The Thing About Leftovers (15 page)

I felt my whole head go hot, like someone had lit a fire under my chin. I was burning with anger and hurt and shame—not to mention stinky perfume—but mostly anger. I mean, for someone to actually say that Keene
lets
me live in my own home? I was there first! As far as I was concerned, it was very sweet of
me
to accept a man that wasn't my father and let him live with
me
!

I slammed my book shut, got up, and went looking for Mom.

The closer I got to the grill, the more people I saw eating cheeseburgers. Then I spotted Mom, who was just about to take her first bite of one.

I marched right up to her and blurted, “I need to go home.”

Mom removed the cheeseburger from her mouth, set it down on her yellow plastic plate, and exchanged uh-oh looks with Keene.

Uh-oh is right,
I thought. I was prepared for an argument. In fact, I was prepared to repeat what I'd just heard, and
not
quietly.

But I didn't get an argument. Instead, Mom handed her
plate to Keene, wiped her mouth, and said, “I just have to get my purse, okay?”

Mom thanked Hadley for having us and told her that I wasn't feeling well.

Hadley gave me a pouty look and said, “Bless your wittle face.”

I gave her the squinty eyes.

• • •

Keene stayed at the reunion while Mom and I went home.

Once we were in the car, on our way, Mom said, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No, ma'am,” I said as a lone tear slipped out of my eye and streaked down my cheek. I swatted it away with the back of my hand.

Mom nodded and kept her eyes on the road.

By the time we arrived home, I understood that I truly was a guest in my own home. That the roof over my head wasn't really mine, and that the man who considered it his was unrelated to me, not responsible for me, had no obligation to me, and didn't love me—he'd said so himself. And people knew it, felt sorry for Keene, and thought he was “sweet” to tolerate me—
sweet!

Knowing this made me want to leave, but where else could I go? Maybe I could stay with Dad and Suzanne. Maybe poor Suzanne would be “sweet” and tolerate me. Maybe. But what if Suzanne wasn't feeling so sweet? What if she was tired and cranky from all that awful colic? Or what if she let me move in, but then she
got
tired and cranky and changed her mind later?

What if Keene changed his mind? Could I quit school, get a job and an apartment? I would do it now if I could—that really seemed like the best option for everybody—but I was pretty sure there were laws against it. So what if neither Keene nor Suzanne could stand me for one more second?

Would I be . . .
homeless
? Sent to live with strangers in foster care, like Zach?

I didn't know, but I figured I'd better clean up my act. No more Ds. And no more Bs either. I had better start being
perfect
—like Miyoko.

I guessed it was because we were alone in the house—for once!—that Mom finally decided to let me have my own sort of family reunion.

I'd just crawled into bed when she came into my room, lugging a box marked
Photo albums.

“Thank you,” I said.

Mom set the box down on the floor and nodded at it. “Make a place for this in your closet or something—I don't want them left lying around.”

“Yes, ma'am,” I said.

But still, Mom stood there wringing her hands and looking worried.

I sat up. “I understand that you don't want Keene to see them. I'll make a place for them right now.”

Mom exhaled. “Thank you,” she said, and then she left, closing my door behind her.

I worked for a solid hour, making room for the box in my
closet. But before I slipped it into its new space, I pulled out an album and sat down on my bed with it.

On the very first page was a photo of Mom, Dad, Gamma and Grampa Russo, Aunt Liz, Uncle Preston, and me, taken at our house on Christmas morning. It was the last Christmas morning we would all be together, but I'd had no idea and it showed: The ten-year-old girl in the snowflake pajamas bubbled over with joy. I actually remembered
being
her, feeling exactly the way she felt: full to bursting with the happiness of all my favorite people and foods and things. And then I realized I would never feel that way again.

Suddenly, I felt like I was looking at a picture of dead people. And I sort of was, because none of us were the same people we'd been that day, especially not me.

Below that was a shot of me gleefully opening a gift. Mom and Dad both faced me, but they looked at each other, smiling little secret smiles, the way they used to whenever I did something they enjoyed. With their eyes, they said to each other,
Isn't this great?
Or,
Isn't our girl cute?
—or
funny?
—or
smart? Are you seeing this? Yes. Great. Cute. Funny. Smart.

