The Thing About Leftovers

by C. C. Payne

  4)While I am allowed to speak to or see any family member almost anytime, it’s best if I play along according to the above rules. In other words, it’s best if I don’t say too much about the side of the family that no longer exists to whomever I’m with. So, usually, it’s easiest if I don’t say too much of anything at all. Otherwise, I have to think—and carefully sift my thoughts—before I speak. For example, I can say to Mom matter-of-factly, “We went to the zoo this weekend.” But it’d be a mistake for me to gush, “Dad took Suzanne and me to the zoo and he bought me a stuffed leopard!” There is a world of difference between those two sentences. One is acceptable; the other will ruin the rest of the day.

  Of course, nobody’s ever actually explained these A.D. Rules to me, but they exist as surely as both sides of my family, believe me. So Mom actually speaking to Aunt Liz about personal stuff meant that Mom was desperate. Desperate to marry Keene, desperate for everyone to be okay with it, just desperate. I knew then that Mom was probably going to marry Keene Adams. And it made me . . . angry.

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “Do you think I’m smart?”

  “Of course,” Aunt Liz said.

  I lifted my chin. “Keene doesn’t think so.”

  “How do you know?”

  I hesitated. Then I lowered my head and confessed, “I can hear everything that goes on in the living room through the vent in my bedroom.”

  “I see,” Aunt Liz said evenly, and somehow I knew she was trying not to react. When I looked up, Aunt Liz’s lips were all puckery but her eyes were laughing.

  I felt a little encouraged, so I explained, “After Mom introduced Keene and me for the first time, I went upstairs to my room.”

  “And?”

  “I could hear Mom through the vent, trying to convince Keene what a great kid I am—like I heard her say, ‘She’s really smart,’ and stuff like that.”

  “What did Keene say?” Aunt Liz asked.

  “He said that all parents think their kids are smart, but if they really were, we’d have a world full of geniuses.”

  “I see,” Aunt Liz said. “Well, there’s some truth in that, Fizzy, but it doesn’t mean you aren’t smart. It just means that Keene will have to decide that for himself. And I’m sure he will.”

  I bit my lip.

  “Anything else?”

  “He doesn’t believe I can win the Southern Living Cook-Off,” I said.

  “That’s not going to be a problem, since you are going to win,” Aunt Liz said, smiling.

  I shook my head. “Also, Keene doesn’t want my mom to love me anymore . . . so she’s probably going to stop soon.”

  That’s when I think Aunt Liz started to get it because she frowned and said, “I need you to explain that to me, Fizzy.”

  I uncrossed my arms, leaned across the table, and whispered, “I once heard Keene ask Mom if she loves me more than she loves him.”

  “What did your mom say?”

  I sat back and shrugged. “She just said that I’m her daughter and he’d understand when he had a child.”

  “That’s true,” Aunt Liz said. “Did Keene say anything else?”

  “He lowered his voice so I couldn’t make out the words. But I could tell from his tone that he was sort of . . . I don’t know . . . mad maybe—he wasn’t happy, that’s for sure.”

  Aunt Liz scowled for a split second, but I saw it. Then sleet began pinging the windows and she twisted around to look. By the time Aunt Liz returned her attention to me, she was wearing her pleasant little smile again.

  I tried to give her a pleasant smile back but, honestly, I wasn’t feeling all that pleasant anymore.

  • • •

  Because of the sleet, and because Mom was running late, I stayed and ate dinner with Aunt Liz and Uncle Preston. “Dinner” was a variety of completely unrelated foods that Aunt Liz and I had cooked that afternoon. But leave it to Aunt Liz to pull any meal together with the perfect theme—or a garbage-bag tie.

  As soon as Uncle Preston arrived home from work, Aunt Liz announced, “We’re having an Around-the-World tasting menu tonight, courtesy of the Southern Living Cook-Off!” Uncle Preston looked very impressed, and he’s not an easy guy to impress—he’s literally been around the world many times on his business trips.

