The Thing About Leftovers

by C. C. Payne

  “I said I didn’t know.”

  “Anything else?” Zach said.

  “Yeah, I gave her a really juicy tidbit about you.”

  Zach looked at me expectantly.

  “I told her you’re . . . nice,” I said.

  Zach laughed, and then Miyoko and I did, too.

  “So,” Miyoko said hesitantly, “did Buffy ask you to eat lunch with her again tomorrow?”

  I looked at her. “No.”

  Miyoko kept her eyes on the sidewalk and said only, “Oh.”

  I gave her a little bump with my shoulder. “And I wouldn’t eat with Buffy again even if she begged me.”

  Miyoko smiled and gave me a little bump back.

  “She’s boring, right? See? I told you,” Zach said.

  “‘Boring’ isn’t the first word that comes to mind,” I told him.

  “What is?” Miyoko wanted to know.

  I thought about it. “Scared. And mean.”

  “Oh, man, that is a bad combination,” Zach said.

  Chapter 18

  Sadly, Mom and Keene’s April wedding day arrived without incident. Since I’d been allowed to invite one guest to the wedding, Miyoko and I sat together that Saturday morning in the haze of perfume and hairspray that filled Mom’s “dressing room”—which was really a Sunday school room at church. As I watched everybody from makeup artists and hairdressers to friends fuss over Mom, I asked, “Do any of y’all know how to cover up freckles?”

  “You don’t like your freckles?” Miyoko said.

  I turned and gave her a look that told her that was just about the dumbest question I’d ever heard. “How would you like it if you had these all over your face?” I asked, pointing.

  “I’d love it,” Miyoko said, “but I’ll help you hide them if you want me to.”

  “You will? . . . Right now?”

  Miyoko nodded and eyed the makeup artist’s kit sitting on the table next to us.

  I felt like a cake being frosted, but when Miyoko finished slathering makeup on my face, I couldn’t see a single freckle! Okay, so my face wasn’t the same color as the rest of me, but the important thing was that my freckles had completely disappeared.

  “This is great,” I said, looking in the mirror attached to the lid of the makeup kit. Note to self: Makeup is a mini-miracle. Get some.

  Mom didn’t really get a good look at me until her bossy friend Eulalie walked her down to wait outside the doors of the church sanctuary, where I was already standing. But when she did, Mom gasped and her eyes bulged—it was a good thing Eulalie was there because she kept Mom from walking face-first into a column.

  I smiled brightly and nodded at Mom, as if to say, I know! It’s shocking how much better I look without the freckles, isn’t it?

  Just as Mom opened her mouth to say something to me, Eulalie grabbed my elbow and pulled me toward the sanctuary, speaking urgently. “It’s time. Now remember: Step together, step together, step together—slowly.” Then she shoved me through the doorway and down the aisle.

  • • •

  I stood in my silvery-purple satin dress next to Mom while she and Keene said their vows to each other. When they finished, the preacher said, “You may kiss the bride.” So Keene did. He kissed Mom right there in church, in front of everybody—and we’re not talking about a little kiss; we’re talking about a big, long, disgusting, spit-swapping kind of kiss. I couldn’t believe it! Yuck!

  Just when I thought things couldn’t possibly get any worse, the preacher said, “Ladies and gentlemen, it is my great honor to introduce to you, for the very first time, Mr. and Mrs. Adams.”

  Mrs. Adams? Who was Mrs. Adams? That’s when I realized my mom was Mrs. Adams. We didn’t even have the same last name anymore! I mean, I knew that wives usually took their husbands’ last names, but I hadn’t exactly done the math here—I hate math.

  My nose and eyes stung as I watched Mr. and Mrs. Adams walk hand in hand up the aisle and out of the sanctuary. I felt like a stranger to them, somebody on the outside looking in—a pitiful face pressed against the glass—instead of part of their family. But I hadn’t really expected to be part of the Adams family, had I?

