The Thing About Leftovers

by C. C. Payne

  When I passed Keene in the upstairs hallway, he sort of grunted at me. I figured he agreed: I should get out of the house as soon as possible. As for me, well, I thought Keene should put on a shirt.

  • • •

  I felt much better outside. The sky was blue; the sun was shining; there was a cool breeze; and the birds were singing to each other, as if to say, Look what a pretty day! Nothing bad could happen on a day like this! I know! I know!

  The longer I was outside and the farther I walked, the better I felt. Maybe Coach Bryant was right—maybe fresh air and exercise really did help. When I started walking up the hill on Dahlia Drive, I thought of Zach. He was probably waiting for me on his porch, so I picked up my pace. But when I reached the top of the hill, I could see that Zach’s porch was empty. I slowed way down, taking tiny baby steps, to give him time to come out.

  I’d never really looked closely at Zach’s house before. It was made of rock and somehow seemed older than the houses around it. At first glance, it seemed smaller, too. But when I looked at the sides of the house, I could see how far back it went. It wasn’t any smaller than the other houses; it just didn’t want to be a show-off. I liked that about Zach’s house. I decided his house was my favorite.

  I walked the rest of the way to school as slowly as I could, all the while hoping Zach would eventually catch up to me. He never did, but that wasn’t the worst of it.

  I was late. Again. The hallways were all but empty when I entered, except for Mrs. Sloan, the—gypsy—guidance counselor. She saw me right away and made a beeline for me, her gold-coin belt jingling with every step.

  “Hi, Fizzy,” she said, smiling as if I were the person she’d most wanted to see this morning.

  “Hi.”

  “Looks like you need a tardy slip.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said to my shoes.

  “I could help you with that.”

  Relief mixed with gratitude flooded my heart as I looked up at her.

  “Tell you what,” Mrs. Sloan said. “You come to my office and chat with me for fifteen minutes or so and I’ll give you a tardy slip—an excused tardy slip.”

  I thought about this and then said, “But we’d just be chatting, right? I mean, it won’t be like . . . counseling.”

  “Right. We’re just two friends catching up. Come on,” she said, and I followed Mrs. Sloan to her office.

  She pulled out a chair for me at the little worktable.

  I just stood there, looking at it. “Um . . . isn’t that where you do the counseling?”

  Mrs. Sloan smiled. “Sit anywhere you want, Fizzy.”

  Unfortunately, I didn’t think I’d be allowed to sit behind Mrs. Sloan’s desk, so I had to sit at the little table. I had to. Mrs. Sloan sat down there, too.

  “So how was your spring break?” Mrs. Sloan asked.

  “Fine.”

  “Did you go anywhere?”

  “To my dad’s house.”

  “How was that?”

  “Fine.”

  “And now you’re back at your mom’s house?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “How’s that going?”

  “Fine.”

  Mrs. Sloan nodded, and then she seemed to think for a while.

  I waited. Tick-tock.

  Mrs. Sloan laced her hands together and placed them on the table. “Fizzy, I’m curious,” she finally said. “As a counselor, I can’t help but wonder what you have against counseling.”

  “Nothing,” I was quick to say. “I think counseling’s great. It’s just that I don’t need it.”

  “Because you’re fine,” Mrs. Sloan said.

  “Right.”

  “Do you think talking with me would somehow make you less fine?”

  I sighed. “What do you want me to talk about?”

  “What do you like to do when you’re not at school?”

  “I like to cook,” I offered.

  “Fantastic,” Mrs. Sloan said. “What do you like to cook?”

  “Anything. Everything.”

  “That’s wonderful. Do you cook for your family?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “What do they like for you to cook?”

  “Well, my stepmom likes my chili. A lot. My dad likes any kind of dessert, but especially my banana pudding. My mom likes my red wine vinegar chicken, and her boyfriend—I mean, her . . . um, husband . . . likes my lasagna.”

  “Wow. You do cook everything,” Mrs. Sloan commented. Then she asked, “Did your mom remarry recently?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “How do you feel about that?”

