The Thing About Leftovers (11 page)

I felt sick
and nervous about coming out of my bedroom the next morning. I felt
really
nervous about using the bathroom, which we now shared with Keene. So, I locked the bathroom door and hurried, not just to get out of the bathroom, but to get out of the house.

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, and 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.”

“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 around 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.

I looked away, trying to give her privacy, but Miyoko removed the hand from her mouth and said, “I'm not laughing
at
her . . . I'm . . . I'm . . .” Then she fell to pieces again—she was laughing!—and had to slap her hand back over her mouth.

Relieved, I smiled and tried to help her out: “So . . . you're laughing
with
her? But do you really think she's laughing?”

“She should be—that's the funniest thing I've ever seen! Did you see her butt pads? My mom has a really flat butt, so I guess . . .”

After that, we both had to clap our hands over our mouths. By the time we got control of ourselves, both the dog and the shoe were long gone.

I walked over to my backpack, lying in the grass, and then remembered: “Hey, Miyoko.”

She turned.

“My mom said you could spend the night with me on Friday.”

“I have to ask my mom,” Miyoko said. “
Later.
”

I nodded my understanding, hefted the backpack onto my shoulder, waved, and started for home.

I remembered what Miyoko had said at my mom's wedding:
My parents aren't normal either.
They weren't. They really weren't.
Does
anybody
have normal parents?
I was beginning to wonder.

I laughed all the way home—every time I'd start to settle down, I'd picture Mrs. Hoshi in her Big Booty Judy Bloomers, screaming at the sky, and start up again.

When I got
to my house, I went to the mailbox before I remembered I didn't have a key. That's when the laughter officially died.
I'm probably lucky to have a key to the house!
I thought as I unlocked the front door. I stepped inside and was again struck by the feeling that I'd barged into the wrong house—the one with the pukey recliner.

I kicked off my shoes, dropped my stuff by the front door, and went to the kitchen to call Mom.

I got her voice mail: “You've reached Cecily Adams . . .”

I was thrown off balance in a way that was a lot like the wrong-house feeling. I had to think for a second. I thought I'd called Cecily Russo, and that's who I really wanted . . . but she was gone now and I was stuck with Cecily Adams. My throat tightened with this thought, but at the beep, I rasped, “Hi, Mom. I'm home,” and hung up.

I was sitting at my desk, trying to do my math homework (translation: staring into my math book with a blank sheet of paper in front of me) when I heard Keene come home from work. I didn't go downstairs to say hello and he didn't come upstairs to say anything to me either.
So what?
I asked myself. Whatever.

A few minutes after Mom got home, she came into my room holding up the shoes I'd kicked off at the front door.

I just blinked at her.

“Fizzy, you've
got
to stop leaving your shoes by the door—bring your things up to your room, like I asked you to.”

“Okay,” I said, “but . . . why?”

“Because Keene doesn't like it,” Mom said. “His pet peeve is floors—he always wants the floors to be clear and clean.”

“Oh, good gravy,” I mumbled.

Mom shot me a warning look.

I went back to my math book.

“How was your day?” Mom asked.

I gulped and touched the pocket that held Mrs. Ludwig's note. “Um . . . fine.”

“It doesn't sound like it was fine to me,” Mom said. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing,” I insisted.

Mom waited a few seconds and then said, “
Elizabeth. Ann. Russo.
” This pretty much meant,
Spill it.

I took a deep breath and blurted, “My new math teacher sent home a note saying that I created a disturbance in class today.”

“Did you?”

“I didn't mean to.”

“Would you like to explain?”

I explained.

“All right,” Mom said. “Sounds like it was just a misunderstanding.”

“So . . . um . . . we don't need to have ‘a family discussion,' right?”

“Hopefully not . . . unless it happens again.”

My shoulders sagged with relief. “I could make dinner,” I offered.

“No, that's okay,” Mom said. “I have a certain something planned already.”