  At least I wasn’t the only one who was no longer Mom’s family. At least I had Dad, Aunt Liz, Uncle Preston, and the entire Russo family to keep me company on the hacked-off branch of the family tree.

  The preacher touched my arm lightly and motioned for me to follow Mom and Keene.

  • • •

  Miyoko was waiting for me by the double doors to Fellowship Hall, which is the fancy name for the cafeteria in the basement of our church. I could hear a piano being played and the hum of people talking all at once inside, where Mom and Keene were having their wedding luncheon.

  “Hey,” Miyoko said, smiling. “You looked great up there—not a freckle in sight.”

  I wanted to tell her that she looked great, too. Miyoko wore a deep-eggplant-colored dress that showed off her beautiful, freckle-free skin and dark shiny hair, which was pulled up into a perfect ballerina bun. But I felt too tired to talk. Suddenly, all I wanted was to go home, climb into bed, and pull the covers up over my head. But I couldn’t.

  Miyoko followed me through the buffet line to the kids’ table. Since we were the only kids there, it was just the two of us. I don’t belong, I thought to myself again as we sat down.

  Miyoko bit into a cheddar cheese cube and watched me.

  I stared at the rubbery-looking chicken on my plate. I wasn’t hungry.

  “What’s wrong, Fizzy?” Miyoko finally asked.

  I didn’t even know where to begin, so I shook my head and said, “I just want normal parents, you know?”

  Miyoko only blinked at me.

  So I explained, “You know, normal parents, who have the same last name as me and don’t kiss in public—in church! It’s just so weird. They’re so weird. It’s embarrassing.”

  Miyoko nodded, leaned over the table, and whispered, “My parents aren’t exactly normal either.”

  I know, I thought, but I didn’t say it, didn’t react at all.

  “Really,” Miyoko said, like maybe I didn’t believe her. “Do you know any other family who fills all their outdoor pots and planters with fake flowers and plants every spring?”

  I raised my eyebrows.

  Miyoko continued, “Do you know any other family who keeps all their shoes lined up in the garage?”

  I didn’t know anybody else who did that, but I didn’t know anybody else who had as much white in their house—including some white carpet—as the Hoshis did either.

  “At my mom’s house, we keep our clothes in the laundry room,” I offered.

  Miyoko smiled. “There’s only one thing we can do.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Eat cake.”

  It was really good cake.

  I’d worked so hard on it and the cake had turned out so pretty—with pale purple icing and delicate, deep-purple violets. Beneath the light and airy icing, which I’d whipped until both arms ached, was a chocolate cake so moist, it clung to the fork. It melted in my mouth. Mmmmmm.

  • • •

  When the reception was almost over, I went upstairs with Miyoko to wait for her parents. I hadn’t realized how noisy the reception was until I left it behind, and felt relieved by the quiet.

  After Miyoko was gone, the thought of going back downstairs, facing the new Adams family, all the people who were here to celebrate it and expected me to celebrate, too—not to mention the noise they made—filled me with dread. So I didn’t go back down to the party right away. Instead, I lay down on the wooden bench and watched dust float in the sunlight streaming through the stained-glass window above me. Because being lonely alone isn’t nearly as bad as being lonely in a crowd.

  Chapter 19

  In the c
ar on the way home from the wedding reception, Keene kept saying stuff to Mom like “Just think, Cecily, by tonight, we’ll be on the beach, just the two of us!” and “I can’t wait to have you all to myself for a whole week! I can’t wait!”

  Mom said stuff like “I know” and “Me too.”

  I felt invisible. Except to the sun, which blasted through the back window like it was aiming for me. There were no visors I could flip down in the backseat. Also, the air-conditioning never quite seems to make it back there. Might as well get used to it, I told myself, because somehow I knew I’d always end up in the backseat with Mr. and Mrs. Adams. So I sat there getting used to it, letting sweat—mixed with makeup—drip down my neck. We all went back to the town house to wait for Dad to come pick me up. I’d be staying with him and Suzanne over spring break while Mom and Keene went on their honeymoon and then moved Keene into our house.