  Sick. Scared. Displaced. Lonely. My nose felt pinchy and my eyes watered, but still, I said, “Fine. I want my mom to be happy and she is, so that’s good.”

  Mrs. Sloan reached behind her, plucked a tissue from the box on her desk, and held it out to me.

  I blinked back the tears and sniffed. “No, thank you. I’m fine.”

  Mrs. Sloan withdrew the hand with the tissue in it. Her eyes pleaded with me. “Please, Fizzy, just talk to me. I can see that something’s bothering you. What is it? You can tell me.”

  “No, thank you,” I repeated.

  “I’ve already told you that you don’t have to worry about being polite here, so . . .” She shook her head and gave me a look, as if to say, What’s the problem?

  I sniffed again. “My mom says that when you talk about your own family behind their backs, it says more about you than it does about them—it tells people you’re disloyal.”

  Mrs. Sloan leaned back in her chair and thought about this. “I think that depends on where you are, who you’re talking to, and why. Talking to a counselor or a close friend, in private, isn’t the same as discussing personal matters at the local beauty salon for anyone to hear. We aren’t here to gossip or put others down or even prove them wrong.”

  “What are we here to do?” I asked.

  “We’re just here to talk through anything that might be on your mind, because two minds are better than one, right? Two minds are twice as likely to come up with a solution—to anything—right?”

  “Right,” I said, and then I looked at the clock. Six more minutes. “Two minds are better than one. So, what’s on your mind?”

  Mrs. Sloan laughed a loud, throaty laugh—it actually startled me. Then she said, “Well, let’s see . . . I’m a little worried about my cat. He’s sick, so I had to drop him off at the vet this morning. He hates the vet. And he hates me when I take him to the vet—he turns on me—see where he bit me?”

  I looked at the little teeth marks on the flap of skin between Mrs. Sloan’s thumb and forefinger. “Yikes. What’s your cat’s name?”

  “Judas.” Mrs. Sloan got up, went to her desk, scribbled out a note, and handed it to me—even though I’d only spent ten minutes with her.

  I stood. “Thank you.”

  “I want you to think about what I said, Fizzy. I know you’re fine. And very loyal. And talking with me doesn’t change any of that. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Come see me anytime you feel like talking. Anytime at all.”

  • • •

  When I walked into my math class that afternoon, my desk had moved. All the desks had moved, having been rearranged into columns instead of rows. Each desk had a slip of paper taped to the top right corner, with a list of students’ names next to their class period. After I found mine—which was nowhere near Miyoko’s—I scurried to read the labels on the desks in front of me and behind me.

  The desk in front of me belonged to Brian “Breakfast” Orr, while the desk behind me belonged to Mara “Motor-Mouth” Tierney. I thought of Brian as Breakfast because all he ever wanted to talk about was breakfast—what he ate that morning, what he was thinking of eating tomorrow morning, a
nd occasionally, he might ask about your breakfast. If you weren’t enthusiastic enough about breakfast, then Brian’s face would turn beet red and he would say, “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, you know!” But I was more enthusiastic about food than most, so we got along okay.

  As for Motor-Mouth Mara, well, I think her name pretty much tells you what you need to know. What it doesn’t tell you is that if you try to ignore Mara, she’ll take her index finger and tap your shoulder urgently until you’re tempted to turn your head and bite it off. Personally, I’d only been a victim of this twice, but twice was enough.

  Since Mara hadn’t arrived yet, I sat down at her desk, leaned forward, and stretched out my arm. Darn. My desk was within tapping distance of hers.

  “What are you doing, Mara?” someone said, from right behind me. It didn’t really sound like a question, more like an accusation.

  I froze, but allowed my eyes to wander to the two big feet stuffed into black high-heeled shoes that came to a stop beside me.

  “I said what are you doing?”

  “Nothing,” I said quietly, my eyes still on those strange feet—the skin was very white and the bulging veins beneath it were very blue, like miniature blueberries lined up beneath wax paper.

  “Well, stop it,” the owner of the blueberry feet said, moving past me, headed for the front of the room.

  Quickly, I got up and moved to my desk.