But Mom didn't give Keene—or anybody else—those secret, knowing looks now. Keene surely didn't give them to Mom. Dad and Suzanne didn't share happy glances either—at least, not over me—maybe over Baby Robert. Apparently leftovers just aren't that great or cute or funny or smart.

I felt something wet on my shirt. It was only then that I realized I was crying. For that unsuspecting little girl in the
snowflake pajamas. I felt as though I were watching her have the time of her life, in the middle of the street, with a big truck speeding straight at her. I wanted to warn her. And then I didn't want to warn her. No, let her have her last bit of pure happiness, because there was no stopping that truck—it would hit her no matter what. And then she'd be gone.

I put the albums away, crawled back into bed, and cried myself to sleep.
I'm just tired,
I thought over and over, and I promised myself I'd be better—stronger—when I woke up.

But when I opened my eyes, nothing had changed, except that my room was dark and Genghis glowed an angry, red 8:42. I didn't feel any better. I felt exactly the same. I couldn't remember ever feeling worse than this. It was either cry—some more—or cook.

I tiptoed to the bathroom, washed my face with cold water, wiped the counter and sink, and then folded the towel and hung it back up exactly the way it had been. Then I went downstairs and waited for a commercial. When one came, I plastered a smile on my face and said, “If you'll let me cook, I'll make anything you want.”

Mom looked at her watch.

Keene said, “
Anything?
”

Mom turned and gave him a look.

“What?” Keene said. “She said ‘anything.' And I've been craving pineapple upside-down cake all day—we usually have that at family reunions.”

Before Mom could respond, I said, “One pineapple upside-down cake, coming right up!” and hurried into the kitchen.

After I'd made the caramel, as I whisked flour, almonds, and baking powder, I felt myself relax, just a little.

• • •

Keene took one bite of the cake still warm from the oven and said, “
Oh.
Fizzy, you're like an artist in the kitchen. This cake is a work of art. For the mouth.”

I smiled a real smile.

“Thank you,” Keene said like he meant it, like he was really glad that my cake and I were there.

Note to self: More cakes and less mistakes.

Over the next two weeks,
I received a few more phone calls from Aunt Liz. I'd almost broken down and called her back, too, because I was in a weakened state—on the verge of tired-tears
all the time
—being perfect is exhausting work.

I'd been getting up twenty minutes earlier every morning to make my bed and straighten my room before school. After school, I made cake. At night, I spent extra time on my homework and studied harder for tests. Plus, I cleaned the tub after I used it and tried to make the bathroom look like I'd never been there, because surely Keene wouldn't mind having a guest he hardly noticed—a guest who made good cakes.

But as tough as things were at home, they were a little better at school.

Mrs. Ludwig had been wearing pants more often, so I wasn't as distracted by the hole in her leg. My math grades improved, although I still made the occasional B.

But today, I was having trouble concentrating on my math because Mara kept tapping me. I made a huffy sound and finally turned around.

“Look,” Mara said, pushing back the hair around her ears. “I got new earrings.”

“Nice,” I said. And then I turned back around and continued working—at least, I tried.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap . . . Tap! Tap! TaaaaaAAAAP!!!

I turned and gave Mara the tired look I so often get.

“They were
very
expensive,” Mara said.

“What?”

“My earrings.”

I nodded and went back to work.

Tappity-tap-tap-tap!

I ignored Mara.

“Psssst! (
tap, tap
) Pssst! Fizzy!”

“Mara Tierney, are you ill?” Mrs. Ludwig asked.

I kept my eyes glued to my paper, but I heard Mara say, “No, ma'am.”

“Are you injured?” Mrs. Ludwig said.

“No, ma'am.”

“Then what is so urgent?” Mrs. Ludwig stood from her desk. “What is
always
so urgent? Can't you see that Fizzy is trying to work?”

Silence.

Mrs. Ludwig crossed her arms and stared at Mara while she waited for an answer.

This went on for so long that I had time to go from being irritated at Mara and grateful to Mrs. Ludwig, to feeling sorry for Mara and wishing Mrs. Ludwig would just sit down—the
tension kept growing and growing, until I was scared to move a muscle or even breathe too deeply.

Finally, Mara said in a barely audible voice, “Well . . . it's just that I got new earrings.”

“I see,” Mrs. Ludwig said calmly. “So you're having an emergency
earring
situation. Are you in pain? Do you need help getting them off?”