  Mom and Keene were still busy unloading their wedding presents when I walked into our cool, dark house. I looked around, wondering what the town house would look like nine days from now. Mom had already told me we’d have to move some of our furniture out to make room for Keene’s stuff. Suddenly, I loved the horse painting in our entrance hall, our comfy blue couch, our dining room table, and all the things we had that I’d never really paid attention to before.

  I wondered what else would change, besides our house. Would our routine change? Would there be new rules—again? Would someone explain them to me, or would I have to figure them out by trial and error—again? How many errors could I make before Keene got really good and mad? What would happen then? Would Mom be on Keene’s side? Always? Sometimes? All these thoughts and fears started spinning in my head, crashing into one another and exploding outward. I felt dizzy. And headachy. And sick.

  But one thing was certain: Something had already changed. My house felt different, and I was suddenly uncomfortable in it.

  Good thing my suitcase was already packed.

  • • •

  Despite the heat and humidity—it felt more like late May than April—I dragged my suitcase out onto our small front porch to wait for Dad, and then remembered I hadn’t checked the mail today.

  I was still standing by the mailboxes, shuffling through our mail, when Mom came up carrying a stack of boxes wrapped in whites and silvers and golds. “That reminds me,” she said. “Fizzy, I need you to give your mail key to Keene.”

  “Why?” I said.

  “Because we only have two keys . . . and Keene needs one.”

  “But I need one, too,” I said, “to get my letter from Southern Living—it could come anytime in the next few weeks.”

  “We’ll make sure you get your mail,” Mom said in a very final way. Then she moved on: “Don’t you want to change out of your dress?”

  “No, thank you,” I said. “I’m fine.”

  “Well, at least wash your face—your father won’t appreciate the makeup and it’s a bit of a mess now anyway.”

  I knew she was right about that, so I followed her into the house, angrily tossed the mail and my key onto the table in the entrance hall, and stomped off to the bathroom.

  The cold water felt soothing on my face and neck. Even so, when I looked at my clean freckled face in the bathroom mirror, I almost cried. Freckles are just such a disappointment! I couldn’t get out of there—away from the mirror—fast enough.

  I bumped into Mom while fleeing the bathroom. “Sorry,” I mumbled to my clicky wedding shoes.

  Mom placed a hand under my chin and lifted my face. “Much better,” she said.

  When our eyes met, it took everything I had not to burst into tears. I was going to miss her, and it was more than just the honeymoon. I felt like I was going to be missing her for a very long time. I felt like I was losing her, like I’d already lost her—like my mail key.

  Mom kissed me on the forehead, and then said, “I’m going to change.”

  I know, I wanted to say, but instead, I hugged her—tight.

  • • •

  Less than a minute later, I was back outside, on the porch, waiting for Dad to pick me up.

  Keene came out to get the last load of presents.

  “What if I need Mom?” I blurted.

  “Hmmm?” Keene said, looking around like he’d forgotten I was there, as he mopped his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief.

  “What if I get sick or something while you and Mom are away, and I need you to come home?” I asked. All he had to say was, If you really need us, we’ll be there.

  Keene shook his head and chuckled to himself as he stuffed the hanky back into his pocket—gross! “Oh no, you don’t,” he said, smiling like we were sharing some sort of inside joke. “We’re not going to miss a minute of our honeymoon, not a minute, not for anything.”

  So something—big—had already changed. Even last week, my mom would’ve been there for me if I’d really needed her, but now . . . well, I was on my own, wasn’t I? Is this what happened to Zach? I wondered. Is this how he ended up “on his own”? And “slick”?

  “You’ll be fine, Fizzy,” Keene said as he trotted down the steps.

  I decided that Keene Adams didn’t know the first thing about being a good friend. Good friends don’t completely ignore you, and they don’t forget about you either. Good friends are there when you need them, no matter what.

  Dad’s car pulled to the curb.

  I yanked my suitcase so hard that it tumbled down the steps and I all but ran for the car.