  We’d just started in on the desserts—a French apple tart and a German combination of ice cream and hot fruit sauce called Eis und Heiss, which means “ice and hot”—when the doorbell rang.

  Aunt Liz went to answer it while I put on my coat and grabbed my backpack. Uncle Preston stayed with the desserts.

  When I stepped out onto the front porch, Mom said, “Hi, sweet pea. Go on out to the car. I’ll be right there.”

  I did as I was told, while Mom and Aunt Liz stood talking under the cover of the front porch, hugging themselves and rubbing their arms against the cold.

  When Mom finally came rushing out and got into the car, she didn’t look at me, and I could tell she was sort of upset. She slammed the door shut, shook the icy rain off her coat in an agitated way, and put on her seat belt. Then she backed out of the driveway and started home, all without looking at me—still. That’s when I thought maybe Aunt Liz really had understood. Maybe Mom understood now, too. Maybe she wouldn’t marry Keene after all.

  I watched the windshield wipers scrape back and forth in rhythm.

  When we were almost home, I said in a voice barely loud enough to be heard, “Mom, I don’t want Keene to come to Parents’ Night.”

  “All right, all right,” Mom said, as if I’d told her this forty-three times already, when I hadn’t even said it once.

  Mom parked, pulled the keys from the ignition, and turned to me. “Fizzy, you are my daughter. That means I’m always going to love you. Always. No matter what. Do you understand?”

  I shrugged.

  Mom continued, “There’s nothing you or anyone else could ever do that would make me love you any less.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Okay?” Mom said.

  I nodded. “Okay.”

  I did feel a little better. I felt like I’d been heard. And maybe even understood.

  Maybe.

  Chapter 10

  The sun was shining on Thursday morning and the sleet was gone, which improved my mood if not the temperature—still cold. As soon as I reached the top of the hill on Dahlia Drive, Zach Mabry jumped off his porch swing and started waving like crazy.

  I looked around but didn’t see anybody else, so I raised one hand in a weak wave, so as not to be rude—just in case he was waving at me.

  Zach pounded down the steps to the end of his walkway and waited. For me? I wondered. He’d abandoned his usual jeans and lace-up boots, in favor of khaki pants and loafers.

  When I was close enough to hear him, Zach said, “Mind if I walk with you?”

  I shrugged. “No, I don’t mind.”

  “I’m Zach,” he said as he fell into step beside me.

  “I know,” I said. Even though, like me, Zach was new to Lush Valley Middle School this year, unlike me, everybody knew who he was because of Buffy Lawson’s crush on him.

  “You’re Fizzy,” Zach said.

  “Yep, I know that, too,” I said.

  Zach chuckled.

  I glanced over at him. Buffy was right to like him: Zach was cute with his messy blond hair, icy-blue eyes, and lopsided grin.

  “You sure do walk to school early,” Zach commented.

  “I can’t be late,” I said. Again, I thought.

  Zach nodded and we walked the rest of the block in silence.

  Again, he held the door open for me at school, and again, I said, “Thank you,” as I passed through it.

  Zach hurried into the building behind me. “Come with me,” he said. “This way.”

  I looked up at the
clock in the hallway.

  “We’ve got time. C’mon,” Zach insisted.

  I followed him into the cafeteria, where some kids arrived early and ate breakfast, up the center aisle, and to the counter.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Hunt. You sure do look nice today—I think you’re the only woman I know who can really pull off a hairnet,” Zach told the lunch lady.

  Mrs. Hunt smiled at him.

  “This is my friend Fizzy,” Zach told her.

  “Hello, Fizzy,” Mrs. Hunt said.

  “Hi, Mrs. Hunt. It’s nice to meet you,” I said.

  Mrs. Hunt held up her index finger as in, Just a minute, and disappeared into the back.

  I looked at Zach.

  “Just wait,” he whispered.

  Mrs. Hunt returned with two steaming hot chocolates topped with mini-marshmallows in Styrofoam cups and handed them to Zach. “Y’all go on now. Hot chocolate’s supposed to be for faculty only.”

