The Thing About Leftovers (13 page)

I woke up
to the sound of electronic screeching, thunder, and a heavy downpour of rain. I turned the sickening, screamy Genghis off, rolled over, and went back to sleep—because who in their right mind would get up and
out
in this kind of weather? It seemed like good thinking at the time, when my brain was still fuzzy with sleep—like my teeth.

Thirty minutes later, daylight must've registered with some primitive part of me that is still concerned with survival. Survivor-me apparently didn't like our chances of surviving another visit to the principal's office, so she alerted sleeping-me that there was a problem. I opened my eyes. My room was filled with dim blue-gray light, but I could see. I could
see
! “No, no, no! That
can't
be the time!” I told Genghis. Even if I started my morning with a run through the rain, I'd still end up in Mrs. Warsaw's office—for being tardy.

“It's all right,” Mom said when I came barreling out of my room, into the hallway. “Keene's going to drive you.”

I stopped short and blinked at her.

“He is always on time,” Mom promised. “Oh, and I hid the shoes you left in the kitchen yesterday in the cabinet under
the sink, if you need them.” She gave me a look like,
Didn't I tell you not to leave your shoes out?

I lowered my eyes and nodded.

I found Keene waiting for me in the kitchen, where I retrieved my shoes as quickly and as casually as possible. I slipped them on my feet and said, “Um . . . I'm ready.”

“Don't you need to eat something?” Keene asked.

“Oh no—I don't eat breakfast.”

Keene looked like he didn't believe me. “Cecily?” he called.

Mom practically came running. Of course.

“Fizzy says she doesn't eat breakfast,” Keene said in a very snitchy way.

Mom glanced at me and then explained to Keene, “She's never cared for breakfast—it's fine. She eats a good lunch, don't you, Fizzy?”

I nodded, even though this wasn't entirely true. Granted, breakfast has never been my favorite meal, but I used to like oatmeal with maple syrup back when I lived at home—and Mom and Dad lived there, too. But now I wake up with the homesickness in my belly and eating—especially oatmeal—just makes me feel sicker. As for eating “a good lunch,” I eat what the school cafeteria serves, so I guess it depends on your definition of
good
.

Keene gave Mom an unsure look, then shook his head, grabbed his keys, and said, “Okay. If you say so.”

• • •

Keene didn't say a word in the car, so we just sat there in total silence—like two strangers seated next to each other on
an airplane. Naturally, Keene's car was spotless—no straw wrappers or crumbs from fast food restaurants, no dirt on the floor mats, no dust in the vents.

As we rode, I thought about Zach. If he was still on his porch, I planned to lower the window and wave at him as we passed by, but Keene took a different route to school. One part of me hoped Zach had gone on to school without me, and the other part hoped he'd sit on his front porch waiting for me all day.

I thanked Keene for the ride when he dropped me off, and checked the clock as I entered the school hallway. Mom was right: Actually, I arrived at school seven minutes earlier than usual. Which just gave me extra time to dread math class.

At lunchtime, Miyoko and I couldn't find Zach, even though Miyoko said she'd seen him at school this morning. We decided he must be doing some kind of detention. I hoped to see him in math class—if I absolutely
had
to go to that.

I still didn't want to go to math that afternoon, because I figured the mere sight of me would remind Mrs. Ludwig to call my parents, but I went anyway—what choice did I have?

“I waited for you this morning,” Zach said as soon as I sat down at my desk.

I smiled and said, “I knew it: You missed me.
Bad.
”

The second bell rang and when Mrs. Ludwig entered the room, naturally, something horrible happened: a pop quiz on word problems.

To make matters worse, I was the last one out after class and I saw Zach and Buffy standing together in the hallway, talking. I did a double take and when I looked back at them, Buffy was
performing a perfect hair toss. Zach rewarded her with his crooked grin. I felt more than just a teensy bit nauseated.

• • •

When the phone rang that night, I ran to answer it. But it wasn't Aunt Liz or Dad—or, thankfully, Mrs. Ludwig.

Instead, Miyoko's voice said, “Okay, I can spend the night tomorrow . . . on a few conditions.”

“
Conditions?
” I repeated.

“Yeah,” she said, and then she started running down The Conditions.

“Hold on,” I interrupted. “I think I need a pen and paper.”

• • •

I stood at the edge of the living room, waiting for a commercial, as Survivor Steve said, “All survivors have three things in common: the ability to accept their situation, adapt to it, and move forward—quickly. More on that when we return.”

The commercial started: “Does your house smell like a litter box?”

Keene muted the TV, and he and Mom both looked at me expectantly.

“Um, Miyoko can spend the night . . . on a few conditions,” I announced.

