The Thing About Leftovers (6 page)

The sun was shining
on Thursday morning and the sleet was gone, which improved my mood if not the temperature—still cold. As soon as I reached the top of the hill on Dahlia Drive, Zach Mabry jumped off his porch swing and started waving like crazy.

I looked around but didn't see anybody else, so I raised one hand in a weak wave, so as not to be rude—just in case he was waving at me.

Zach pounded down the steps to the end of his walkway and waited.
For me?
I wondered. He'd abandoned his usual jeans and lace-up boots, in favor of khaki pants and loafers.

When I was close enough to hear him, Zach said, “Mind if I walk with you?”

I shrugged. “No, I don't mind.”

“I'm Zach,” he said as he fell into step beside me.

“I know,” I said. Even though, like me, Zach was new to Lush Valley Middle School this year, unlike me, everybody knew who he was because of Buffy Lawson's crush on him.

“You're Fizzy,” Zach said.

“Yep, I know that, too,” I said.

Zach chuckled.

I glanced over at him. Buffy was right to like him: Zach was cute with his messy blond hair, icy-blue eyes, and lopsided grin.

“You sure do walk to school early,” Zach commented.

“I can't be late,” I said.
Again,
I thought.

Zach nodded and we walked the rest of the block in silence.

Again, he held the door open for me at school, and again, I said, “Thank you,” as I passed through it.

Zach hurried into the building behind me. “Come with me,” he said. “This way.”

I looked up at the clock in the hallway.

“We've got time. C'mon,” Zach insisted.

I followed him into the cafeteria, where some kids arrived early and ate breakfast, up the center aisle, and to the counter.

“Good morning, Mrs. Hunt. You sure do look nice today—I think you're the only woman I know who can really pull off a hairnet,” Zach told the lunch lady.

Mrs. Hunt smiled at him.

“This is my friend Fizzy,” Zach told her.

“Hello, Fizzy,” Mrs. Hunt said.

“Hi, Mrs. Hunt. It's nice to meet you,” I said.

Mrs. Hunt held up her index finger as in,
Just a minute
, and disappeared into the back.

I looked at Zach.

“Just wait,” he whispered.

Mrs. Hunt returned with two steaming hot chocolates topped with mini-marshmallows in Styrofoam cups and handed them to Zach. “Y'all go on now. Hot chocolate's supposed to be for faculty only.”

“Thanks,” Zach said.

Mrs. Hunt smiled, nodded, and said again, “Y'all go on now.”

“Wow,” I said to Zach as soon as we were out of earshot.

He grinned his lopsided grin. “Imagine what I could do in cool clothes.”

“Cool clothes?” I repeated.

“Yeah . . . like black leather. I probably wouldn't even have to talk if I was wearing black leather—because my clothes would tell everybody how cool I am.”

I laughed. “If that's true, then I need some black leather, too—no one around here seems to recognize my coolness.”

“I do,” Zach said.

I smiled, certain that was because of my new walker status.

• • •

Lush Valley has more of everything, so naturally Lush Valley Middle School has more of everything, too. Where my old school just served lunch, LVMS serves breakfast
and
lunch, and where my old school had only one picture day per year, LVMS has
two
picture days: one in September and one in January. But I'd stopped paying attention to the announcements about picture day at school years ago. What difference does it make? No outfit is going to hide my freckles.

But nobody else felt that way, apparently. So today everyone looked very . . . matchy-matchy for pictures. Even Zach Mabry in his khakis and loafers. Even Miyoko, who wore a sweater set with a plaid skirt, matching plaid headband, and shoes with little plaid bows on the toes. It was the shoes that were a problem.

When Miyoko reported to gym class, Coach Bryant took one look at her shoes, shook his head, and said, “If that's all you've got, you won't be able to play kickball with us today, Meryoko.”

Does he ever get anybody's name right?
I wondered.

Miyoko turned and looked at me with pleading eyes, as if she hoped I could yank gym shoes out from under some other girl's feet—like her ruby marble.

“I forgot my gym shoes, too,” I said to Coach Bryant.

Coach Bryant didn't look surprised. “Fissy, how is it that you always remember your coat and your book, but never your gym shoes?”

I didn't exactly have an answer handy.

Coach Bryant opened his mouth to say something more—probably about the reports Miyoko and I owed him—but when Miyoko sniffed, he closed it again.

We both looked at Miyoko, who hung her head and sniffed again.

“Oh . . . no . . . don't . . . uh—” Coach Bryant stammered. Then he looked at me like,
Help.

“Maybe she just needs some fresh air,” I suggested.

