The Thing About Leftovers (17 page)

I felt so far
from perfect and so ashamed the next morning that I didn't want to get out of bed. And I definitely didn't want to come out of my room. I didn't know how I'd ever be able to come out and face anyone again.

But I didn't have a choice, because eventually Mom came in, bringing a tray of food with her. I sat up and Mom placed the tray on my lap: green tea, beef broth, toast, orange Jell-O, a napkin, and two spoons—because I don't like my silverware to be cross-contaminated with food other than the one I'm using it to eat.

“Thank you,” I said, and I meant it, because even though I wasn't hungry, somehow that tray made me feel like I was better than leftovers, like I
mattered
, like someone cared how I felt—even about silverware.

“You're welcome,” Mom said, pulling the chair from my desk over to sit down beside me. “How're you feeling?”

“Better,” I said.

“So . . . ,” Mom said, and I knew she was waiting for me to explain last night.

“I was sick,” I said, hoping this would be enough.

Mom waited for me to say more.

“With sickness,” I added. “I'm sorry.”

“That's all right,” Mom said easily. “Everybody wants to go home to their mom when they aren't well. But, Fizzy, are you sure that's all it was? There's nothing else bothering you?”

I thought about this. What was bothering me most this morning was that, when only Mom and I lived in the town house, I'd looked back on the times when we lived at home with Dad as the good times. Now that Keene was here, I looked back on the times when it was just Mom and me in the town house as good times, too—good times I didn't even appreciate until things were so much worse. And then I wondered if at some point I'd look back on
this
time and think the same thing. I figured things could only get worse, seeing as how there had to be something seriously wrong with me. But I couldn't tell Mom any of that. My misery would take a great big old bite out of her happiness. I knew it would. I just knew.

Apparently I took too long deciding this, though, because Mom said, “Tell me what you're thinking about.”

I said what I hoped would amount to a tiny crumb instead of a whole bite: “Did you know that Keene took my shoes?”

“‘Took your shoes'?” Mom said. “What do you mean?”

“I left them in the bathroom because they were muddy and I planned to clean them after I mopped the floors, but I forgot and he took them. He said, ‘Finders keepers.'”

I could tell that Mom didn't understand and, more important, didn't approve. But all she said was, “I'll get your shoes for you—and I'll talk to him. What else is on your mind?”

I searched my mind for something else smallish and
safe-ish—crumblike—and finally came up with, “I don't like my math teacher.”

“All right,” Mom said easily. “Why not?”

“Because
she
doesn't like
me
.”

Mom started to smile but she caught herself and said, “How do you know? Does she treat you differently than the other kids?”

“Maybe not,” I decided. “You're probably right: She doesn't like any of us.”

Mom did smile then. “Just remember: There's a difference between being mean and being tough. Tough teachers are usually good teachers, but you'll have a new one soon enough—you're almost a seventh grader now.”

That reminded me: “Don't you think a seventh grader ought to have her own phone?”

Mom shook her head. “Fizzy, the more you ask about the phone, the more you reveal your failure to accept that you can't always get everything you want in life.”

That meant two things: 1) Mom didn't want to hear another word about the phone, and 2) if I kept on bugging her, I'd
never
get a phone.
Elle est diabolique, non?
(“She is diabolical, no?”) I nodded and picked up a spoon, not because I planned to eat, but because I was finished talking.

• • •

I called Dad later that afternoon and told him I was sorry.

“What happened?” he said.

“I don't know. I felt tired and sick and . . . I just had a little meltdown, I guess. Can you forgive me?”

“You're forgiven, Fizzy, but next time, let's talk things over, okay? Running away never solves anything. And we know how to take care of sick kids here, too.”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“Should we try it again next weekend?”

“Next weekend would be good,” I said.

Since that had gone okay, I called Aunt Liz, too.

“Hi! How are you? Oh, Fizzy, I miss you so much!” Aunt Liz gushed, not sounding inconvenienced or irritated in the least.

I exhaled—I hadn't known I was holding my breath until then. “I'm fine, just really busy,” I said.
Being perfect,
I thought. “How are you?”

“Good—this morning, I made a flourless, sugarless chocolate cake that looks promising.”

“Why?” I thought out loud. “Why would you bother making a cake without the best parts?”

Aunt Liz laughed and then we spent a few more minutes talking cake.

“Speaking of cooking, have you heard from
Southern Living
?” she asked.

“Not yet,” I said, “but I should any day now.”

