The Thing About Leftovers (7 page)

On Friday morning,
I found Zach waiting for me on his front porch again. “Your mom doesn't like me,” he said as soon as he met me on the sidewalk.

I turned away, watching my breath crystallize on the air like smoke. “C'mon,” I said. “It's too cold to stand around.” We started walking.

“What'd she say?” Zach asked.

I thought about what Mom had said and felt myself smile. Zach would probably take it as a compliment—black leather and all. “She called you ‘slick.'”

Zach laughed. And laughed. And laughed.

So I did, too.

We were almost to school by the time we settled down. As we stepped off the sidewalk, into the grass, Zach said, “Your mom's right, though. When you're on your own, you learn real quick that it's best for everybody if you just say whatever the adults want to hear, you know?” And then he pulled the door open for me.

I nodded as I passed, like I completely understood, even though I wasn't sure what Zach was talking about. All I really knew was that maybe he didn't think I had good looks after
all—he'd just said what he thought Mom wanted to hear—right?

“Later,” Zach said.

“No hot chocolate?” I half whined, coming to a dead stop in the hallway, causing the boy behind me to bump my backpack.

“Can't do it every day—wouldn't want to take advantage.” Zach smiled and winked, then headed for his homeroom.

I thought about what Zach had said all through science class. And even though I didn't fully understand where he was coming from, I was pretty sure I understood part of it: It really was easier on everybody to just say whatever the adults wanted to hear, or, in my case, it was easier on everybody if I
didn't
say whatever the adults
didn't
want to hear—like how Mom doesn't want to hear about Dad, and Dad doesn't want to hear about Mom. Would I become “slick”? I tried to imagine myself dressed in black leather from head to toe, maybe with silver, spiky bracelets around my wrists, which caused me to giggle.

“Something you'd like to share, Miss Russo?” Mr. Moss said.

I sat up straight. “No, sir.”
Not if my life depended on it.
After that, I stayed focused on my work.

• • •

By Friday night, I realized there was a lot about Zach that I didn't know—and probably couldn't even guess. But I
did
know three very important things: 1) I knew that no one at school was going to laugh at Miyoko again—or me either probably—because there was a rumor that Miyoko could kill a person just as fast as she could look at them; 2) I knew four out of the five
recipes I was going to send to
Southern Living
on Monday; and 3) I knew another reason why I didn't want my mom to marry Keene, on top of all the other reasons. If Mom married Keene, then she'd be starting fresh on her dream of having a family. If you ask me, that's an awful lot like starting fresh on dinner. And if Mom was starting fresh, then that made me a kind of leftover, didn't it? Yes, I was a leftover from her previous attempt at marriage and family.

Here's the thing about leftovers: Nobody is ever excited about them; they're just something you have to deal with, like Keene has to deal with me. No matter how hard you try, leftovers are never exactly what they used to be—and I'm not either. If you ignore them or forget about them, they start to stink, and if you try to serve them alongside a freshly made meal, they never fit in quite right—do you want leftover spaghetti with your fajitas? Ugh! Leftover spaghetti is the worst! See, when you reheat spaghetti noodles, they overcook and turn to mush. And no matter what you do with them, leftover spaghetti noodles stick together in clumps. They get hard in some spots and soggy in others. If you want my opinion, it's best to just throw leftover spaghetti away. And I was leftover spaghetti! No, I was
worse
than leftover spaghetti, and a lot more trouble—does a visit from the fire department ring any bells?—and I
couldn't
be thrown away.

I'd wanted to talk to Aunt Liz about all of this as it was taking shape in my mind that afternoon, but I didn't think I could do it yet without crying. Somewhere between the cooking and the homework, Parents' Night, and all the upset over Keene
and my purple cake, I'd gotten tired.
Too
tired. And when I get too tired, I get sort of wilty and weepy and turn to mush. Like leftover spaghetti. Yuck.

So, there I was, standing in my kitchen at 9:08 on Friday night with tired-tears in my eyes, trying to decide whether to go to bed or try out Great-Grandma Russo's recipe for lasagna. I really was tired. And we didn't have the exact ingredients the recipe called for. And Mom and I had already eaten dinner. And I already had four recipes to send to
Southern Living
, and really, four was enough, wasn't it? I decided to go to bed.

