Love and Leftovers (16 page)

“Then tell me.”

“You know that feeling—

the one that says, ‘I want sex’?

Passion is more than that.

Love, conversation, understanding,

and the physical stuff—

all stirred together.”

“And you have passion cake?” she asks.

“Yeah. That’s what I want.”

To Cheer Me Up

Katie says we’re having a sleepover,

come hell or high water.

She already told Olive, Carolina, and Em.

I volunteer my house,

because I don’t want to go anywhere else.

At Albertsons we gather

essential supplies: popcorn, sodas,

pretzels, chips, and peanut M&M’s.

At the Redbox we gather essential movies:

Johnny Depp, Jude Law,

Michael Cera, and Jon Heder

(because we all have a weak spot

for the skinny, homely, Leftover,

Napoleon Dynamites of the world).

Temporary Tattoos

Just after ten,

we unroll our sleeping bags,

slip into our pj’s.

“What happened to you?” I ask Katie

as she emerges from the bathroom

in a baby-doll nightie.

“Sharpie fight,” she replies,

showing off the red, black, and green marks

on her arms and chest.

“With Angelo.”

“You lost?” I ask.

“No! He has an entire ninja battle

drawn on his stomach.”

“And you?”

Katie turns, lifts up her nightie,

and peels back her panties.

Olive gasps and covers her eyes.

Carolina explodes into a fit of giggles.

While Emily and I simply gawk.

On her ass, above her tattoo,

is the letter
I

(her tattoo is the kanji for “love”)

and under it,

lettered in awkward capitals,

ANGEL
.

Slumber Party Interruptus

Danny walks into the living room,

in his hot body and pajama bottoms,

and joins Carolina in laughing

at Em and me peering at Katie’s ass.

Olive tugs Katie’s nightgown

back into place.

“Who’s Angel?” Danny asks.

“My übercute boyfriend, Angelo,” Katie explains,

not at all fazed that Danny saw her bottom.

Sure, it was only for a millisecond. But still.

“I’ve got pictures,” she says, eager to share.

Danny joins her on the couch,

admiring the photos on her cell phone.

“Hispanic?” he asks.

“Puerto Rican,” Katie agrees.

“Sorry,” he says.

“But evidence suggests,

that boy is no angel.”

Tearjerker

I can tell Emily doesn’t

want to talk about boys

because she is crawling

backward into her shell.

I sit next to her

and ask her opinion

about which movie to watch.

She chooses
Chocolat
,

probably not

because of Johnny Depp.

But, I think, because

she knows how it ends,

and that it

will be okay to cry

when the grandmother dies.

The Truth about Emily

When Katie and I were in seventh grade

we’d relish the moments when we stepped aside

to let Emily Townsend-Smith pass us in the hall

because

she had curves where we were flat

she had highlights where our hair was frizzy

she had confidence where we were clumsy.

When I told Mom

I wanted curves, highlights, and confidence,

she said I should feel sorry for Emily Townsend-Smith

because

girls whose bodies grew up

before their minds could catch up

have a hard time in life.

When Katie and I were in eighth grade

and mobs of sevies

didn’t part like the Red Sea when we walked by,

we watched

Emily Townsend-Smith, the freshman,

flirt with the varsity quarterback, a senior,

in the food court at the mall.

When Katie and I were freshmen,

and Emily Townsend-Smith sat beside us

in ninth-grade math, science, and global studies,

she wore

baggy sweatshirts and corduroys,

sneakers and kneesocks,

her hair in a ponytail, sans highlights.

And she was as pretty as we remembered,

just fragile sad crushed,

hiding

a year behind her peers.

Never able to escape

the loss of her virginity and her baby the year before.

The Truth about Danny

After the sleepover,

Danny was more than some

gadget | appliance | addition

to my house.

I guess I have

Katie to thank for that.

Because she welcomed him

into her world with one

sweet, silly gesture.

I overheard them talking

about how we reminded Danny

of his high school friends—

all of them straight girls.

“Your friends were
Leftovers
?”

Katie asked.

“Leftovers?” Danny echoed.

“Individuals who don’t fit

into any one category.”

