Read Love and Leftovers Online
Authors: Sarah Tregay
Love and Leftovers (8 page)
But I’m worried that
if Linus is gay like my father,
I’ll become depressed like my mother.”
My decision not to sit with Sam
(that tall girl with tie-dyed hair)
comes back to haunt me
as I eat pizza alone
on Halloween night
with zero girlfriends to
watch scary movies with
in all of New England.
Someone changes the channel
and a list of upcoming programs
fills the screen.
Instead of feeling sorry for myself,
I order another slice.
(To go.)
“Hey,” I say to Mom when I get home.
“I brought you dinner.”
“Thanks, honey.”
“Would you watch TV with me?
It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown
is coming on at seven.”
(Not scary, I know,
but horror films aren’t Mom’s thing.)
“I’d love to,” she says,
and closes her computer.
fill every seat,
scarfing down pizza
and yelling at the flat screen
when some poor sucker
fumbles the ball.
The only subject
that tugs at their attention spans
is a gaggle of coeds
in tight jeans
and tank tops (in November)
who flirt without mercy
flashing Crest Whitestrips smiles
and cleavage.
One girl takes a seat
on the cutest guy’s lap.
She steals a slice,
tips her head back,
and laughs.
And I wonder
what it would take
to become one of those girls.
I could
buy my shirts a size too small,
and bleach my teeth until they glow in the dark.
I could laugh at the frat boys’ jokes
as I park my butt
on some cute guy’s knee.
I wouldn’t be me.
But maybe I’d like
taking a break
from myself.
My mother always warned me
that certain combinations
will attract the wrong
kind of attention
like black bras and white T-shirts,
or mascara and miniskirts,
bathing suits with zippers,
or lipstick with high heels.
She’s talking about attracting:
college boys in tight undershirts
with ponytails and goatees
lifeguards in red board shorts
with blue eyes and suntans
jocks in black Adidas
with big hands and firm biceps.
It doesn’t take me long
to put two and two together,
mix the wrong combinations
like push-up bras and tank tops,
lip gloss and eyeliner,
perfume and a bomber jacket.
Just like the girl
who didn’t get in trouble
for stealing a slice of pizza.
The next Friday,
not a seat in the house
is without an ass.
J.D. waves me over to an already full table,
puts his arm around my waist,
and pulls me down to sit on his lap.
We drink Cokes, eat slices, and watch the Patriots
run-dodge their way down the field,
ready to leap up and cheer at a moment’s notice.
During commercials
J.D.’s fingers tickle my thighs
as he toys with the hem of my skirt.
Motherly Advice for the Teenage Soul
Mom always told me
to stand up for myself
to not put up with rude boys,
roaming fingers, and wandering hands.
And I always thought I would
stand up for myself
and refuse their advances,
stray strokes, and wayward gropes.
Yet, I am sitting, sipping my soda
and enjoying every delicious minute of it.
A thought bubbles up
through my carbonated brain:
Linus.
I brush J.D.’s fingers away from my legs,
whispering, “Not now,”
so he won’t think that I don’t like him
(I do)
or how he touched me
(I like that too).
I’d tell him that I have a boyfriend, just
not now.
The next day at school,
J.D. dangles a paper bag over my head:
“I got something for you.”
I consider reaching for the Dunkin’ Donuts,
but his T-shirt rides up,
and the
trail
of
blond
hairs
trickling
down
his
six-
pack
abs
makes me hungry
for other things.
If my friends and family
were foods,
J.D. would
be dessert,
you know,
like bananas Foster
dripping
with caramel
and
on fire.
You’d think that my mother would have remembered
that she gave birth to a baby girl sixteen years ago
and wake up to make her pancakes
before school.
You’d think that my mother would have remembered
watching Molly Ringwald blow out her sixteen candles
all those years ago.
But she is tucked in a fog
under a blue comforter
of Ambien and depression.
I even let the phone ring four times,
thinking it sounds like an alarm clock.
“Sugar Cookie, happy birthday!” Dad says.
“I wanted to be the first one to wish you well.”
“Don’t worry, Daddy,
you were.”
J.D. brings me a jelly doughnut
and coffee with cream.
“You wanted a sour cream?” he asks
when I
start to cry.
At 3:20 That Afternoon Everyone Remembers
On his way to soccer practice,
J.D. promises to take me out for a celebration,
to be ready at eight.
