. Sloan perched on the edge of her desk. “You don’t think you have any problems? Do you think that’s a problem?”

  “Are you trying to make problems for me?” I asked. “Because I don’t need that—I already . . .” I stopped talking and dropped my eyes to the cheerful area rug.

  “Already have enough problems?” Mrs. Sloan guessed. “That’s okay. Everybody has problems. We can talk about it—maybe I can help.”

  Out of desperation, I blurted, “I’ve already seen a family counselor and he said that I’m a perfectly healthy, perfectly normal girl who just needs time to adjust.”

  “Great,” Mrs. Sloan said. “And how do you think that’s going?”

  “Fine. I’m fine. It’s all fine.”

  “Then why can’t we talk about it?” Mrs. Sloan asked.

  I gave her an exasperated sigh. “Because that wouldn’t be polite . . . or ladylike.”

  “So, a polite lady doesn’t . . . ?” Mrs. Sloan held up her hands, shrugged, and waited for me to finish her sentence.

  I huffed, “Doesn’t finish other people’s sentences, doesn’t discuss unpleasant or private stuff, and doesn’t get all . . . emotional—because that makes other people uncomfortable.”

  The smile slipped from Mrs. Sloan’s face as she drew back, surprised. For a few seconds, she just stared at me like I was a new species she’d never before encountered. Then she nodded her understanding.

  I turned to go.

  “Fizzy?” Mrs. Sloan said as my hand closed around the doorknob.

  I looked at her.

  “This is one place you don’t have to worry about being polite. You don’t have to worry about anyone else’s feelings or discomfort. You can say whatever you want without fear of judgment or consequences. And nothing you say will ever leave this room.”

  “I’m fine,” I said. “Tell everybody.” And then I went back to class.

  For the rest of the day, I wondered what I might’ve said or done that had resulted in Mrs. Sloan sending for me. The tardiness was all I could come up with. So I knew I couldn’t be late to school anymore.

  Chapter 4

  I barely cried at Aunt Liz’s house that afternoon—we’re talking one tear, maybe two, max, slipped from my eyes as I sat at her kitchen table spilling my guts—and very little else.

  “The principal, Mrs. Warsaw (sniff), hates me,” I told Aunt Liz. “I mean, she really hates me. She hates me so hard and so much that I’m pretty sure even if I jumped in front of bus or something to save her life, she’d still hate me.”

  Aunt Liz gave me a sympathetic little smile and said, “I’m sure she doesn’t hate you, Fizzy.”

  “She sicced the guidance counselor on me. I think.”

  “Oh,” Aunt Liz said. “What did the guidance counselor say?”

  “Just that I could talk to her.”

  “Doesn’t sound very attack dog–like.”

  I shrugged. “She was nice, I guess—nosy, but nice.”

  “So you talked to her?”

  “Not exactly—mostly I just explained to her about manners.”

  “Manners?” Aunt Liz repeated.

  “Yeah, you know, how you’re not supposed to talk about private family stuff outside the family, or whine and complain about things, or get all emotional and scream and cry and snot all over yourself—because it’s not polite.”

  Aunt Liz laughed.

  �
�I don’t think Mrs. Sloan—the guidance counselor—is from Lush Valley.”

  Aunt Liz laughed again, but her face was serious when she said, “Fizzy, sometimes it’s very helpful to discuss family and feelings. Believe me, people do it every day.”

  “Yeah . . . in places like California. I watch TV, too.”

  Aunt Liz smiled and shook her head.

  “And, anyway, I have you to talk to.”

  Aunt Liz reached across the table, covered my hand with hers, and said, “You do. Always. Please remember that, Fizzy. But if you ever want to talk things over with your guidance counselor, I think that’s okay, too.”

  “Well, I don’t. So I can’t be late to school anymore.”

  Aunt Liz took her hand back and thought about this. “You know, you could walk to school in the mornings just like you walk home in the afternoons—it’s the same distance no matter what the time of day.”

  Why hadn’t I thought of that?

  “I bet that would help your mom, too.”

  Right again.

  For a minute I just sat there wondering why I hadn’t walked both ways from the beginning. I guessed riding with Mom in the mornings was a habit that had followed us from our old house, our old life. Mom used to drop me off at my old school in the mornings—I rode the bus home with my friends—but she hadn’t worked back then, and my school hadn’t been anywhere close to home. Things had changed.

  Then I thought about how walkers are much cooler than car-riders—nobody looks cool being dropped off at school by their parents. I mean, car-riders might as well arrive caged or leashed for all the choice they have in the matter. But walkers? They could leave the house and go anywhere. Walkers decide to come to school. Plus, nobody knows for sure if walkers even have parents—parents are very uncool—and if they do, well, nobody has to see them. Yeah, I definitely wanted to be a walker, I decided. Tick, tick, tick, whispered the old wall clock. I looked at it: four o’clock.

  I shot up out of my chair. “Oh! I have to go home and pack! It’s Dad’s weekend!”

  “Right—just let me get the recipes,” Aunt Liz said, jumping up and rushing to the island, which was littered with cookbooks and cards and pens and highlighters.