The Thing About Leftovers (4 page)

“I'd love to,” Suzanne said, rising from my bed.

Of course, the minute she was gone, I was sorry I'd invited Suzanne to cook with me. What the halibut was wrong with me? I lay in bed trying to figure it out, and after a while, I decided that Suzanne had broken me down with her niceness. She had “killed me with kindness.” Which made me really mad. At Suzanne.

On Saturday morning,
Suzanne and I bundled up and went to the grocery store to buy all the ingredients for all the desserts we planned to make.

As we stood in the checkout line, a lady who knows Suzanne spotted us and rushed right over with her cart. “Did y'all have a fire last night?” she asked.

“Oh no—it was a false alarm,” Suzanne said.

I shuffled my feet.

“What happened?” the lady asked, pushing her glasses up on her nose to get a better look at me.

None of your business!
I wanted to say, but I remained silent and pretended to peruse the gossip magazines.

“You know how it is,” Suzanne said, smiling easily. “I put some dinner rolls in the oven and then got distracted and forgot about them.”

The lady nodded. “I've done that a few times myself.”

“Mrs. Stein, this is Robert's daughter, Fizzy,” Suzanne said.

I gave Suzanne the squinty eyes.

“Nice to meet you, Fizzy,” Mrs. Stein said.

“Fizzy, this is Mrs. Stein,” Suzanne said. “She just moved into the Moores' old house.”

I stopped squinting. “The Moores' old house? As in
Olivia
Moore . . . my best friend?”

Suzanne looked a little worried, but she nodded.

Mrs. Stein looked a little worried, too—and very uncomfortable. “Thanks again for the muffin basket,” she said as she took off.

I said nothing as Suzanne and I waited in line. I said nothing as we loaded our groceries into the trunk of the car. I said nothing as we drove home. I was busy thinking.

I was shocked that Olivia had moved without telling me, but I guess I shouldn't have been—we hadn't talked in months. Even so, it bothered me that I didn't know where my former best friend lived now; it seemed like proof—
more
proof—that she didn't like me anymore. I would've felt exactly the same if Olivia had been standing right in front of me, saying, “I don't like you, Fizzy Russo.”
But why?
I wanted to ask her. Since I couldn't, I moved on.

To Suzanne. Why had she introduced me as “Robert's daughter”? Was I not good enough to be her daughter? Was she so ashamed of me that she wanted to make sure everyone immediately understood that I was not related to her?

We were sitting at a red light when Suzanne finally turned the heat down from her preferred setting of
Sahara Desert
—I was starting to sweat. “I give up,” she said. “What's wrong, Fizzy?”

“Why did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Why did you have to tell Mrs. Stein that I'm ‘Robert's
daughter'? Why couldn't you just say ‘our daughter'? Why couldn't you just let her think that we're a . . .
family
?” The word caught in my throat.

Suzanne stared at the road ahead while she thought about it. Finally, she said, “Fizzy, let me ask you a question—and I want you to answer it honestly.”

“Okay,” I said.

“If I had introduced you to someone as my daughter, say, yesterday, what would you have said?”

I saw Suzanne's point. “I probably would've told you that you aren't my mother and you shouldn't go around pretending you are.” It sounded bad and I knew it. I knew it even before I said it, because I'd said it before. Once.

Back when Dad and Suzanne had first gotten married, I'd worried a lot about whether or not Suzanne would like me. What if she didn't? Would she be mean to me? Yell at me? Punish me? Would she load me up with chores, lock me in a dungeon, or leave me behind in the woods like the evil stepmothers in old fairy tales? I did some of this worrying out loud—apparently—because one day, Mom sort of snapped and said, “Suzanne can't do anything to you!
She
is not your mother!
I
am your mother!”

So, the next night, while Dad, Suzanne, and I were eating dinner in a fancy restaurant, when Suzanne had whispered, “Please put your napkin in your lap, Fizzy,” I took the opportunity to inform her—and everyone else in the restaurant—that she was not my mother. (After that, things didn't exactly go
well. I now think of it as “the worst dinner ever”—and there was nothing wrong with the food.)

Suzanne sighed. Eventually, she said, “I can't win either way, Fizzy. If I introduce you as my daughter, too, then you think I'm trying to take your mother's place, and if I introduce you only as your father's daughter, then you think I'm ashamed of you.”

“Yes, ma'am, but one of those hurts worse than the other,” I pointed out.

Suzanne nodded. “Yes, I see that now. I'm sorry.”

My mouth twitched. It wanted to smile because I couldn't help enjoying an apology from an adult. I have to apologize to adults all the time but they almost never apologize to me—even when they're wrong. I couldn't remember the last time I'd heard an adult say “I'm sorry.”