  As soon as I sat down, Brian—who’d arrived while I was trying out Mara’s desk—turned around in his seat and said, “Man, you wouldn’t believe the eggs Florentine I had for breakfast this morning!”

  I gave him a weak smile—I was still thinking about Mara and looking for Zach, whom I hadn’t seen all day.

  Ms. Mini-Blueberry Feet stood and said, “Good afternoon, class.”

  A hush fell over the room.

  She continued, “You’ll be pleased to know that your teacher, Mrs. Carter, has given birth to a healthy baby girl. She’ll be on maternity leave for the rest of the year, so I’ll be filling in for her.”

  I gave Miyoko a worried look across the room, which she returned.

  Our new teacher went on: “Please note where you’re sitting. This is your assigned seat and if you’re not in it when the second bell rings, you will be counted absent. Even if you’re here.”

  Everybody looked around, uncertain, as if to say, Can she really do that? That’s not fair!

  “Now then, my name is Mrs. Ludwig and this will be my first time teaching school. I’m a retired police officer from Washington State.”

  “Cool!” someone said.

  “Have you ever been shot?” someone else said.

  “As a matter of fact, I have,” Mrs. Ludwig said, coming out from behind her desk. She bent and pointed to a hole in her calf, just below the hem of her skirt.

  Maybe hole isn’t the right word. It was more like a big chunk missing out of her leg. But whatever you want to call it, it wasn’t pretty. I wanted to look away, but for some reason, I couldn’t.

  I was glad when Mrs. Ludwig moved back behind her desk and sat down, because I couldn’t concentrate on a word she was saying with that hole staring out at me.

  It turned out that Mrs. Ludwig had told us to stand up and introduce ourselves.

  When Brian sat down, I stood up and said, “My name is Fizzy Russo—”

  “It most certainly is not,” Mrs. Ludwig snapped.

  Huh? I just stood there, confused.

  “Your name is Mara Tierney,” Mrs. Ludwig said, “and you should know that I don’t appreciate pranks, Mara.”

  Mara’s hand shot up in the air.

  Mrs. Ludwig ignored her and said to me, “Please start over, Mara.”

  “Um . . . I’m not Mara,” I said.

  But Mrs. Ludwig was already shaking her head.

  “I’m Fizzy,” I said. “Really.”

  “She is,” Mara said. “I’m Mara.”

  “Out in the hall, both of you,” Mrs. Ludwig barked, rising from her desk. “Now.”

  Somehow, Mara straightened things out in the hall. I mean, I guess she did. She must have because I’m pretty sure I didn’t say anything. I was too busy staring at the hole in Mrs. Ludwig’s leg.

  Until I realized that Mrs. Ludwig was staring at me. “Ma’am?” I said.

  “I said, why were you sitting at Mara’s desk?”

  I glanced over at Motor-Mouth and realized that there was no nice way for me to answer that question—at least, not truthfully—so I said, “I don’t know.”

  “I know why,” Mrs. Ludwig said.

  I was so relieved that Mrs. Ludwig understood that I started to smile, but Mrs. Ludwig wasn’t smiling. Mrs. Ludwig looked like she wanted to arrest me. That’s when I knew she didn’t really understand. And she didn’t like me.

  “Um . . . have you talked to Mrs. Warsaw, the principal?” I asked, thinking maybe Mrs. Warsaw had told Mrs. Ludwig not to like me.

  “What? Of course I’ve talked to Mrs. Warsaw. She hired me.”

  Hired you not to like me? Yep, it was just as I’d thought.

  When class was over, Mrs. Ludwig stood by the door watching us file out into the hallway one at a time. When I passed by her, she handed me a sealed envelope and said, “Please give this to your parents, Fizzy.”

  Chapter 23

  “Well?” Miyoko said, squinting against the afternoon sun as we stood together on the sidewalk, just out of view of the school. “What does it say?”

  I folded Mrs. Ludwig’s note back up and put it in my pocket. “It says that I created a disturbance during math class today, that learning time is very valuable, and suggests a family discussion regarding these important matters.”

  Miyoko made a worried face and sucked in air through her teeth.

  I understood. I felt worried sick at the thought of “a family discussion regarding these important matters,” because a family discussion might include Keene.