“
Conditions?
” Mom repeated.

I nodded and read my list aloud:

1)
Miyoko is not allowed to watch TV, play on the computer, or use any electronics, because she's on restriction for the B she got on her English paper.

2)
Miyoko may go outside but we must stay together at all times, and we aren't to wander off.

3)
If Miyoko injures herself in any way, she must call home immediately.

4)
Miyoko is to be in bed no later than ten o'clock.

5)
She must be up, dressed, packed, and ready to go on Saturday morning by nine.

I looked up.

“Is that all?” Keene asked.

I nodded.

Mom turned to Keene. “What do you mean, ‘is that all'? Isn't that enough?”

Keene shrugged.

Mom turned back to face me. “Honestly, Fizzy, I don't know whether to laugh or cry—for myself or for Miyoko.” She shook her head. “I don't even know what to
think
.”

“Please, Mom,” I said, because I really wanted Miyoko to come.

“All right, I guess . . . but—did something happen when you were at Miyoko's house—was there some sort of
incident
?”

“No, ma'am,” I said quickly.

“Did you use your manners?”

“Yes, ma'am, I ate tofu and broccoli at dinner and everything.”

Mom did some thinking and came up with, “You didn't discuss private family matters, did you?”

“No, ma'am.”

“Then why do Miyoko's parents seem to think you're being raised by wolves—or nobody at all? I mean, ‘no wandering off'? And ‘if Miyoko is injured'? What's that supposed to mean?”

“Um . . . Miyoko has a tiger mom,” I informed her. I was tempted to add,
Also, she wears Big Booty Judy Bloomers
just so Mom would understand how NOT normal Mrs. Hoshi really is, but I didn't feel comfortable discussing panties in front of Keene.

Keene elbowed Mom to indicate that
Survivor Steve
was back on.

“Fine,” Mom said. “But you better start thinking about what you're going to cook for Miyoko, because a girl who's been eating tofu deserves a decent meal.”

“Yeah,” I said. “With sugar. And butter. And salt. Wait—so I get to cook? For Miyoko?”

Mom nodded.

“Take your shoes up with you when you go,” Keene said.

“Yes, sir,” I mumbled.

I was halfway up the stairs when Keene called out, “Oh yeah, you got some mail today, Fizzy. I put it in your room, on your dresser.”

My heart started hammering in my chest at the thought of mail—possibly from
Southern Living
!—and I rushed to my room. But it was only an advertisement, “a special offer” to subscribe to
Young American
magazine. I wadded it up and threw it in the trash angrily. Then I asked myself,
Why are you so mad?
Of course, I decided it was Keene's fault.

I didn't like it that Keene had come into my room when I wasn't here. And I didn't like it—still—that I'd had to give him my mailbox key. And my TV-watching spot. And my mom. And I
really
didn't like it that I was hardly allowed to do any cooking, and wasn't allowed to leave my shoes on the floor
as if I lived here
!

I searched my room for signs of snoopage. That's when I noticed a pair of panties lying on the floor, next to my hamper. Keene had seen my panties! On the
floor
! How awful!
At least they're normal panties and not Big Booty Judy Bloomers,
I told myself, but it didn't help.

I took a bath to try to calm myself. I wrapped my wet hair in a towel, put on my sleep T-shirt and shorts, and picked up my room so that nothing was left on the floor—except the furniture—and so that no one would see anything I didn't want them to see. Well, unless they were snooping, which would be wrong, very wrong—do you hear that, Keene Adams?

After that, I planned Friday's dinner: fried chicken with mashed potatoes and gravy, macaroni and cheese, buttermilk biscuits, and homemade peanut butter ice cream for dessert.

Then I got out my Keene lists. On my Dislike List, I added:

14) Sneaks into my room when I'm not around—Suzanne's mom was right: There is nothing worse than a sneak!

15) Took my TV-watching spot!

16) And also MY MOM!

17) Makes me feel like a guest—in my own home!!!

On my Like List, I—begrudgingly—added:

7) Is punctual.

But my Dislike List was still way longer than my Like list.
So there,
I thought.

Miyoko loved my house.
Well, okay, maybe not the house itself, but the absence of tiger mom inside it. And she loved the food. When we were all seated at the dinner table, the night of our sleepover, Miyoko closed her eyes, inhaled through her nose, and swooned a little. Keene said, “I just want you all to know that I'm willing to loosen my pants if I have to—for seconds.” As she ate, Miyoko gasped and moaned with pleasure. Keene responded, “I know, I know,” with a mouthful of food.