Suzanne did smile. Then she turned up the radio and started singing along. She was a pretty good singer, I noticed.
Of course she is!
I thought.
Duh!
Then I went back to being mad at her. Mostly.

• • •

But I forgot to stay mad once Suzanne and I started cooking. We made banana pudding, Derby Pie, and peach pound cake. They were all good, but the peach pound cake was so unexpectedly delicious, we decided to make another. This time, I prepared the pan with shortening and a sprinkling of sugar instead of flour. Then we added a little vanilla extract and some pecans to the cake batter. I knew it was going to be good when I licked one of the beaters I'd used on the batter.

“What are you doing?” Suzanne gasped.

“It's really good,” I told her, taking another lick and closing my eyes with pleasure. “You should try it.”

“Fizzy, that batter has raw eggs in it—you could get salmonella poisoning!”

I shook my head and said, “Oh no, ma'am . . . that's not true”—mostly because I didn't
want
it to be true.

But Suzanne wasn't listening. She rushed around the kitchen gathering up everything with batter in it or on it, then sent the whole stack clattering into the sink, where she turned on the hot water and reached for the dish soap.

I stared at the sink, slack-jawed, disbelieving.
Why?
I wanted to ask, the same as I would have if Suzanne had dumped all her jewelry down the drain and turned on the disposal.
Why?

“We'd better clean up the mess before your dad sees it,” Suzanne said. Then, in a split second, before I even knew what was happening, she reached over, plucked the beater from my hand, and tossed it into the sink, too.

Once I understood what had happened, my thoughts went something like this:
Unforgivable! You want to throw away
your
jewels, that's fine. But don't you dare throw away
my
jewels—or cake batter—because that is wrong . . . and unforgivable!

I had to forgive Suzanne after the cake came out of the oven, though, because it was such an amazing cake. You couldn't really pick out the peach, vanilla, or pecan flavors; they all blended together to make one wonderfully unique flavor. Not only that, but the shortening-plus-sugar pan preparation had made the crust crunchy and sweet, like a sugar cookie.

“This is it,” I said to Suzanne as we stood side by side eating warm cake over the kitchen counter.

“I know.”

“But we can't really call it peach pound cake because it's something else now. What should we call it, Suzanne?”

She tilted her head from side to side, thinking. “How about Russo Pound Cake?”

“Good,” I said. Okay, so even though we didn't have cake batter, we did have great cake. And pie. And pudding.

Dad must've had similar thoughts: When he came home from seeing a patient with a dental emergency and spotted all the desserts lined up on the kitchen counter, he smiled wide. First he smiled at the desserts. Then he smiled at Suzanne. Finally he smiled at me, and somehow I knew that he'd forgiven me. What can I say? Dad
loves
dessert.

• • •

Later that night, Suzanne opened the door and stuck her head in my room. “I just wanted to tell you that I had fun today. And good night.”

I put my cookbook down. “Thanks. I had fun, too.”

Suzanne smiled and backed into the hallway.

I called out, “Suzanne?”

She poked her head back in.

“Don't tell anybody, okay? I mean, about the contest.”

Suzanne pushed the door open and stepped into my room. “Why not?”

“I don't know,” I said. “I'm sort of scared, I guess.”

“Scared of what?”

“It's just that if I don't win . . . if I fail . . . well, I just don't want everybody to know about it, that's all—I don't expect you to understand.” And I really didn't, because Suzanne had never failed at anything in her life.

“Fizzy, everybody's scared sometimes.”

“What are you scared of?” I asked.

“Snakes,” Suzanne said right away. She didn't even have to think about it.

I nodded. “I'm scared of spiders.”

Suzanne smiled. “See?”

I gave her a weak smile back. “Yeah, but this is different.”

“I won't tell anybody, Fizzy, but keep in mind that no one can ever really succeed without risking failure.”

After Suzanne was gone, I sat in bed thinking about her, thinking maybe I liked her. Did I? In the pretty toile-fabric-covered journal Aunt Liz had given me, where I keep all of my Notes to Self—so that I don't forget—I made a list of all the things I liked about Suzanne:

1) Apologizes when she's wrong—this is HUGE!!!

2) Tries to comfort me when she knows I'm hurt or scared.

3) Tries to protect me, even if it means taking responsibility for a mistake I made, like she did at the grocery store.

4) Likes to cook and is good at it.

5) Smiles easily.

6) Makes Dad happy.

Then I made a list of things I disliked about Suzanne:

1) Washes cake batter down the sink!

2) Too perfect.

That was all I could come up with. And although I found these traits highly annoying, for some strange reason, I felt willing to overlook these two—very deep—flaws. I could only assume I felt so forgiving toward Suzanne because I liked her a little. And because we had a lot of desserts downstairs.

But,
I decided, she'd have to pass one more test before I could fully commit to maybe, just possibly, perhaps liking Suzanne. I got up and rooted through the old toy chest in my closet until I found it.