After I put the phone back, I heard Mom calling for Keene in a frustrated voice. Naturally, I went to see what that was about.

At the bottom of the stairs, I heard Mom say to Keene, “I can't find Fizzy's bedclothes anywhere—I need to wash them.”

Keene shook his head, like that was just about the craziest thing he'd ever heard, and said, “I threw all that stuff away.”

“
What?
Where?” Mom said.

“Outside,” Keene said, “in the Dumpster.”

“Go get it, please,” Mom said with forced patience.

Keene shook his head again. “That stuff's nasty, Cecily—you just don't—”

“I'll get it,” I said, interrupting him. I mean, they were
my
bedclothes and it was
my
puke on them.

Keene turned and gave me a look that I interpreted as,
Thank you.

I nodded my head once.

I was about to close the door behind me when Keene said, “Hose that stuff off outside before you bring it into the house.”

I rolled my eyes—after I shut the door.

When I returned to my room, I could hear Mom and Keene talking downstairs—through the vent:

“We all have our little pet peeves, Keene—even me,” Mom said, “but can you name one of mine?”

“No,” Keene said.

I lay down on my belly and put my ear close to the vent.

“That's right,” Mom said, “because I think of them as
petty
peeves. But if you really want to know, it bothers me when you leave your briefcase, car keys, mail, and sunglasses on the dining room table.”

“That's where I've always put them,” Keene said. “I'm sorry—I didn't know.”

“Like Fizzy didn't know your pet peeve about floors until recently. It takes time to adopt new habits. Give her time. Remind her if you have to, but please don't take her things.”

Keene didn't say anything.

“You know,” Mom said, “once, I thought about picking up all your stuff off the dining room table and dumping it in the passenger seat of your car—I know how particular you are about your car. But then I thought about how lucky I am to have you,
and your things
, here with me.”

Keene still didn't say anything. What could he say? It's not like he could say he was glad that me and my things were here—because he wasn't, I knew. Mom must've known, too, because she didn't say anything else either.

• • •

That evening, after dinner, Mom said, “Keene, please give Fizzy her shoes back now.” So Keene did, but he didn't apologize for having taken them in the first place, which is why I didn't apologize for having left them out.

“From now on, if you leave your shoes out, we'll remind you to put them away. If you don't . . . well, you'll get fair warning before you lose your shoes,” Mom said, but she wasn't looking at me; she was looking at Keene.

He looked a little pouty.

I pouted, too—because no one should take my shoes, not even with a warning! They're
my
shoes! MINE! I mean, do we teach thieves that it's okay to steal
if
they give their victims a warning first? I did some huffing and then took my shoes up to my room.

But I tried to make up for everything by leaving the bathroom extra sparkly that night. I scrubbed the tub and all the fixtures until they were gleaming. Then I went ahead and did
the counters and two sinks, too—even cleaning in between the handles and the faucet with an old toothbrush. I thought about going downstairs to get the mop but didn't want to call attention to myself—or interrupt anything—so I ended up cleaning the floor with some old washcloths.

I was still thinking about the importance of floors when I went to my room. I noticed right away that it needed vacuuming. So I set the—hateful—Genghis extra early, knowing he would enjoy stealing a little more of my sleep. But when I turned out the light and slipped into bed, I found the truth waiting for me:

No amount of cleaning or cooking or studying would change the fact that there was something wrong with me. My family knew it. Mrs. Ludwig knew it. Mrs. Warsaw knew it. Even my former best friend, Olivia Moore, probably knew it. And now I knew it, too. What I
didn't
know was what it was or how to fix it.

But,
I told myself,
maybe winning the
Southern Living
Cook-Off would fix it.
If not . . . well, I figured it would at least justify the space I took up on the planet, the oxygen I used, the food I ate. Yeah, if I won, I'd probably be forgiven for . . .
existing
 . . . right? Surely I would. I really needed to win that contest.

Two envelopes were
practically burning holes in my shorts pocket as Miyoko and I walked home from the last day of school. But I only mentioned one of them to Miyoko.

“Did Mrs. Ludwig give you an envelope on your way out of her room today?” I asked.

“No,” Miyoko said. “Why? Did she give you one?”

I nodded. “Zach got one, too—I was behind him in line, so I saw—and if Zach and I are the only kids who got one . . . well, you
know
it's bad.”

Miyoko didn't seem to disagree. “Let's just open it like before—at least then you'll know what you're up against.”

I wasn't sure.