Miyoko said that being at my house felt like a vacation to her. I felt proud and told her she could come over anytime she wanted, and I didn't even think about ruining Miyoko's vacation spot by mentioning my guestness—or hers. I'd wanted her to feel at home and when she did, it gave me hope—hope that maybe I'd feel at home someday, too.

And hey, maybe someday I'd even get to meet my new baby brother.

• • •

But another three days passed, making it five whole days since my brother had been born, and I
still
hadn't seen him! I didn't know the first thing about him!

I was mad at Dad because he'd never called back to talk to me—or arranged for me to visit the baby and Suzanne in the hospital. I was mad at Mom because she wouldn't let me have my own phone I was sure Dad would've called if I'd had my own phone and he hadn't had to worry about getting stuck on the phone with Mom again.

And I was
really
mad at Aunt Liz, who hadn't been home when Miyoko and I had stopped by her house, and who hadn't called even though she'd promised.

When Mom gave me the message that Aunt Liz had—finally!—called, I decided to ignore her right back. Maybe I'd return her call in a few days. Or maybe not. Because it was obvious that when her new nephew had been born, Aunt Liz had forgotten all about her old niece, which was wrong, very wrong. And . . . well, I expected more of Aunt Liz, that's all.

I mean, ever since my parents' divorce, I felt like I'd lost a really important grocery bag, the one with all the important ingredients—for my life. Substitutions had then been made: new house, new neighborhood, new school, new friends, new stepmother, new stepfather, and now a new brother! These are all highly noticeable changes in the recipe of my life, which means they aren't good substitutions, because
good
substitutions aren't noticeable. But these were so noticeable, I felt like I'd been given someone else's ingredients, for someone else's life. But I just had to keep on living it—what else could I do?

And while I was living it, the one person I'd been able to count on—until now—was Aunt Liz. Through it all, Aunt Liz had stayed the same as always. Whenever she saw me, she
gave me the big smile that reached her eyes—even when she was busy—instead of that tired what-now? look I usually got from everybody else. Aunt Liz was
always
happy to see me. And I was always happy to see her because when I was with her, I felt the same as always, too: comfortable and right at home—
wanted
—
loved
. Sometimes when I was with her, I even forgot how I'd lost so many important ingredients. But now . . . well, Aunt Liz was probably saving the Big Smile for Baby Robert. I wasn't sure how I'd stand it if she ever gave me the tired look.

• • •

Zach walked up the hill to meet me that Monday morning.

“You're going the wrong direction—school's that way,” I said, pointing.

He grinned. “Wasn't looking for school.”

I felt shy all of a sudden, so I just nodded and we started walking—toward school.

After a few minutes I asked, “Do you ever feel uncomfortable in your house?”

“Uncomfortable how?”

“I don't know, like you're intruding or . . . interrupting or . . . like maybe you're not supposed to be there.” I was sorry I'd said it as soon as the words were out of my mouth. I risked a quick glance over at Zach while I waited for him to say something like,
No. That's weird. You're weird.

Zach's face had gone all serious. “Not anymore,” he said, “but I know what you're talking about: You feel like you don't belong.”

“Yeah,” I said, and I felt so relieved that someone understood, even a little bit, that I wanted to cry. But I didn't—and that's what's important.

“You belong,” Zach said, staring off into the distance, his jaw clenching and unclenching. “With me, you belong. Okay?”

“Okay,” I whispered, still trying not to cry. It took me the whole block to pull myself together. But I did it.

• • •

Just before math class ended that afternoon, Mrs. Ludwig handed back our word-problem pop quizzes. When she laid my quiz facedown on my desk, I knew I was in trouble. And I was right: When I turned my paper over, there was a big red D on it, next to the words
Parent Signature Required
. My stomach felt queasy as I considered my options. If I showed my quiz to Mom, I was sure she'd force Keene to help me with word problems. If I showed it to Dad, he'd be mad—plus, he was obviously too busy to help me with anything—or even remember that I exist.

My mood remained gloomy and doomy as Miyoko and I walked home together, even though it was a near-perfect afternoon, the sun moving in and out of poufy white clouds that made me think of meringue pies.

“What's wrong?” Miyoko finally asked.

“I got a D on my math quiz
and
I have to have a parent sign it.”

Miyoko winced and sucked in air through her teeth.

“Thanks a lot,” I said. “What'd you get?”

Miyoko ducked her head and admitted, “An A.”

I slapped my forehead with the heel of my hand. “Right. Duh.”

“But I have to get As. I
have
to, Fizzy.”

I knew she meant because of her tiger mom.

“Hey,” Miyoko said. “Maybe we could stop by Aunt Liz's house and she could sign your quiz for you.”

I shook my head.

“She wouldn't do that?”