  As we drove away, I watched Keene walk back up to the house. He never even turned his head. I mean, I could’ve been kidnapped and he wouldn’t have known or cared! We’re not going to miss a minute of our honeymoon, not a minute, not for anything, I heard him say again in my mind, and I believed him. I really did.

  “You clean up good,” Dad said in a teasing voice as he glanced over at me.

  Usually, he said this to me on Sunday mornings, when I came downstairs dressed for church. And usually, I answered him, “Yes, sir, I take a bath once a week, whether I need it or not.” Then we’d both laugh. (Don’t worry; I really take a bath every day. Really.)

  But today I didn’t respond, just stared out the window without really seeing anything.

  “So your mom and Keene tied the knot, huh?” Dad said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Silence.

  “Fizzy?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “You okay?”

  “Fine,” I said, because I knew Dad couldn’t help me with any of this, not even if he wanted to. And anyway, I knew he didn’t want to. Dad didn’t know Keene. And he didn’t want anything to do with Mom, just like she didn’t want anything to do with him. That’s why they’d divorced. That’s why they had untied the knot, because they didn’t want to be tied together anymore.

  Of course, there was still a little knot holding them together: ME! I would always be the knot that tied two people who really, really wanted to be untied. When I realized this, I wondered how they could even love me. I wished I could untie them and let them go, because I loved them and I really did want them to be happy. I really did. But I didn’t know how to do that.

  I squeezed my eyes shut like I could make the truth go away by refusing to look at it.

  “Are you tired?” Dad asked.

  If I couldn’t untie him, I figured the least I could do is keep my Mom-problems to myself. “Yes, sir,” I said. “I’m fine, just tired.”

  “Me too,” Dad said.

  Chapter 20

  I saw Suzanne’s stomach before I saw her. She was lying on the couch looking like she might be trapped underneath it.

  “Wow,” I said. I didn’t mean to. It just slipped out because, great gravy, that thing had gotten huge! It’s true that Suzanne was going to have a baby . . . although, come to think of it, she had been eating a lot of ice cream la
tely. A lot. For a few seconds, I wondered if maybe Suzanne’s belly was really just full of Choc-o-Chunk—her favorite ice cream—because if so, that belly was a real accomplishment and . . . an expense (food is money, Mom says). But I decided there was probably a baby in there—swimming in melted ice cream.

  “I know,” Suzanne said. “Wow is right. I’ve really popped! I’d get up but . . .” She looked at her belly, then at us, and with her eyes she seemed to ask, How?

  “No, no, you just relax,” Dad said. “I’ll get dinner started.”

  I turned to stare at Dad like he was an alien, like he’d said, “I’m from the planet Crotuplkniat,” instead of “I’ll get dinner started.”

  “What?” Dad said when he noticed me looking at him like that.

  “Nothing,” I said quickly. I risked a quick glance at Suzanne.

  She smiled and winked at me like we shared a secret, and I guess we did: We both knew that Dad didn’t cook.

  “Maybe Fizzy could help you,” Suzanne suggested.

  I nodded.

  “Sure,” Dad said. “What do you feel like having?”

  Suzanne thought about it and then said, “Chili.”

  Dad’s eyes widened. “Suzanne . . . Suze . . . honey, it’s eighty-five degrees outside.”

  “Soooooo?” Suzanne said, drawing the word out, making it sound like a dare.

  Dad cleared his throat. “So chili will be perfect . . . won’t it, Fizzy?”

  “Perfect,” I repeated, wondering who in the world this guy was. I mean, he looked like my dad, and he sounded like my dad, but he sure didn’t act like my dad.

  Like I said, for starters, Dad didn’t cook—had never even tried to cook as far as I knew. Also, I’d never known him to back down on a dare or an argument or anything like that. And lastly, if Dad thought it was ridiculous for his family to eat chili in April, I would’ve bet that nobody in his family would be eating chili. Period. But suddenly, I had no doubt that we would all be eating chili on this hot April evening, including Dad. Weird.