“Yeah,” Coach Bryant immediately agreed. “Come on outside with us and get some fresh air at least.”

Now, Coach Bryant couldn't very well take “Meryoko” outside and send “Fissy” to the library, could he? I mean, that wouldn't be fair.

Miyoko and I were headed for our candy-apple tree when Buffy started snickering with her friends and I heard Christine say, “Miyoko.”

I was going to ignore them but Miyoko stopped immediately and turned to face the girls.

They all stopped what they were doing, too, and looked at her like,
What?

Suddenly, Miyoko's hands chopped through the air. “Hiiiiyaaaah!” she shouted. Then she did a little kicky thing.

My eyes practically popped out of my head. I could hardly believe what they were telling me. Was pretty little Miyoko Hoshi about to hurt somebody? I could tell that Buffy and her followers were wondering the same thing. They all went completely silent and still—except for their shifty, nervous eyes and a couple of gulps.

Miyoko turned away from them and walked toward me.

When we reached the tree, I whispered, “Do you know karate or something?”

“No,” Miyoko said, “but I know how to
pretend
I know karate.”

I burst out laughing. Then Miyoko did, too. We both fell all over ourselves laughing.

When we began to settle, I said, “Maybe you could teach me some pretend-karate.” I had lots of uses for pretend-karate: at school, at home . . . well, okay, it would only work once at home, because Mom would tell Keene that I didn't actually know any karate . . . unless I
did
. Maybe I could take real karate lessons!

Aunt Liz and I
were the ones running late on Thursday evening. It turned out that making individual cheese soufflés— a possibility for the Party Starters category of the cook-off—was a little more time-consuming, complicated, and difficult than we'd thought. We'd stirred and whipped and beaten our hearts out. We'd even made little tinfoil collars for our soufflés, to keep their heads from spilling over and running down the sides of their cups. And when we finally put them in the oven, we'd kept a close watch. They'd risen to form perfect little golden peaks. So we pulled them out of the oven. Right away, the peaks sank back down into the cups, even as I commanded them, “No, no, no, no, no—don't do that!”

Aunt Liz gave me a sympathetic look.

“Can we put them back in the oven?” I asked her.

“Afraid not. They're done for. We'll have to start over tomorrow.”

My heart sank soufflé style as a car horn honked twice—
beep! beep!
—outside.

For once, I was glad that Mom had been running late, too—because she doesn't like to hang around Aunt Liz's house waiting for me. We went straight to school.

I left Mom at my homeroom door and headed for the gym, where all the students were gathering. I skittered past our music teacher, Mrs. Gita, before she could see me—and place me—and placed myself next to Miyoko on one of the three risers.

Miyoko smiled and said, “She's not going to let you stay here—you're too tall.”

“We'll see,” I said. Then I scanned faces, looking for Zach. He wasn't there yet.

Zach was the last student Mrs. Gita placed on the risers. When she stepped back to look, I bent my knees to make myself the same height at Miyoko.

It worked. Soon the gym was filled with singing. Once, Zach caught me staring at him, but I looked away—quick. Twice, we practiced the songs we were going to sing for our parents to end Parents' Night. Then parents started showing up.

Now, the best part of the actual performance—for me at least—was when Buffy Lawson fell off her riser. I mean, one minute she was standing there singing, and then
SPLAT!
She was on the floor! I didn't dare look at Miyoko, but I grabbed her hand and squeezed like,
Great gravy!
She squeezed back like,
I know!

A few teachers and other adults rushed forward to see to Buffy, while Mrs. Gita's hands continued dancing up and down as she stood in front of us.
Keep singing,
she mouthed.
Keep singing!
So we did.

Mrs. Sloan—the gypsy guidance counselor—helped Buffy to her feet just as our last song ended. The gym exploded in
applause. I'm pretty sure Buffy thought the applause was for her because she smiled a shy smile and waved at the audience. Yeah, right. I mean, when you get up out of bed in the morning, do people
clap
for you? No, because let's face it: The ability to stand up isn't exactly awe inspiring.

• • •

I'd just said good-bye to Miyoko and her parents and was looking for Mom when Christine Cash came up to me chewing pink bubble gum like it was her only purpose in life. (I'm not allowed to chew gum because Mom says it isn't ladylike.)

Christine said, “Is it true that Miyoko Hoshi is a black belt in karate?”
Chaw. Chaw. Chaw.

I started to smile but caught myself, and instead met her eyes with my own very serious ones. “Yeah,” I said. “She knows three ways to kill a grown man instantly with her bare hands—they're like . . .
weapons
.”

Christine's eyes flew open wide and she gasped. Then she had a little coughing fit—she'd nearly choked on her bubble gum.