But before I reached the bottom step, I heard Keene's voice somewhere in the back of my mind:
Cecily, you don't really believe she can win the contest, do you?
Then I heard my mother's voice:
Of course I believe she can win.
Two things carried me back to the kitchen that night, when I really wanted to go to bed: 1) I really wanted to prove Keene wrong; and 2) I really wanted to prove Mom right.

I filled our biggest pot with water, added a dash of salt, and set the pot on the stove to boil. Then I began preparing all my ingredients in bowls—
mise en place
style. Since we didn't have some of the ingredients, I had to get creative and come up with substitutions, but I like being creative. Soon I didn't feel tired anymore. I was having fun.

I was having so much fun that I became television star Fizzy Russo, of
Fabulous Foods and Feasts with Fizzy Russo
. I smiled for the cameras and pretended my mismatched bowls matched. For a few seconds, I was tempted to put on my mom's engagement ring for when the cameras zoomed in on my
hands. I mean, the ring was
right there
on the windowsill above the kitchen sink—where she leaves it whenever she cooks or cleans. But I figured if I could pretend glass bowls, then I could pretend rings on my fingers, too, and I left Mom's ring where it was.

“Now, if you don't have Italian sausage,” I told my pretend audience, “then you can use any kind of sausage or hamburger if you like.” I smiled sweetly.

“Fizzy?” Mom said, coming up behind me.

I jumped, let out a spastic
aaaah!
and then turned.

“Fizzy, what are you doing? It's almost ten o'clock,” Mom said, pulling her cardigan closed tight over her pajamas.

“I'm making lasagna,” I said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Mom gave me a serious look of disapproval and I thought it was a good thing that I wasn't wearing her engagement ring.

“It's for the contest,” I said. “We can eat it all weekend . . . I bet Keene will like it, too.” I thought that was a nice touch.

And it worked. “All right,” Mom said, softening, “but straight to bed as soon as you're finished. We have a lot of shopping to do tomorrow.”

“Yes, ma'am,” I said as Zach's words echoed through my mind:
It's best for everybody if you just say whatever the adults want to hear.

Mo
m stood
in the three-way department store mirror wearing a long, shimmery, whipped-cream-colored gown.

Tired from the late-night lasagna and this morning's parade of bridal gowns, I sat on the floor cross-legged in front of her.

“What do you think, Fizzy?” Mom asked.

At that moment, I thought she was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen. And it gave me hope—because Mom has the same kind of hair and eyes as I do—she even has a few freckles sprinkled across her nose, like sugar on a cookie.

“Fizzy?” Mom said, uncertain. “What's the matter? You don't like it, do you?”

“No, ma'am,” I said. “I
love
it. It's beautiful. You're beautiful.”

Tears of happiness glittered in Mom's green eyes and I knew then that I could never tell her about feeling like leftover spaghetti. Never, because I loved her and I really did want her to be happy. I really did want her dreams to come true. I really did.

Mom took one last long look in the mirror and then said, “All right, it's your turn.”

I tried on two itchy peach-colored dresses that Mom—naturally—loved.

“What don't you like about them?” she asked, tilting her head to one side as she looked at me.

“This stuff,” I said, lifting the top layer of the skirt to show her the stiff, netted, cheese-cloth-like material underneath.

“Those are crinolines,” Mom said.

I raked my fingernails up and down my thighs.

“Well,” Mom said, “we can't have you scratching yourself like that at the wedding, so I'll go look for something else.”

The door to the dressing room had barely clicked closed before I had that dress up over my head and off. Then I just stood there awkwardly in my underwear, waiting for Mom to bring more dresses.

A few minutes later, I heard Mom coming down the hall, saying, “I've found it, Fizzy. This is the one. I just know it.”

I cracked the door and Mom handed the dress through. “But, Mom,” I said, “it's purple.”

“To match your cake,” she said.

I loved the dress. Not only did it not have itchy crinolines, it was the most elegant shade of purple—kind of silvery.

• • •

After we'd paid for our dresses, Mom and I went looking for matching shoes.

“What do you think of these?” Mom asked, holding up a shoe.

I searched Mom's face, trying to decide if she was joking. “Ummmm . . . those are
gym
shoes,” I informed her.

“I know,” she said. “When I saw Coach Bryant at Parents' Night, he suggested that you bring an extra pair of gym shoes to keep at school.”

“Okay,” I said too quickly, hoping that would be the end of it,
really
hoping that Coach Bryant hadn't said anything else—like how I scarcely participate in gym class, how bad I am at it when I do, and how I'm always last-picked for any team—these are not topics I'd like to discuss. At all.