  “Thanks,” Zach said.

  Mrs. Hunt smiled, nodded, and said again, “Y’all go on now.”

  “Wow,” I said to Zach as soon as we were out of earshot.

  He grinned his lopsided grin. “Imagine what I could do in cool clothes.”

  “Cool clothes?” I repeated.

  “Yeah . . . like black leather. I probably wouldn’t even have to talk if I was wearing black leather—because my clothes would tell everybody how cool I am.”

  I laughed. “If that’s true, then I need some black leather, too—no one around here seems to recognize my coolness.”

  “I do,” Zach said.

  I smiled, certain that was because of my new walker status.

  • • •

  Lush Valley has more of everything, so naturally Lush Valley Middle School has more of everything, too. Where my old school just served lunch, LVMS serves breakfast and lunch, and where my old school had only one picture day per year, LVMS has two picture days: one in September and one in January. But I’d stopped paying attention to the announcements about picture day at school years ago. What difference does it make? No outfit is going to hide my freckles.

  But nobody else felt that way, apparently. So today everyone looked very . . . matchy-matchy for pictures. Even Zach Mabry in his khakis and loafers. Even Miyoko, who wore a sweater set with a plaid skirt, matching plaid headband, and shoes with little plaid bows on the toes. It was the shoes that were a problem.

  When Miyoko reported to gym class, Coach Bryant took one look at her shoes, shook his head, and said, “If that’s all you’ve got, you won’t be able to play kickball with us today, Meryoko.”

  Does he ever get anybody’s name right? I wondered.

  Miyoko turned and looked at me with pleading eyes, as if she hoped I could yank gym shoes out from under some other girl’s feet—like her ruby marble.

  “I forgot my gym shoes, too,” I said to Coach Bryant.

  Coach Bryant didn’t look surprised. “Fissy, how is it that you always remember your coat and your book, but never your gym shoes?”

  I didn’t exactly have an answer handy.

  Coach Bryant opened his mouth to say something more—probably about the reports Miyoko and I owed him—but when Miyoko sniffed, he closed it again.

  We both looked at Miyoko, who hung her head and sniffed again.

  “Oh . . . no . . . don’t . . . uh—” Coach Bryant stammered. Then he looked at me like, Help.

  “Maybe she just needs some fresh air,” I suggested.

  “Yeah,” Coach Bryant immediately agreed. “Come on outside with us and get some fresh air at least.”

  Now, Coach Bryant couldn’t very well take “Meryoko” outside and send “Fissy” to the library, could he? I mean, that wouldn’t be fair.

  Miyoko and I were headed for our candy-apple tree when Buffy started snickering with her friends and I heard Christine say, “Miyoko.”

  I was going to ignore them but Miyoko stopped immediately and turned to face the girls.

  They all stopped what they were doing, too, and looked at her like, What?

  Suddenly, Miyoko’s hands chopped through the air. “Hiiiiyaaaah!” she shouted. Then she did a little kicky thing.

  My eyes practically popped out of my head. I could hardly believe what they were telling me. Was pretty little Miyoko Hoshi about to hurt somebody? I could tell that Buffy and her followers were wondering the same thing. They all went completely silent and still—except for their shifty, nervous eyes and a couple of gulps.

  Miyoko turned away from them and walked toward me.

  When we reached the tree, I whispered, “Do you know karate or something?”

  “No,” Miyoko said, “but I know how to pretend I know karate.”

  I burst out laughing. Then Miyoko did, too. We both fell all over ourselves laughing.

  When we began to settle, I said, “Maybe you could teach me some pretend-karate.” I had lots of uses for pretend-karate: at school, at home . . . well, okay, it would only work once at home, because Mom would tell Keene that I didn’t actually know any karate . . . unless I did. Maybe I could take real karate lessons!