“We were like that,” he said.

“We called ourselves floaters—

drifting from sports

to theater to cheerleading

to what have you.”

“You were a
cheerleader
?”

“Nope,” Danny said.

“But I took one to prom.”

My Best Friend Is the Best

After school Katie and I

take over my kitchen table,

spreading out

notebooks, sketchbooks,

manga, and markers.

We play her iPod

over Dad’s speakers

and let J-pop mingle

with Bowling for Soup

and the Violent Femmes.

We write and draw

then trade notebooks

and let words mingle

with line, shape,

and color.

Then Again

I feel bad

about not calling Katie

when Linus and I broke up.

Sure, she was right,

I
was
a crap girlfriend.

And I felt awful enough

without her being there

to rub it in.

But the weird thing was

that I had gotten used to

not telling Katie everything.

I didn’t tell her about

making out with J.D.

in the summerhouse

and my very own

not-so-misplaced back rub.

I didn’t call her when

we pulled into the driveway

after seven months

of summer vacation.

I guess I was used

to keeping my secrets

to myself.

Out of Habit

I tie on my sneakers,

step into the brisk weather,

and attempt to regain my sanity

or lose it completely.

Most of the time,

Danny comes running after me

because he thinks that the Greenbelt,

Julia Davis Park, and the Boise State campus

are crawling with crazy people.

Thank God

he gets that I’m not always

in the mood to talk.

Unless it’s to complain about

how my teachers are annoying,

my homework assignments impossible,

and my grades dismal.

Driven

Dad took me

to the DMV,

made a big show

of picking up

a driver’s manual.

He made me

flash cards

about stopping,

and yielding,

and turning left.

Danny bought me

a remote control car

and has me parallel parking

between

cereal boxes.

Teaching me

to drive

has become

a friendly competition

between them.

And I’m

soaking up

the attention.

One Sunday Morning

“What?” Danny asks me. “No run?”

I look down at my pajamas.

I’d been thinking about pancakes

smothered in maple syrup,

coffee with a swirl of cream—

not running.

I look out the kitchen window.

And think about the crisp morning,

wrapped in a blanket of new snow;

our footprints would be the only ones—

not a soul in sight.

“I’ll run,” I tell Danny. “One minute.”

I pull on sweats and sneakers.

And we step out into the cold,

already immersed in conversation,

about how breakfast will taste better

once we’ve earned it.

“And Dad?” I ask. “Sleeping in?”

“We shouldn’t wake him,” Danny says.

“I like these runs being just the two of us—

you and me getting to know one another.”

“So you don’t mind me complaining?”

“Not one bit.”

Report Card

Dad sits me down

on the couch

for a heart-to-heart

about my grades.

He wasn’t surprised

that I had pretty much failed

my classes here in Boise

because I had

spent 99 percent of the semester

in New Hampshire.

But he doesn’t want to see Ds

ever

again.

So I Make a Study Date with Katie

But she doesn’t show up.

Doesn’t answer her phone.

So I stomp over to her house.

“Katie’s at Linus’s practicing,” her mom says.

My best friend forgot about me?

And she’s hanging out with my ex-boyfriend!

I tromp to his place and lean on the bell.

Linus’s oldest brother answers, baby on his hip.

“Katie here?” I ask him.

“Huh?”

“Katie Raskolnikov? The girl in the band?”

“Who are you, anyway?”

“It’s me, Roland. Marcie.”

“Dammmn,” he drawls in slow disbelief

as he tilts his head and studies me.

“Can I come in?”

“No wonder Linus is totally bummed . . .

little Marcie’s a hottie.”

I half ignore him and clomp up the stairs.

The familiar notes of “Blister in the Sun”

greet me when I step into the bonus room.

Ian, Linus, and Katie don’t look up

from their instruments and Linus starts to sing,

“When I’m out walking I strut my stuff . . .

let me go on—” Linus stops midsentence.

“Big hands I—” Katie cuts the riff.

“Hi, Marcie,” Linus says.

“Oh my God!” Katie says.

“I’m so sorry. I forgot about you.”

Outside on the Thomases’ Front Steps Katie Reveals