Love and Leftovers (5 page)

press his fingers to my ribs, and feel my beating heart.

Then I’d know.

I know I’d know.

I’d know

I was in love.

America Runs on Dunkin’

On a Monday

in mid-September,

J.D. brings me a Boston cream doughnut

and coffee in a pink-and-orange Styrofoam cup.

He tells me not to worry,

“Carbs burn off at practice.”

“Yeah,” I agree with a shrug.

“Thanks for breakfast.”

J.D. smiles down at me

and doesn’t notice Sam

passing us in the crowded hall.

She rolls her eyes skyward

and shakes her head.

Later, I’m shaking mine too

because I can’t quite believe

that J.D. thinks

I am skinny enough

to be a runner.

Then I remember

that ever since we ran away,

the fridge hasn’t always

been full of carbs.

Give Me a Break, Sam

I am not some horrible person.

I was just talking to him—

not batting my eyelashes

or pulling some
CosmoGirl

how-to-hook-a-hottie move.

A lot of girls (and some guys)

would think J.D. was cute.

Any girl with a pulse

would’ve wanted to brush that

powdered sugar from his lips.

Sure, I have a boyfriend.

A wonderful, sweet, talented boyfriend.

But Linus isn’t here right now.

So give me a break.

Talking to Linus Is Depressing

Linus tells me about his music lessons,

then puts me on speaker and strums his guitar.

I can hear him singing softly to keep the beat.

Hmm, hmm come September

Hmm, hmm I’ll remember

All those sunny days I spent with you

Hmm, hmm come October

Hmm, hmm I’ll be sober

Every lonely evening without you

Hmm, hmm come November

Hmm, hmm I’ll reconsider

Walking down the highway to reach you

Hmm, hmm come December

Hmm, hmm I’ll be dismembered

by the snowplow passing through

“Linus!” I shout into the phone. “Stop it!”

“Those aren’t the real words,” he promises me.

“I forgot the words and made something up.

What did you think of the guitar, sans words?”

All I can say is that it sounds nice,

and I really miss watching his fingers move over the strings

because that was my favorite part

of having an emo-rocker boyfriend.

“Favorite?” he asks.

“I also liked the kissing,” I say.

It doesn’t come out funny, or flirty, or however I meant it.

It just reminds us that we’re having

a long-distance relationship.

The kind everyone says

is doomed from the start.

BFF

Sometimes I want

nothing more

than to be writing poems

in my blue notebook

while Katie doodles

anime ninja girls

battling bat-winged

skeletons with vampire fangs

in hers.

I want to

trade notebooks with Katie

so my poems will grow emo vines

with bloodthirsty flowers

and her ninja girls will voice

their anger and

odd romantic attractions

to the homely monsters.

HOME Is a Four-Letter Word

Missing Katie,

I tell my mother

that I want to go home.

But all she does is ask me

what kind of mother she would be

if she left her daughter

to fend for herself

2,700 miles away?

I wonder if

I shake her hard enough,

will all the pieces

of her scattered thoughts

fall into place?

September 14–11:45 P.M.

Speaking of Good-Looking Guys

On the fourteenth Boston cream,

I tell J.D.

that I prefer

glazed sour cream,

or jelly with powdered sugar.

And he says

he might bring me one

if I’d be his date

for the homecoming dance.

And before I say anything,

he goes on to explain

that all school athletes

are strongly encouraged to attend.

“Tradition,” he rambles, “is big here

and since you have to go too,

we might as well go together.”

“Yeah,” I agree,

as if I wasn’t totally thrilled

to be asked to the dance.

Thank God for Football

I had to come clean

so I sat across from J.D.

over slices at Wildcat’s,

the UNH game blaring.

“I’m not on the track team,”

I said,

figuring he’d hate me

and save me from saying

the next thing

on my list.

He mumbled through mozzarella

that it was okay.

Which wasn’t exactly

what I wanted to hear.

A conversation-halting touchdown

rumbled through the pizza parlor

before

I told J.D. that we’d be going

to the homecoming dance

as just friends.

Which,

now that I think about it,

would have been

a really stupid thing to say.

Because we are

just friends.

I Don’t Have a Dress to Wear

so I ask Mom to take me to the mall in Manchester.

“Even better,” she says, and plans a day trip into Boston.

I imagine Filene’s Basement

overflowing with satin gowns

and strapless velvet dresses.

I am so happy

to get Mom

out of the house

and weaving

swerving

down Boston’s

curvy streets,

that I hardly

notice we’re in

Aunt Greta’s

neighborhood

instead of the city.

Greta greets us with a smile

as wide as mine.

The Perfect Dress

The three of us giggle like girlfriends

as Aunt Greta empties her attic

of every dress the Otis/O’Grady girls have ever worn:

Great-Grandmother Gigi’s black one

she wears to funerals

Grammie Iris’s baby-blue prom dress, circa 1963

Aunt Greta’s collection of bridesmaid atrocities

Mom’s ivory wedding dress.

Cautious,

because I don’t want to ruin the mood,

I skip past the funeral blacks and the bridal whites

to the blue satin one,

saying that everyone always said,

I look most like Grammie Iris, except for Dad’s dark hair.

I slip it on

zip it up

and fluff it out.

In the mirror, I look a bit like Cinderella

crossed with Snow White.

My mother says

it brings out my eyes.

Greta shows me

how a tulle petticoat

fills out the skirt.

Mom and Greta giggle

and squeeze into sassy dresses

just to be silly.

Still wearing our sneakers,

we hop the T at Harvard Square

and ride downtown

to treat ourselves to dim sum.

Careful not to drip

sweet and sour sauce

on our

evening gowns.

J.D. Picks Me Up

wearing a tuxedo and driving a Jeep.

Mom gives me a look

mixed with admiration

(because she agrees that J.D. looks like a prince)

and concern

(because she thinks that J.D. looks like a player).

I tell her not to worry

and kiss her on the cheek.

(I won’t be getting kissed anywhere else myself.)

“Hey,” he says as he turns onto the main road.

“Thanks for coming with me tonight.”

“No problem,” I reply. “It’ll be fun.”

“You haven’t been to an Oyster River dance.

They’re a drag if you don’t have someone to talk to.”

“I was wondering why you asked me.”

“Really?” J.D. glances over at me and smiles.

“I thought that much was obvious.”

“What’s obvious?” I ask.

“I want us to be friends,” he says.

“That’s why I bring you breakfast.”

Duh!
I say to myself.

God, I’m so stupid—

just because J.D.’s totally hot

doesn’t mean he wants to date

every girl who stumbles

into his life.

Homecoming at OR

is more like a pep rally

with a little lame music

and dancing thrown in.

J.D. doesn’t dance so great.