  Chapter 11

  Aunt Liz and I were the ones running late on Thursday evening. It turned out that making individual cheese soufflés— a possibility for the Party Starters category of the cook-off—was a little more time-consuming, complicated, and difficult than we’d thought. We’d stirred and whipped and beaten our hearts out. We’d even made little tinfoil collars for our soufflés, to keep their heads from spilling over and running down the sides of their cups. And when we finally put them in the oven, we’d kept a close watch. They’d risen to form perfect little golden peaks. So we pulled them out of the oven. Right away, the peaks sank back down into the cups, even as I commanded them, “No, no, no, no, no—don’t do that!”

  Aunt Liz gave me a sympathetic look.

  “Can we put them back in the oven?” I asked her.

  “Afraid not. They’re done for. We’ll have to start over tomorrow.”

  My heart sank soufflé style as a car horn honked twice—beep! beep!—outside.

  For once, I was glad that Mom had been running late, too—because she doesn’t like to hang around Aunt Liz’s house waiting for me. We went straight to school.

  I left Mom at my homeroom door and headed for the gym, where all the students were gathering. I skittered past our music teacher, Mrs. Gita, before she could see me—and place me—and placed myself next to Miyoko on one of the three risers.

  Miyoko smiled and said, “She’s not going to let you stay here—you’re too tall.”

  “We’ll see,” I said. Then I scanned faces, looking for Zach. He wasn’t there yet.

  Zach was the last student Mrs. Gita placed on the risers. When she stepped back to look, I bent my knees to make myself the same height at Miyoko.

  It worked. Soon the gym was filled with singing. Once, Zach caught me staring at him, but I looked away—quick. Twice, we practiced the songs we were going to sing for our parents to end Parents’ Night. Then parents started showing up.

  Now, the best part of the actual performance—for me at least—was when Buffy Lawson fell off her riser. I mean, one minute she was standing there singing, and then SPLAT! She was on the floor! I didn’t dare look at Miyoko, but I grabbed her hand and squeezed like, Great gravy! She squeezed back like, I know!

  A few teachers and other adults rushed forward to see to Buffy, while Mrs. Gita’s hands continued dancing up and down as she stood in front of us. Keep singing, she mouthed. Keep singing! So we did.

  Mrs. Sloan—the gypsy guidance counselor—helped Buffy to her feet just as our last song ended. The gym exploded in applause. I’m pretty sure Buffy thought the applause was for her because she smiled a shy smile and waved at the audience. Yeah, right. I mean, when you get up out of bed in the mor
ning, do people clap for you? No, because let’s face it: The ability to stand up isn’t exactly awe inspiring.

  • • •

  I’d just said good-bye to Miyoko and her parents and was looking for Mom when Christine Cash came up to me chewing pink bubble gum like it was her only purpose in life. (I’m not allowed to chew gum because Mom says it isn’t ladylike.)

  Christine said, “Is it true that Miyoko Hoshi is a black belt in karate?” Chaw. Chaw. Chaw.

  I started to smile but caught myself, and instead met her eyes with my own very serious ones. “Yeah,” I said. “She knows three ways to kill a grown man instantly with her bare hands—they’re like . . . weapons.”

  Christine’s eyes flew open wide and she gasped. Then she had a little coughing fit—she’d nearly choked on her bubble gum.

  “Um, are you okay?” I asked.

  “Fine,” she said before she scurried away.

  Note to self: Chewing gum is not only unattractive, it’s dangerous!

  I spotted Mom by the piano, talking with Mrs. Gita. I made my way over to them and then wished I hadn’t. Mom was trying to sell Mrs. Gita advertising in the newspaper!

  Here’s the thing: It was Mom’s job to sell advertising in the newspaper and that was fine. The problem was that she was always trying to sell advertising, even when she wasn’t at work. Whenever Mom met somebody new, her first question was where they worked and how the company advertised. It was pretty embarrassing.

  I gave Mom a look like, Please stop.

  “Fizzy, how would you like to take piano lessons?!” Mom said enthusiastically, as if she were offering me a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

  “Um . . . I don’t know,” I said, giving Mrs. Gita an apologetic smile.

  “We’ll discuss it—I’m sure Fizzy would love piano lessons,” Mom told Mrs. Gita.