“No!” Mara said.

Mrs. Ludwig uncrossed her arms. “Then you—and your earrings—will move to the back table, where you'll sit from now on. Do you understand, Mara?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

No more tapping! Ever!
I thought happily, and then I went back to feeling grateful toward Mrs. Ludwig. I mean, she was sort of protecting me— Hey! Maybe she was even starting to like me!

• • •

That afternoon, as soon as we reached Zach's house, his grandmother appeared in the doorway and stayed there. It was like she
wanted
us to know she was watching. Weird.

“Is she mad?” I whispered.

“Nah, that's just her face,” Zach said.

“Seems like she'd be happy that you didn't have to stay after school today,” Miyoko said.

Zach laughed. “She told me I'd better not have to, because there's a lot of work to be done here. She probably thinks I took too long getting home—I'll probably get the speech on dillydallying and durtling and whatnot as soon as I set foot inside.”

“
Durtling?
” Miyoko said, giggling. Apparently that word struck her as hilarious, because what started as a giggle turned into uncontrollable laughter.

Zach grinned. “She means
dawdling
, but she says
durtling
.”

“Does ‘the speech' usually start with a smack on the head?” I asked Zach.

Zach laughed. “Only when Gran's gotten a call from the school about my behavior while I was there.”

The screen door squeaked open and Zach's small grandmother stepped out onto the porch.

“Later,” Zach said, jogging toward the porch.

He clomped up the steps and planted a kiss on his gran's cheek.

She said something to Zach.

Zach responded by dumping his backpack, lifting his grandma off her feet, and twirling her around the porch.

I heard Gran say, “Stop it!” But she was smiling ear to ear. They both were.

I smiled, too.

• • •

I was still smiling as I started for the kitchen at home when I realized I'd somehow tracked mud into the house. I checked the bottom of my shoes: Sure enough, my left heel had a big clump of mud stuck to it, which had left a trail from the front door into the bathroom and back out. I sighed, slipped off my shoes, and placed them in the bathroom sink—for rinsing—later.

I cleaned the mud up with wet paper towels until there was absolutely no trace of it, and then stood to admire my work.
Oh
no,
I thought as I looked over the wooden floor. Now parts of the floor were too clean, which only highlighted how dull and dirty the rest of the floor was. I started to leave it—after all, I had a red velvet cake to make—but then I remembered how important floors are to Keene.
Ridiculous!
I thought. I imagined Keene on his deathbed, saying in a raspy voice, “Remember what's really important in life . . .
floors
”—so I mopped the foyer, bathroom, dining room, and kitchen, too.

I didn't realize just how tired my arms and shoulders were until I started making my cream cheese frosting. I'd forgotten to get the cream cheese and butter out of the refrigerator to let them warm and soften before I tried to beat them together with the vanilla extract and powdered sugar. I made up for my mistake with extra beating time—
lots
of extra beating time.

Keene was the first to arrive home. The minute he stepped inside, he announced, “Wow. It smells like heaven in here.”

I peered out of the kitchen and offered him a smile.

“Are you making lemon cake?” Keene asked.

“No, sir, red velvet,” I said, confused.

Keene nodded.

I stepped back into the kitchen and then realized that Keene was referring to the lemon-scented floor polish.
He
would
hope that heaven smells like floor polish,
I thought.
Mom should probably be dabbing that stuff behind her ears, instead of her flowery perfume.

Luckily, Mom didn't notice the lemony smell when she came home—so I didn't have to tell her how I'd tracked mud into the house. She came rushing through the front door,
saying, “I know, I know: I'm running late! I needed to get my chicken pot pie in the oven an hour ago! I'm hurrying as fast as I can!” And she was.

But she calmed down once dinner was on the table. By the time we'd finished, and Mom and Keene were eating my cake—and raving about it—I was so sleepy, all I could think about was how badly I wanted to put my head down on the dining room table and close my eyes, just for a few minutes. But I still had homework to do, a bath to take, and then a bathroom to clean. For the rest of my foreseeable life.
Ugh.
That thought made me want my bed. I thought about how good it would feel to slip between the sheets, lie down under the ceiling fan, close my eyes, and float away. But I knew I couldn't. Not yet. So, I said thank you, forced myself up from the table, up the stairs, and got on with it.