Love and Leftovers (4 page)

She counts every calorie and wears padded bras

to compensate for her lack of curves.

I get where she’s coming from—

a chubby childhood—and she gets me.

too athletic to be nerds,

Garrett is Olympics material.

He rides his bicycle fifty miles a day

and talks a mile a minute.

He’s cute in that jock-meets-geek kind of way.

and too clean to be stoners.

Ian is thoughtful, generous, and a vegetarian,

but hates that we know these things about him.

He’d rather be known for his mad drum skills.

Things I Left Behind in Boise, Poem 5:

MY SECURITY BLANKET

Everyone says

I am too old

for a security blanket.

But a baby blanket

tucked in my

dresser drawer back home

is a lot

less expensive

than

psychotherapy.

And I’m

starting to think

that I should have

brought it

with me.

Things I Left Behind in Boise, Poem 6:

MY BABY FAT

I was a pale, chubby child

with permanent teeth that seemed too big for my face—

a combination ripe for jokes and embarrassment.

It was like I was destined to be a Leftover.

I wore too-big sweatshirts to hide my pudge

and closed my lips tight over my teeth.

Which didn’t win me friends.

Only Katie could make me smile.

And although she, Olive, and Carolina were friends first,

I became her BFF.

We didn’t know it in sixth grade,

but we were slowly becoming Leftovers.

Sure, I grew taller

and my round tummy became breasts, hips and thighs.

Sure, I got my braces off

and my teeth no longer seemed too big for my face.

So by the time I finished junior high

I looked normal.

Not pretty or skinny, just average.

But I had already been labeled a Leftover.

When My Mother Takes an Ambien

I have eight hours to devote to whatever I choose.

Some nights, I take her laptop

down to the end of the lane

to pick up a Wi-Fi signal from the neighbors,

IM Katie, and watch Linus’s music videos.

Other nights, I sit facing the glowing coals

and read steamy romance novels that Aunt Greta

has left behind.

Without Mom to tell me

to get off the computer,

or to come inside unless I want West Nile,

I can hang out with my friends (online).

Without Mom to tell me

that weak female characters

are the result of an unimaginative author,

I can read about women who go weak in the knees

at the sight of a cowboy in Levis

and nothing else.

But most of the time

I write poems in this blue notebook

because

I feel free

when Mom is out cold.

The Worst Thing
I Have Ever Done

was lie to my parents

and say

it was a girls-only

slumber party

in Katie’s backyard.

No.

We didn’t do anything

that we needed condoms for

because

Olive, Katie, and Carolina

Garrett, Angelo, and Ian

were there.

The Best Thing
Linus Ever Did

was sneak out of the house

and crash

the sleepover/campout,

spending the night

in my sleeping bag.

And,

to tell you the truth,

we couldn’t really

move

with two people

in one

Snoopy sleeping bag.

Driver’s License Daydreams

When Linus calls

I take the cordless outside on the porch.

“I wish you were here,” he says.

“I’ve never had my own room before,

and it’s kind of lonely.”

“Maybe I’ll move in,” I say.

“You wouldn’t want to.

My dad’s gonna lose his job.

Roland’s working double shifts.

And I’m on constant babysitting duty.”

“I dunno. Might be okay.”

“Mom and Dad were joking

about charging Roland rent.

And I said he should pay me, too.

Roland said he’d trade

babysitting for driving lessons.”

“Free drivers’ ed? That’s great!”

“And he’ll let me borrow his car.”

“Road trip?”

“Maybe we can go to Bruneau.”

“And go sledding on the sand dunes.”

We toss ideas back and forth

until Roland’s Honda has seen Canada,

Mexico, and every state in between.

And, like all of our conversations,

it reminds us that we are miles apart

when we’d rather be close together.

“This long-distance thing sucks,” he says

as if he read my mind.

The Boat

My mother gives me money

to pick up some dinner

in order to celebrate

the first draft of her novel.

“No,” I say. “I have homework.

And I’m tired of running your errands

when you’re the one with a driver’s license!”

She looks at me funny, then says,

I didn’t know you could go

anyplace useful in a boat.

I’m from Idaho,

where boats are for

fishing, waterskiing, and boogie boarding.

Not errands.

“I thought that was how

you were doing groceries,” Mom says.

I don’t tell her

I’ve been walking into Durham

when all I had to do

was borrow the boat.