Then I tiptoed down the hallway to Dad and Suzanne's room. Nobody was in there, so I scurried through the bedroom and into the bathroom. Once there, I pulled my big plastic snake out from under my shirt and coiled it in the bathtub. I stepped back to admire my work. The snake looked real, all right.

I giggled all the way back to my room.

I'd been so busy
on Saturday that I'd mostly been able to push Mom and Keene out of my mind—repeatedly. But by Sunday morning, they were all I could think about. I never heard a word the preacher said that morning. I just stood up whenever everybody else did and bowed my head whenever Dad elbowed me.

I thought Mom knew how I felt about Keene, but then I'd never actually told her. Maybe I should, I decided. Maybe it was as simple as talking to her. I was still trying to figure out a nice, polite way to say “I don't like Keene” as I packed that afternoon, which really took the joy out of checking off my packing list—the only thing better than making a list is checking it off.

Suzanne came into my room and sat down on the bed. For a few minutes, she watched me pack. Then she said, “You've been awfully quiet today, Fizzy.”

I nodded.

“Something on your mind?”

I stuffed my pajamas into my suitcase, checked them off my list, and turned to face her. “My mom's getting married.” I figured the mere mention of Mom would prevent Suzanne from asking any more questions.

But it didn't. Suzanne tucked a loose strand of blond hair behind her ear and said, “That's good, isn't it? You want your mom to be happy, right?”

“Yes, ma'am . . . but . . .” I wasn't sure what to say.

“But what?”

“It's just that . . . I don't really like Keene.”
And also, I can't think of a nice way to tell my mom that.

Suzanne smiled. “You didn't like me either at first and I'm not so bad, am I?”

“No, ma'am,” I said, because what else could I say?

“It's the same thing,” Suzanne said.

“No, ma'am,” I said, fidgeting with the button on the end of my ballpoint pen:
click, click, click.
“I'm pretty sure it's different.”

“How?” Suzanne asked.

I shrugged and clicked my pen some more. I didn't know how it was different; I only knew that it was.

• • •

Late that afternoon, I stood at the back door holding on to my suitcase as Suzanne hugged me. Before she released me, she whispered into my ear, “Everything's going to be okay, Fizzy. But if it isn't, there's always a place here for you.
Always.
”

When she stepped back, I nodded my understanding. Then I said, “Um . . . I might need a cell phone—for emergencies—don't you think?”

Suzanne looked at Dad.

He shook his head.

• • •

When Dad and I were almost to the town house, I said, “Hey, I didn't forget anything this weekend.”

Dad raised his eyebrows and turned to give me a look that read,
Are you sure about that?

“What?” I said. “What did I forget?”

Dad grinned. “It'll come to you.”

The sky had just begun spitting snow when Dad pulled to a stop behind Keene's parked car. I felt disappointed at the sight of that car, knowing that Keene was inside with Mom, and that I'd have to wait for him to leave before I could try talking to her.

Keene was sitting on the couch, watching reruns of
Survivor Steve
—his favorite TV show—when I walked in.

He jutted his chin in my direction—saying hello?—but never took his eyes off the TV.

For a few seconds, I stood there looking at Keene, trying to see whatever Mom sees in him. But all I saw was an ordinary guy who was extraordinarily neat: clean-shaven face, prickly buzzed brown hair that was too short to move, but plastered into place with gel anyway, wrinkle-free button-down shirt tucked tightly into the waist of crisp, creased slacks, and shoes that looked brand-new. Also I noticed that Keene has very good posture.

I thought about Dad then, how he spends most of his weekends slouching on the couch, alternately reading and watching TV, all stubbly faced, in his gray T-shirt and sweatpants.

Right away, I decided that I prefer stubble, slouchy posture, and sweatpants because they seem to invite fun and hugs—and
dessert. Keene's weekend look didn't invite anything; it just said,
Hey, don't mess me up.
So I didn't.

I stayed where I was and waited for a commercial. When one came, I announced, “It's snowing,” hoping that Keene would leap off our couch and hurry home, before the roads got too bad.

But he didn't. Instead, he just nodded absently and kept his eyes glued to the TV.

I gave a loud—disappointed—sigh, then slipped out of my coat, kicked off my shoes, and left them, along with my suitcase, by the front door.

I found Mom in the kitchen, fixing dinner. “Hi, sweetie,” she said when she saw me. “I'd hug you but I've got hamburger all over my hands.”

I nodded. “What are we having?”

“Meat loaf, peas, carrots, and mashed potatoes,” Mom proudly informed me.

Yuck. Here was another reason I hated it when Keene came to dinner: I hated almost all the foods that he loved. And if I didn't do something, soon Keene would be here for dinner
every
night. Or maybe we'd be at his house. This was the thought that caused me to start feeling sick again.