“Um, are you okay?” I asked.

“Fine,” she said before she scurried away.

Note to self: Chewing gum is not only unattractive, it's dangerous!

I spotted Mom by the piano, talking with Mrs. Gita. I made my way over to them and then wished I hadn't. Mom was trying to sell Mrs. Gita advertising in the newspaper!

Here's the thing: It was Mom's job to sell advertising in the newspaper and that was fine. The problem was that she
was
always
trying to sell advertising, even when she wasn't at work. Whenever Mom met somebody new, her first question was where they worked and how the company advertised. It was pretty embarrassing.

I gave Mom a look like,
Please stop.

“Fizzy, how would you like to take piano lessons?!” Mom said enthusiastically, as if she were offering me a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

“Um . . . I don't know,” I said, giving Mrs. Gita an apologetic smile.

“We'll discuss it—I'm sure Fizzy would love piano lessons,” Mom told Mrs. Gita.

Someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned.

“Hi,” Zach said.

“Oh, hi.” I felt fluttery feelings in my stomach, but not like sickness—like something else. Then I realized Mom was staring at us. “Mom, this is my friend Zach Mabry. Zach, this is my mom.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Russo,” Zach said. “I can see where Fizzy gets her good looks.”

My mouth fell open.
Good looks? He thinks I have good looks?

Mom must've been thinking the same thing because she raised one—very suspicious—eyebrow at Zach.

He showed her his teeth.

“Well, we'd better get going,” Mom said to me, and then she said to Zach, “It was very . . .
interesting
meeting you.”

“You too,” Zach said to Mom's back.

• • •

It had turned dark outside and the wind stung my face with cold. Mom and I ducked our heads and hurried to the car.

As soon as we were inside with the doors shut, I said, “I don't want to take piano lessons.”

Mom ignored me and turned the heat on full blast. As she backed out of the parking space, she said, “Mrs. Gita is thinking of advertising piano lessons with us, so we're thinking of taking piano lessons with her—that's the way the world works.”

“Well,
I
was thinking of taking karate lessons,” I said, feeling very . . .
kicky
.

No answer.

Just to be clear, I added, “I
definitely
want to learn karate.”

Mom and I
stopped for dinner at Lush Valley Bistro. When we entered the restaurant, the hostess looked us up and down and seemed unimpressed, probably by our lack of designer stuff, but she gave us a table—in the back. After the server brought our drinks, took our orders and our menus, Mom and I were quiet for a few minutes.

Then Mom said, “What are you thinking about, Fizzy?”

I was thinking that Keene must've bought a lot of advertising from Mom because she was never trying to sell to him the way she was always trying to sell to other people. But I knew Keene bought a lot of advertising. I'd seen the ads for his hardware store—they were in the newspaper every day and they were big and colorful. That's how Mom met Keene to begin with: He bought advertising from her.

“Fizzy?” Mom said, growing impatient.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “What did you say?”

Mom shook her head and smiled. “Nothing. Never mind. So. Zach Mabry.”

“What about him?”

“He's a little
slick
, don't you think?” The way Mom said
“slick” was the way she might've said “slimy.” So I knew it wasn't a compliment.

I shrugged.

“Is he your boyfriend?”

“No, ma'am, just a friend.”

Mom didn't look like she believed me.

“He's
just a friend
,” I said emphatically, but what I thought was,
You don't like my friend Zach? Well, I don't like your friend Keene. So we're even.

“All right, all right,” Mom said, showing me her palms. “Listen, I want to talk to you about the wedding.”

The wedding? There was still going to be a wedding? “Um . . . okay.”

“Keene and I want to involve you, honey, because our wedding isn't just the usual joining of two people, you know.”

“It isn't?”

“No,” Mom said. “It's the joining of a family, one that includes you.”

The queasy feeling I got told me that wasn't true, but even so, I said, “Okay.”

Mom smiled brightly. “I want you to be my maid of honor, Fizzy. I want you to stand up in the front of the church with me.”

“Ummm . . . okay . . . I guess.”

“And I was thinking maybe we could go shopping for dresses on Saturday morning.”

I nodded.

“I want you to choose your own dress and help me choose
mine,” Mom said. “Oh, and I was thinking you might like to have your own cake.”

“Cake?” I sat up a little straighter in the booth. There was nothing wrong with cake. I mean, cake is always good, right?

Our dinner arrived, and after the server set our plates down and disappeared, Mom announced, “There will be wedding cake and groom's cake and Fizzy's cake.”

I took a bite of a French fry. “Okay,” I said. “I know exactly the cake I want.”