“I'll throw the envelope away at my house and you can just pretend there wasn't one.”

“But what if it says something like, ‘If the seal on this envelope has been broken, the letter has been tampered with,' that'd be very coplike, don't you think?” I worried.

Miyoko laughed. “It doesn't say that.”

I gave her a doubtful look.

“It doesn't,” she insisted.

I decided Miyoko was probably right, pulled the envelope
out of my pocket and unfolded it as we huddled up on the sidewalk to look at it.

The outside of the envelope read
Fizzy Russo
, not
To the Parents of Fizzy Russo
. It was for me. Huh. I sort of wished I'd looked at it sooner, but I made up for it now and ripped the envelope open:

Dear Fizzy,

As you probably realize, I have pushed hard and been tough, especially on you. What you may not realize is that I did this because nothing upsets me more than wasted potential. I knew you were an A student, making Bs when you should've been making As. So, I pushed for more, and you gave it. As a result, you have earned an A in math this semester.

I expect you to earn even more As next year, and have told your new math teacher so. Therefore, you can expect him to be tough on you, too. But know this: As long as he's being tough on you, he believes in you. It's when a teacher stops being tough on you, stops pushing you, that you should worry—because that's when they've given up on you. But no one is going to give up on you, Fizzy, least of all me.

With great expectations,

Mrs. Ludwig

When I finished reading the letter, I had tears in my eyes, but I blinked them back quickly and said, “I've never had a math teacher who was a man before.”

Miyoko smiled knowingly, but didn't comment on my tears or try to hug me or do anything to indicate that she'd noticed them—she is an
excellent
friend.

I stuffed Mrs. Ludwig's letter back into my pocket and left the other envelope where it was. I didn't want to tell Miyoko about that one—which was weird because I'd talked about receiving it almost nonstop until I did. I'd been waiting for it for months.

Then last night, there it was: an envelope with
Southern Living
written across the top left corner, sitting on my dresser. I knew—because of where I found it—that Keene had gotten it out of the mailbox, and I checked to make sure he hadn't opened it and read it. He hadn't. He hadn't even read the outside of the envelope—apparently—because he never said a word about it. Neither did Mom. So, whatever the letter said, it was between
Southern Living
and me. Just the way I wanted it.

But then, for some reason, I couldn't bring myself to open it. I mean, what if the letter said my recipes stunk? What if it said something like:
Dear Miss Russo, We regret to inform you that not only have your recipes not qualified for the cook-off, they've made us sick. So we here at
Southern Living
magazine would like to take this opportunity to suggest that you try something other than cooking, Miss Russo . . .
anything
other than cooking.
What then?

I wasn't ready to give up on my dreams yet. I wasn't ready to give up on the idea of winning the
Southern Living
Cook-Off. I wasn't ready to give up on becoming a world-famous chef. And I certainly wasn't ready to give up my television show!

I heard Mom somewhere in the back of my mind: “I can't
give up on my dream of having a family either,” she'd said. And I thought I'd understood, but now I
really
understood. I decided I'd try a little harder to be friendly with Keene—for Mom.

I slowed to a stop on the corner of Chrysanthemum Court, where Aunt Liz lives.

Miyoko stopped, too, and turned to me, wearing a puzzled look on her face.

“My room's clean, and my mom needs to grocery shop, so I don't have the ingredients to cook today. Plus, I don't have any homework, so . . . I'm going to see Aunt Liz,” I announced.

Miyoko smiled. “Good.”

“Do you want to come with me?” I asked, hoping—just this once—that she'd say no.

“Can't,” Miyoko said, suddenly looking grim. “Tiger mom's waiting.”

“Another day, then—maybe tomorrow, since we don't have school,” I said, hoping to cheer her up.

“Sure.” Miyoko nodded. “Fizzy, is everything okay?”

“Oh yeah,” I said, bobbing my head up and down. “I'm just tired, I guess. What about you? Is everything okay with you?”

Miyoko looked down at the sidewalk and seemed to be thinking.

I took a step toward her and whispered, “What is it?”

“My mom's mad at me. It's not like this is new. She gets mad at me all the time, but I never get used to it. It always stays with me and bugs me, you know?”

I nodded. “What happened?”

“She was upset that I gave her slippers for her birthday,
because I gave her slippers for Christmas, too—I forgot. She said my gift lacked any real thought or effort, and was therefore lacking in love.”

My eyes bulged.

“My mom thinks I don't love her, Fizzy,” Miyoko said, dabbing at the outer corner of one eye with her finger.