I headed for the stairs.

“Don't forget your suitcase,” Mom said cheerfully. “I . . . uh . . . we'd appreciate it if you didn't leave things by the front door anymore. Take your things up to your room, okay?”

By “we,” I knew Mom meant Keene. I nodded, thinking,
New rules. More new rules to learn by trial and error—but mostly error.

• • •

The sight of my room didn't help—even though the walls were painted the exact same butter-yellow that seemed so happy in Aunt Liz's kitchen. Why didn't it feel the same way here? What was I missing? I tried to figure it out—but couldn't—until Mom called me down for dinner.

• • •

When we were all seated at the dining room table, Keene lifted the platter of meat loaf and held it for me. “Help yourself, Fizzy.”

I shook my head. “Guests are always served first.”

Keene gave Mom an angry look and said too loudly, “I am not a guest. I am a member of this family!”

I drew back, shocked. I had only been trying to be polite. I looked at Mom for some explanation.

Mom touched Keene's shoulder and said in her softest voice, “She didn't mean it that way, honey.”

Keene sort of huffed.

None of us really recovered from this little outburst for the rest of the dinner. Keene and I barely spoke while Mom chattered like crazy, trying to fill the silence.

When she ran out of things to talk about, Mom turned to me and said, “So how was your weekend?”

“Fine,” I said.

“Did you remember everything this time?”

“Yes, ma'am,” I said.
Except for the cake in the oven,
I thought. Dad was right: It came to me. I smiled.

Mom seemed encouraged and she smiled, too. “Fizzy, tell Keene about the
Southern Living
Cook-Off.”

I dropped the smile and squirmed a little in my seat. “Oh . . . um . . . that's okay,” I said, because I didn't want to tell Keene about it.

Of course, Mom told him everything anyway.

After pushing most of my meat loaf and all of my peas and carrots around on my plate—I like mashed potatoes, so I'd eaten those—for what I thought was a fair amount of time, I said, “May I please be excused?”

I half expected Mom to inspect my plate and launch into her I-worked-so-hard-on-this-meal speech, but all she said was, “You may.”

I figured this meant Mom thought we'd had enough dinner difficulties for one night—I thought so, too. I picked up my plate and carried it into the kitchen.

As soon as I was out of sight, I heard Keene whisper, “Cecily, you don't really believe she can win the contest, do you? She's just a kid.”

“Of course I believe she can win,” Mom said.

Keene snorted.

“Fizzy's very talented—it has nothing to do with age,” Mom said, sounding a little hurt.

“Oooooh-kay,” Keene said, but the way he said it sounded more like
Boy, are you dumb.

“What?” Mom said, a pinch of anger rising in her voice. “What are you trying to say?”

Get him,
I thought as I stood at the counter, holding on to my dinner plate so tightly that my knuckles turned white.

“Love is truly blind, isn't it?” Keene said lightly.

I'll say,
I thought,
because if it wasn't, Mom would see what a jerk you are!

• • •

After that, in the privacy of my room, I made another list in my journal, which confirmed that I didn't like Keene—and that I had reasons—
good
reasons! It read:

1) Prickly hair—like a porcupine!

2) Prickly personality—like a porcupine!

3) No manners. Shouldn't a guest recognize their guest-ness? Especially when it's pointed out to them? And shouldn't they behave like a guest?—politely?

4) Inconsiderate—a guest shouldn't talk about any of his hosts behind their backs—especially when I can hear him! Hosts have feelings, too!

5) Rude—see 3 and 4.

6) Doesn't believe in me.

7) Doesn't trust Mom enough to believe in her when she believes in me. (I'm pretty sure this indicates serious problems in their relationship.)

8) Gave me a hateful alarm clock for my birthday—which I'm pretty sure he received as a free gift with his
Sports Illustrated
subscription.

9) Re-gifts!—see 8.

Then, to be fair, I made a list of things I liked about Keene:

1) Practices very good hygiene.

2) Makes Mom happy—although I can't see how—and causes her to wear her prettiest clothes.

This wasn't exactly enough to win me over.

• • •

When I heard Mom coming up the stairs late that night, I slipped out of bed and into the hallway.

When she saw me, Mom smiled knowingly. “It stopped snowing an hour ago and the roads are fine—school isn't canceled.”

“Oh no . . . I, um . . . Is Keene gone?” I asked as she reached the top step.

“Yes.” Mom reached for my hand and held it. “What is it, sweet pea? Why are you still awake?”

I begged her with my eyes, hoping she would try to understand even though she obviously felt differently, as I said, “Mom, I . . . I don't like Keene.”

She sighed. “You will, Fizzy, you'll see. These things just take time.”

There was something in Mom's voice that kept me from saying more. She seemed so determined,
desperate
even, for Keene and me to like each other.