“A certain something” is what Mom calls a meal she's planning as a surprise for Keene. In case I wasn't perfectly clear before: I
hate
all the meals that Keene loves.

For a few minutes, Mom moved around my room, putting my shoes in my closet, smoothing the clothes that bubbled up out of drawers, closing the drawers, and straightening. All the while, I continued staring into my math book—and not writing anything.

Before I knew what was happening—and could stop her—Mom was out in the hallway, hollering down the stairs, “Keene, Fizzy needs you to help her with her math homework, okay?”

“Okay,” he hollered back. “Tell her to bring it down.”

I looked at Mom, and with my eyes, I tried to say,
Please tell me you did not just do that.

She smiled proudly at me like,
Problem solved.

My stomach flipped.

Even so, I brought all my math stuff downstairs to the dining room table—what choice did I have?—where Keene was already seated. The first thing I learned is that it's hard to learn when your brain is busy worrying about what your teacher
thinks of you and what he might think of you if you don't learn fast enough, or at all.

“Fizzy, are you listening?” Keene asked.

“Yes, sir.”

He shook his head and then repeated some math mumbo jumbo.

I thought about how all math might as well be a foreign language . . . other than French, because I would understand at least some of that.

Keene stared at me.

I stared blankly at the fractions in my math book without moving.

Keene sighed.

“Never mind,” I tried. “I'll just—”

“No,” Keene interrupted. “Wait. Let me think of another way to explain it.”

I waited—in a squirmy, uncomfortable way.

“Fizzy, how many slices can you get out of a pie?”

I snapped to attention. “What kind of pie?”

“It doesn't matter,” Keene said.

I gawped at him.
Of course
it mattered! “So, then, if I promise to make apple pie for dessert next week, you won't mind if I make mincemeat pie instead?”

“Apple. It's an apple pie,” Keene said, catching on quickly. “How many slices?”

“I'd say six good-size slices.”

Keene nodded and quickly drew a pie with six slices. He colored in one slice, and said, “One slice is . . .”

“One-sixth!” I said, the concept of fractions making some sense when applied to food.

“Good, Fizz,” Keene said. “I'll be right back.”

Keene was gone long enough that I began to wonder if he'd forgotten about me.

But he came back, carrying a tray with a plate of sliced apple, a glass of water, a measuring cup, and a box of graham crackers. Keene picked up all the apple slices and put the apple back together. “This is one whole apple,” he said.

I nodded.

He opened his hands a little so that I could see he'd cut it into eight slices. “If you eat a piece, that's—”

“One-eighth!” I said.

Keene used the water and the measuring cup to show me that I'd been working with fractions successfully for a long time—in my cooking. Then he used the graham crackers to make a number line, showing me another way to look at fractions.

I finished my math homework in twenty minutes flat and Keene checked it for me—perfect.

“Thanks,” I said, when he handed back my paper.

Keene nodded in a tired way.

“And . . . I'm sorry. About my shoes.”

“I know you are,” Keene said quietly, getting up from the table.

As I set the table for dinner, I couldn't help wishing that Keene had responded, “It's okay,” instead of “I know you are.” Because what did that even mean?
Yes, I know, you are sorry—you are a sorry human being if I ever saw one
?

• • •

Keene was washing his hands in the kitchen while Mom bent to pull a pan of sweet potatoes out of the oven. She made a whimpering sound.

Both Keene and I turned at the sound.

Mom set the pan down and stuck a finger in her mouth.

“Did you burn it?” Keene asked.

Mom nodded.

“Let me see,” he said. Keene carefully rinsed Mom's burn in cool water, wrapped it ever so gently in gauze, and dosed her with aspirin. When he was done playing doctor, he bent his head and kissed her wounded hand in a way that struck me as . . .
tender
. He loved her, I realized then, not in words, but in actions.

When we were all seated at the dining room table, I said, “What is that smell?”