I wiggled out of my backpack, let it fall to the sidewalk, and put my arms around Miyoko. “Your mom knows you love her—she's just mad. Please, come with me to Aunt Liz's,” I said, and I meant it.

“I really can't,” she said, holding on to me like her life depended on it.

“Okay,” I said. I gave her a few more seconds, then took a step back. “That's okay. You do whatever you need to do.” I figured the very least I could do for Miyoko was not add more pressure.

“Thanks,” was all Miyoko said. Then she sniffed and added, “Tell Aunt Liz I said hi.”

• • •

I knocked and pushed through Aunt Liz's front door, letting myself in.

“Here! Here! I'm back here!” an excited voice called from the sunroom.

Aunt Liz met me in the doorway off the kitchen, where she smiled an electric smile that seemed to spark from the tippy-top of her head right down to her little toes. She threw her arms around me and said, “Oh, Fizzy! You're here! I'm so happy to see you! I've missed you!”

This was the exact opposite of the tired what-now? reaction I often got when I walked into a room. It made me feel happy, so happy that I couldn't even remember why I'd ever been upset with Aunt Liz. And I didn't try. Instead, I breathed in the foody scents from the kitchen, the flowery scents from the sunroom, and the fruity scents of Aunt Liz's hair and perfume and let the homey feelings wash over me.

Aunt Liz pulled back from the hug to look at me. “Where've you been? Are you okay? Are
we
okay?”

“Yes. And yes,” I said. “Just busy.”

Aunt Liz hugged me again and said, “I wish I'd known you were coming! I would've made Benedictine!”

“That's okay,” I said. “It doesn't matter.” And it really didn't, because right now I didn't need Benedictine; all I needed was Aunt Liz.

Of course, Aunt Liz poured me some sweet tea anyway—which never hurts—and I followed her back out to the sunroom. Aunt Liz settled into the cushy rocking chair that offers the best view of her rose garden. I sat down in the rocker beside hers. “Well? Tell me everything!” Aunt Liz said. “What've you been up to? Oh! Was today your last day of school? How was it?”

“Fine,” I said.

Aunt Liz smiled and watched a fat bumblebee buzzing around her pink roses. “How's Miyoko?”

“Um . . . well . . . ,” I said, thinking about Miyoko and her tiger mom—who had graduated to monster mom in my opinion. I mean, what kind of person complains about a
present
? Aren't
gifts always good?—like cakes?—and chocolate? I began rocking at a furious pace. I wanted to tell Aunt Liz about Miyoko's problem, only I knew I couldn't because it wasn't mine to share or not share—it didn't belong to me.

Aunt Liz turned and looked at me expectantly.

“Miyoko's fine.” I stopped rocking, fished the unopened envelope out of my right pocket, and handed it to her.

Aunt Liz stopped rocking, too, unfolded the envelope, and turned it over. “Fizzy! You haven't even opened this!”

“You open it for me,” I pleaded, “and if it says really mean things, don't tell me those parts.”

Aunt Liz laughed a nervous laugh. Then she tore the envelope open and scanned the paper, reading quickly.

Still, I could hardly stand it.

Finally, she looked up at me with soft, understanding eyes.

My heart dropped into my stomach, my throat tightened, and I could feel tears gathering behind my eyes.

Aunt Liz broke into a big smile. “Russo Lasagna has made it into the final cook-off!”

I bolted up out of my chair and Aunt Liz did, too. We hugged and jumped up and down together and I said over and over again, “Great gravy! I can't believe it!”

When we started to calm down, I looked at Aunt Liz and said once more, “I just can't believe it! Can you?”

She smiled. “I can believe it, Fizzy. I'm not even that surprised.”

I thought that was just about the nicest thing anybody had ever said to me.

Aunt Liz grabbed the long spoon from her iced tea glass, turned it upside down, and held it under my mouth like a microphone. “So,” she said, “Fizzy Russo, now that you've qualified for the
Southern Living
Cook-Off, what are you going to do?”

“I'm going to Disney World!” I hollered, like people do on TV.

Aunt Liz and I laughed and laughed.

I read the letter twice. Then I read it again:

Dear Miss Russo:

We are pleased to inform you that your recipe for Russo Lasagna as entered in the
Southern Living
Cook-Off has qualified you as one of the top finalists in the Family Favorites category, making you eligible to compete in the
Southern Living
Cook-Off, which will take place on July 11, before a live audience, in Charleston, South Carolina . . .