But apparently, Coach Bryant hadn't said anything else, because Mom moved right on to a delicate pair of pearl-beaded, whipped-cream-colored high heels.

• • •

“This is the best lasagna I've ever tasted,” Keene said that night at dinner.

“Fizzy made it,” Mom said proudly.

“Unbelievable,” Keene said.

I thought it was pretty good myself. In fact, I thought it was
Southern Living
Cook-Off good and I was glad I'd taken the time to jot down the substitutions I'd used.

As Mom and I cleared the dishes, Keene said, “So are you two ever going to show me those dresses?”

“Not mine,” Mom said right away. “It's bad luck for the groom to see the bride's dress before the wedding. But you can see Fizzy's.”

“Okay,” Keene said agreeably.

I rolled my eyes. He was just being nice for Mom's sake. I knew he didn't really want to see my dress. Who cares what you put on leftovers? You can dress them up and garnish them all you want, but they're still leftovers and everybody knows it.

Of course, Mom brought my new dress down to the dining room and showed it to Keene anyway.

“I like it,” Keene said, nodding. “I like it a lot.”

Mom smiled at me, as if to say,
See? See how nice Keene is?

I didn't respond.

“I'll just run upstairs and put this back,” Mom said, giving Keene some sort of look as she pulled the plastic back down over my dress.

I was still trying to figure out what the look meant when Keene said, “Have a seat, Fizzy.”

Oh,
I thought.
It was a talk-to-her look.
I sighed and dropped into a chair.

“I really like your dress,” Keene said. “I like the color purple.”

“Thanks,” I muttered.

He folded his hands into a steeple on top of the table.

I waited for him to speak, thinking of the nursery rhyme I'd learned at church when I was little:
Here is the church, here is the steeple . . . open it up and see all the people.

“You know, Fizzy,” Keene said, “I don't have any kids. I don't really even
know
any kids.”

I just stared at him, not knowing what I was supposed to say to that.
I know? Yes, sir, it's pretty obvious? I'm sorry? Good for you?

Keene took a sip of iced tea and set his glass back down on the table. “And I've been by myself for a long time.”

I watched the beads of condensation slide down his glass.

“And when you're by yourself, you can be selfish because you only have yourself to think about. Do you understand?”

I nodded absently, without taking my eyes off his tea.

Keene shifted uncomfortably. “What I'm trying to say is that I'm still learning.”

I nodded again.

He reached out like he was going to touch my hand, but I pulled it back—so that he couldn't.

Keene sighed. “Look, Fizzy, I could tell you that I love you and that I'm excited about becoming your stepfather, but the truth is, you and I don't know each other well enough for any of that.”

“I know,” I mumbled into my lap. “I don't expect you to love me.”

Keene held up his index finger and said, “But I do. I expect to love you, in time, just like I grew to love your mother in time. It's just going to take some time, that's all.”

What is it with adults and time? An adult's solution for almost any problem is time (well, except for Coach Bryant, whose solution is fresh air and exercise).
In time, you'll understand. You'll get used to it in time. You'll make friends in time. In time, it'll all be okay. In time, maybe I'll love you. Maybe. Maybe not.

“Don't worry about it,” I said, feeling the tears coming and not knowing why. I stood.

“Fizzy, please, listen to me,” Keene said.

I sat back down.

“I have every reason to believe that we can all be very happy together. If I didn't believe that, I wouldn't have asked your mother to marry me . . . and she wouldn't have said yes.”

I wanted to believe him. I really did.

“And we still have time. I promise you, Fizzy, if I ever start
to think we can't be happy together, all of us, then your mom and I won't get married—at least, not for a while.”

“Okay,” I said, closing my eyes—so the tears couldn't escape—and drawing a ragged breath.

“For now, let's try to get to know each other,” Keene said. “Let's try to become friends, okay?”

I opened my eyes. “You want to be my friend?” I said in disbelief.

“Yes, I do. I can be a good friend, Fizzy. I'm a really good friend.”

Not to be outdone, I said, “I'm a good friend, too.”

Keene smiled.

I smiled back.

• • •

That night, I added to my Things I Like About Keene List:

3) Likes my lasagna.

4) Likes the color purple.

I like those things, too. And after all, I'd started friendships over lesser things. Recently, I'd started one friendship over a marble, and another over a common route to school.

Plus, I had to give Keene some credit for not hating me the way I hated leftovers. Okay, so he didn't love me, but he didn't hate me either.