  The breeze picked up and the sun moved behind a cloud as we started walking. “Are you going to your aunt Liz’s today?” Miyoko asked. “I’d love to go with you again sometime.”

  It had been a bad day and I was tempted, but, “No,” I decided out loud. “I’ve got too much homework, especially math.”

  “I know! I can’t believe it! What kind of substitute assigns this much homework?”

  “Officer Ludwig,” I said.

  Miyoko giggled.

  I wasn’t nearly as happy.

  Miyoko tried to cheer me up. “Have you heard from Southern Living?”

  “Nope.”

  “Maybe today’s the day.”

  “All I can think about is the letter I already have—from Officer Ludwig.”

  Miyoko nodded her understanding.

  I sighed and said, “Sing ‘Nenneko yo’ again.” “Nenneko yo” was a Japanese lullaby that Miyoko had told me her grandmother used to sing to her.

  Miyoko smiled knowingly and began to sing:

  Nenneko, nenneko,

  Nenneko yo,

  Oraga akabo no

  Neta rusu ni,

  Azuki wo yonagete,

  Kome toide,

  Aka no mamma e

  Toto soete,

  Aka no ii-ko ni

  Kureru-zo!

  It was a really good lullaby, I decided as we walked, because it made me feel a little calmer.

  “What does the rest of it, besides sleep, baby child, mean?” I asked.

  “The singer is saying that she will make some red beans, rice, and fish, and feed it to the best babies,” Miyoko said. “Now you sing it with me.”

  I was just getting the hang of it when Miyoko suddenly stopped singing.

  I turned and followed her line of vision to her house, which had just come into view: Miyoko’s mom was running a
round their front yard, yelling like a maniac.

  Miyoko and I slowed and exchanged nervous looks.

  It was only when we got a little closer that we realized Miyoko’s mom was chasing a dog. A dog that didn’t belong to the Hoshis. A dog with a shoe in its mouth.

  “Oh . . . it’s okay—this happens all the time,” Miyoko said. “My dad forgets to close the garage door and our neighbor’s dog comes over and chews up our shoes.”

  I couldn’t help smiling as I watched Mrs. Hoshi chase the big shaggy dog. When I realized Miyoko was looking at me, I sucked in my cheeks to stop the smiling. “Sorry. But it is sort of funny.”

  “I know—but it makes my mom really mad. I better go help her.”

  I nodded.

  Miyoko took off running, but before she could get to her mom or the dog, disaster struck: Mrs. Hoshi’s wraparound skirt had come untied, so that when she slipped and slid down the small hill in the Hoshi’s front yard, the skirt got left behind. When Mrs. Hoshi stood up—without her skirt—she was wearing big, white granny panties.

  Once on her feet, Mrs. Hoshi raised her fists, threw her head back, and let out a long, hair-raising scream. A face appeared in the front window of a house across the street. (Note to self: If you’re ever standing in your front yard wearing only big, blinding-white bloomers, do not scream.)

  Mrs. Hoshi turned and ran back up the hill, snatched her skirt out of Miyoko’s hands, and then stomped into the house.

  The sight of Mrs. Hoshi’s backside caused my mouth to fall open: There was extra padding sewn into the butt of her panties. Why? I wondered. Did she do really rough . . . sitting?

  Miyoko turned and offered me a sickly smile, shrugged, and walked toward the dog, who now stood in a far corner of the yard, still holding the shoe in his mouth and wagging his tail like, Get-the-shoe is best the game ever! Let’s play some more!

  I figured maybe I should help Miyoko—mostly because I felt bad about having seen her mom’s weird underpants.

  The dog ran around the side of the house and disappeared. Miyoko followed him. I followed Miyoko.

  As soon as I rounded the corner, a hand clamped down on my arm and held it. It was Miyoko, with her back flat against the house, so that no one—like Mrs. Hoshi—could see her out of their windows. Miyoko’s other hand covered her mouth as tears streamed from her eyes and her shoulders bounced up and down. I felt even worse about what I’d seen then—obviously, Miyoko was humiliated to the point of tears.