I shrugged. “Probably not, but I'd have to go to her house and ask to find out for sure . . . and I'm never ever going there again as long as I live.”

Miyoko frowned. “Fizzy,” she started, and I could tell that she was about to try to talk some sense into me. I hate it when Miyoko tries to talk sense into me, because she's usually right. I don't want her to be right; I mostly just want her to be on my side.

Someone yelled, “Hey! Fizzy! Miyoko! Wait up!”

We both turned.

Zach was jogging to catch up. When he slowed to a stop in front of us, Miyoko said, “You don't have to stay after school today?”

“Nah,” Zach said, sounding a little disappointed.

Miyoko gave me a puzzled look; she'd heard the disappointment in Zach's voice, too.

“You don't
like
staying after school, do you, Zach?” Miyoko said.

“Why not?” Zach said. “Sitting in the air-conditioning doing homework that I'd have to do anyway beats sweating it out in the heat
and then
doing homework.”

“So that explains it,” I told Zach. “You said it's best for everyone if you just say whatever the adults want to hear, but you never say what Mrs. Ludwig wants to hear—because you
want
her to keep you after.”

“Yeah, I guess it depends on what you're trying to accomplish,” Zach said, smiling. “My social worker says that I use good and bad behavior equally to get what I want—she says that's my way of taking back some control over my life.”

“Oh,” was all I said.

Zach continued, “She also says that I have trouble with some authority figures . . . but I like old Ludwig . . . and she likes me.”

“Ludwig does
not
like you,” Miyoko informed him as we all started walking.

“She doesn't like me either,” I added so he wouldn't feel as bad.

Zach grinned some more. “Y'all are wrong. She likes me.”

“How do you figure?” I said, because I knew Ludwig didn't like
me
—and I didn't cause her half the trouble Zach did.

“Think about it,” Zach said. “If she didn't keep me after school every day, she could go home. But she doesn't. She stays. With me. So she must really enjoy my sparkling personality.”

Miyoko and I laughed.

Zach added, “
And
she drinks soda after school, which she shares with me—come to think of it, y'all are right: She doesn't like me; she
loves
me.”

“I can't even picture that!” Miyoko said, still laughing.

Then I got serious. “Well, I'm not sure if Mrs. Ludwig likes you . . . but we all know Buffy Lawson definitely does.”

Zach rolled his eyes. “So?”

“So you don't like her at all?” Miyoko said like she didn't believe him.

I
wanted
to believe him. But it was hard.

“Nah,” Zach said. “I've known lots of Buffy Lawsons—there's at least one at every school. You two, on the other hand, are originals—much more interesting.”

Miyoko and I both smiled at the compliment.

Zach stepped off the sidewalk, into his front yard.

Miyoko and I just stood there gaping. The bushes! Great gravy! The bushes around Zach's house had been cut down to sad little nubs. Their chopped-off limbs and leaves were scattered all over the place. I felt like I was looking at a botanical crime scene—a very violent one.

Zach followed my line of vision, looking behind him, and then said, “Oh. I did that. Yesterday.”

“Why?” I asked. I mean, it just seemed like such an angry thing to do to bushes. After all, what could the bushes possibly have done to Zach?

“I wanted to play basketball with some neighbors,” Zach said, “and my grandmother said I could, after I finished my chores. But when she told me what all I had to do, I knew I wasn't going to get to play—I knew it'd be dark before I was done. It's
always
dark before I'm done.”

I just kept staring at those poor bushes.
How had I missed them this morning?
I wondered. Then I remembered: Zach had met me at the top of the hill and by the time we'd passed his house, I'd been busy with Operation Don't Cry.

“Gran should've just said no when I asked to play basketball, you know?”

“But how . . .
w-why
?” Miyoko stuttered.

Zach shrugged. “I had to mow the grass and trim the bushes . . . so I made sure the bushes wouldn't need trimming again for a long, long time.”

“Did you get to play basketball then?” I asked.

“No, and now I'm grounded. Not that it makes any difference—I get chores when I'm good and chores when I'm bad,” Zach said.

“You're like Cinderfella,” Miyoko said.

Zach grinned. “Nah, Gran and I just have different life philosophies, that's all.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Gran grew up on a farm, so her idea of good parenting is no shenanigans and lots of chores,” Zach explained. “I like lots of shenanigans and no chores.”

Miyoko and I laughed.

The front door opened then and Zach's gran appeared. “Zach! Chores!”

Zach nodded and gave us a look like,
See? I told you.
“Later,” he said.

Miyoko knelt on the sidewalk and retied a loose shoelace.

I waved at Zach's grandmother.

She didn't wave back, and when Zach passed her in the doorway, she smacked him on the back of his head.

Yikes.