I Don’t Like Lobster Anyway

I sulk

on the dock

bobbing on the waves

until

my mother

promises

me

pizza.

Dominoes

Do you hate the person

who tapped the first domino down?

Or do you hate the domino

for not standing up for itself?

And if you are the second domino,

and you get toppled, do you hate yourself?

Dad tapped the first domino

by opening the proverbial closet.

Mom fell over.

And me? I toppled too.

(And landed on the far side of the continent.)

But I can’t hate my dad

just because he’s gay.

I love him.

Nor can I leave Mom

when she’s so down.

She needs me.

And this

pile of dominoes

is
not
my fault.

Half-and-Half

Half the time I’m angry with Dad

for opening up that closet door

and letting the whole mess spill out.

If I could, I’d push it back:

his change of heart,

his boyfriend Danny,

the mess he made of our family.

I’d slam the door and lock it tight.

Half the time I’m mad at Mom

for running from Pandora’s box

and not finding her way back home.

If I could, I’d break her free:

from her depression,

her ideas about independence,

her East Coast childhood haunts.

I’d bash the bolts and bust her chains.

Oyster River High School

isn’t so bad

(once the bus driver picks you up).

At least no one has pointed out

that wearing the same outfit more than once

and/or

wearing white shorts after Labor Day

is some sort of fashion faux pas.

In fact,

J.D.,

a bulky soccer player with

boy-next-door dimples,

sandy red hair, and a Prince Harry grin,

who sits at my lunch table,

thinks I’m into sports.

I should say, “Not really,”

but instead, I tell him, “Distance,”

and hope he thinks cross-country

instead of walking into Durham

for groceries and laundry.

The Leftover Lovers YouTube Performance #1

(LINUS THOMAS ON GUITAR/VOCALS,
KATIE RASKOLNIKOV ON BASS,
AND IAN WONG ON DRUMS)

I see couples riding double on a Schwinn bike

I think of you and I know what I like

I’m sitting in the back of class

Picking my nose and thinkin’ past

Boise High School auditorium

Dancing barefoot in the gym

Westside Drive-In, the Egyptian

Gene Harris Band Shell

Blue Sky Bagels

I see brunette girls laughin’ in the library

I think of you and think of me

Eating pancakes at the IHOP

I think of you and have to stop

Boise High School auditorium

Dancing barefoot in the gym

Westside Drive-In, the Egyptian

Gene Harris Band Shell

Blue Sky Bagels

I think of you and know what I like

I think of you ridin’ double on my Schwinn bike

I think of you and know what I like

I Know I Like Him

I know

Linus is my boyfriend

and he’s adorable

in his own Linusy ways.

I know

he’s my second-best friend

who’d tie for first

if it wouldn’t hurt Katie’s feelings.

I know

how smart he is

and that he’d trade it all in

for an ounce of athletic ability.

I know

his music is like my poetry—

an inward glance and

an outlet for expression.

I know

we could be made-for-TV soul mates

who fall ass-over-teakettle

in crazy, amazing love.

I know

I like resting my head on his shoulder

while we watch movies

on the couch.

I know

I like kissing him in the hall between classes

while everyone else

tries not to see.

But how do I know

when it’s love?

A Feeling Like Falling

Katie says, “You can’t choose the time and place

the when and where

and with whom

you fall in love.”

She says, “It just happens

like that weird feeling just before you fall asleep

when you gasp in surprise because your

muscles just relaxed

and you feel like you are falling.”

She says, “Marcie, you shouldn’t

worry about it—

give it time

to actually happen.”

I guess,

I worry that I won’t do it right.

That it’ll be the wrong time,

the wrong place,

the wrong person.

I mean,

I
am
related to my father

who fell in love

when he was already married

at the straight-friendly bar across from the opera

with a
guy
named Danny.

If Only We Could Be Together

If only Linus and I could walk downtown on

Thursday nights

when musicians play on the street corners

and art galleries serve crackers and cheese.

If only we could dance on the sidewalk,

look up at the sequined sky,

and wish upon the same shooting star.

If only Linus could teach me chords on his guitar,

reach around to adjust my fingers

and help me strum.

If only we could sing about autumn mist and sealing wax,

hear our voices mingle,

and stir the air as one.

And by being with Linus

I’d figure it out.

I’d learn what love is.

If only Linus would kiss me,

touch the skin under my shirt,