Mom clapped her hands together merrily and said, “Wonderful! Tell me.”

“I saw a picture of this cake in
Southern Living
. It has three square tiers and pale purple icing, with tiny deep-purple violets all over it, and . . . well, it's just the prettiest cake I've ever seen.”

Mom frowned. “Purple? You want a
purple
cake?”

I nodded and popped another French fry into my mouth.

“But my colors are peach and cream,” Mom said. “Everything for the wedding is going to be done in shades of peach and cream.”

I didn't really see how that was a problem myself. I mean, we were talking about cake, not curtains.

“A purple cake won't match anything, Fizzy,” Mom said, still not touching her salad.

“
Qui se soucie?
” I said, which is French for “Who cares?”

Mom stiffened. “Fizzy, you know I think it's rude when you speak French.”

“Then maybe you shouldn't have moved me to Lush Valley—they didn't teach French at my old school.”

“No, I'm glad you're learning French; I just think it's rude
to speak it to someone you know doesn't understand—it's like whispering in front of someone you know can't hear you.”

I didn't respond.

“As for the cake, I don't know what to think of a purple cake,” Mom said. “And no one else will know what to think either.”

Suddenly I was mad. I'd had enough and I was just plain mad. I sighed loudly and said, “They'll think you did something nice for your daughter. They'll think you let her choose. For once!”

Mom's eyes narrowed. “For once?
For once?
”

Now, if I was really as smart as Mom thought I was, I would've stopped talking. But I was mad, so I didn't. Instead I said, “Yes, for once, Cecily.” (My mom hates it when I call her by her name—it's way worse than speaking French.)

Cecily crossed her arms over her chest and her cheeks turned pink.

I continued, “I never get to choose,
never
! I didn't choose you and I didn't choose Dad. I didn't choose for you to get divorced. I didn't choose who I was going to live with. I didn't choose Lush Valley or our town house or my school, or even piano lessons, and I surely didn't choose Keene Adams to be my new stepfather!”

Our server appeared out of nowhere to ask how everything tasted. Mom smiled easily and said that everything was fine. I almost believed her, but when our server walked away, she took Mom's smile with her.

Then, through clenched teeth, Mom said, “Close your mouth and eat your dinner, Fizzy.”

Now, just how was I supposed to do that?

• • •

I should've been sleeping, but I was still up doing my homework when Mom came into my bedroom that night, wearing pajamas with a cardigan sweater. “You've been up late every night this week, Fizzy.”

It was true. Since I'd been cooking with Aunt Liz all afternoon every day, it had been late when I started my homework each night. And I had a lot of homework—like I said, there's more of everything in Lush Valley, even homework.

“My book report's due tomorrow,” I said, without looking up from my paper.

Mom sat down on my bed. “You know, Fizzy, pretty soon, you're going to be all grown up and you're going to go off to college.”

“Culinary school,” I corrected.

Mom smiled a sad little half smile. “The point is that one day you're going to be gone, and I don't want to be alone for the rest of my life. I want a family.”

Me too. I want a family, too,
I thought, but I didn't say it. Instead I put my pencil down, got up from my desk, and went to sit beside Mom. “I'm your . . . it—
I'm it.
”

“Yes, and you'll always be my family,” Mom said. “But one day, you're going to grow up and set out into the world to create your own life, your own home, your own family.”

I stared into my lap and stammered, “So you want Keene to be your . . . f-family.”

“Yes,” Mom said, but the way she said it was like,
Yes and . . .
I'd heard the
and
even though she hadn't said it.

I tried to think. “Do you want more children?” I asked.

“I think I do,” Mom said, taking my hand in hers.

“So I'm not enough,” I whispered as tears burned behind my eyes.

“You are wonderful,” Mom said. “
You
are what makes me want more children—I'd like to have three more just like you.”

“
Three?
” I felt sick.

Mom smiled. “Yes, but I'll take just one. One doesn't sound so bad, does it?”

“I guess not,” I said, even though it all sounded pretty bad to me.

“Fizzy, look at me,” Mom said.

I lifted my head and met her soft green eyes.

“Can you imagine giving up on your dream of becoming a chef?”

I swallowed. “No, ma'am.”

Mom nodded. “I can't give up on my dream of having a family either.” She stood.

I just sat there.

Mom placed a gentle hand under my chin and bent to kiss my cheek. “Good night, sweet pea—oh, and I promise to think about the cake.”

When she was almost to the door, I said, “A very wise woman once told me that things don't matter, and what other people think about our things certainly doesn't matter. People are what matter.”

Mom stopped moving but didn't turn around. She sighed. “Fine. You'll have your purple cake.”