Uncle Arthur picks me up at school
and we swing by the deli
to buy sandwiches.
At our apartment,
Aunt Greta says she left work at noon
to avoid the traffic.
Mom smiles
and wraps a hug around me
to make me forget this morning.
Arthur, Greta, Mom, and I
drive to the summerhouse and build a fire,
to celebrate with birthday sandwiches on the patio
furniture.
Greta gives me a big, flat box wrapped in glossy paper.
Inside is a pale ivory parka with a faux fur collar.
I pull it on, zip it up, and tell her she shouldn’t have.
“To make up for the panties.”
Arthur gives me a yellow envelope,
a gift card to the mall in Manchester.
I thank him, give him a hug, and kiss his scratchy cheek.
“To get there, you’ll have to give me a call.”
Mom produces a teddy bear from inside a grocery bag.
It’s soft and squishy, with caramel fur and chocolate eyes.
I hold it close, feeling like a child as tears threaten.
“To talk to, when I’m not the best listener.”
Three Gifts Are in Blue-and-White Priority Mail Boxes
A blushing pink camisole from Katie.
“To wear to bed. Every girl deserves to feel sexy.”
A black Moleskine journal from Linus.
“To replace that blue notebook. Which is probably full.”
A pearl necklace from Dad and Danny.
“No need to explain real pearls to real women.”
My lawn chair is stacked with gifts,
and I am swirling on an emotional carnival ride,
holding a teddy bear
and wearing a too-fancy necklace with a parka,
wishing Linus had sent me the camisole,
yet glad he didn’t
because Mom doesn’t think
lingerie is an appropriate gift
for a guy to give a girl.
After Greta and Arthur Kiss Me Good Night
J.D. picks me up,
and promises my mother
I’ll be back by midnight.
He takes me to an oversized house
on Faculty Row
with warm light spilling from windows.
We are greeted with a big “Surprise!”
from J.D.’s friends from school,
his mom and dad,
and a pair of redheaded little girls
who must be his sisters.
“Mahcie!” they shout over the commotion.
“We made you a cake,
shaped like a heart
with pink frosting
and sixteen candles.”
And happy sad tears
almost spill
when they show me
the gooey, lopsided cake
topped with pastel candles
ready to be lit.
is to fall
cranium over Converse
in dizzy daydream-worthy
love.
J.D. drives me home,
parks the Jeep on the street,
and walks me to the door
long before midnight.
“Thank you,” I tell him.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“Don’t worry, Mahcie,” he whispers.
“I wanted to.”
Like the earth pulling on the moon,
and the moon pulling on the tide,
his lips gravitate
toward mine.
I feel
like I’m standing
in a rocking canoe.
The only way
I am able to fall asleep
is to promise myself that
I’ll straighten everything out
in the morning.
I wonder what Dad would say
if I told him that
I liked two boys.
Would he ask me
if they were cute?
Yes, I’d tell him.
One in a brown-eyed, emo,
Dan Humphrey
kind of way.
The other in a David Beckham
meets Prince Harry
sorta way.
Then I’d ask him how he managed
the ping-ponging feelings
that accompany liking
two people at one time.
Because kissing J.D.
felt amazing one minute
and terrible the next.
Would he tell me
that liking two people
wasn’t a problem,
but acting on those feelings
was one helluva bad idea?
Would he tell me
that falling out of love
isn’t nearly as painful
as admitting it?
Would he tell me
that it would’ve broken his heart
to tell Mom the truth—
so he chickened out
and didn’t tell her?
Would he tell me
that taking a sledgehammer
to the house he built
was the last thing
he wanted to do?
Would he tell me
he loved me
almost
more than anything,
but not enough
to keep pretending?
I have done my history assignment,
my geometry proofs,
and an essay for English.
I have cleaned the kitchen,
my bedroom,
and even the toilet.
I have taken out the trash,
the recycling,
and taken a walk.
I haven’t called J.D.
or Linus
or even Katie.
I haven’t solved my problem.
I haven’t told J.D., “It was only a kiss—
I have a boyfriend.
I made a mistake.”
I haven’t told Linus, “I kissed another boy.
It didn’t mean anything,
but I thought you should know
I made a mistake.”
I haven’t IM’d Katie
because she’s friends with Linus
and my mistake