Love and Leftovers

by Sarah Tregay

  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,

  “Just take the boat” “Huh?”

  “into Newmarket” “What?”

  “for lobsters.” “Lobsters?”

  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,

  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.

  Americ
a 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.

  EmoK8: if u weren’t going out w linus, whose bones would u jump?

  MarsBars: hello 2 u 2

  EmoK8: i think i need a boyfriend.

  MarsBars: All this talk about falling in love, now u want some?

  EmoK8: u got me thinking.

  MarsBars: as long as ur not worrying abt it. *grin*

  EmoK8: i’m not worrying. i need advice.

  MarsBars: good-looking guys are, well, nice to look at. but homely ones can be sexy too—so don’t rule em out.

  EmoK8: i need some lovin.

  who’s a good kisser?

  MarsBars: i kissed angelo in 8th grade.

  it was slobbery.

  EmoK8: who’s better looking, angelo or garrett?

  MarsBars: naked?

  EmoK8: u’ve seen them naked?

  MarsBars: no. overactive imagination. angelo.

  EmoK8: but garrett shaves his legs when he races.

  u don’t think that’s hot?

  MarsBars: angelo shaved everything when he made it to the state swim meet.

  EmoK8: everything?

  MarsBars: well, everything that wasn’t under his Speedo.

  remember his bald head?

  EmoK8: that was soooo funny!

  MarsBars: i wish linus had to shave.

  i think i’d like scruffy kisses.

  EmoK8: nah. japanese guys are really hot and they don’t shave much.

  MarsBars: if you think asian guys are cute, ask ian out.

  EmoK8: ian?

  MarsBars: yeah, you two hang out all the time.

  you’d make sweet rock n roll.

  EmoK8: you’d go out w Ian?

  MarsBars: yeah. ian minus the drumming can b really sweet.

  EmoK8: ian’s a geek.

  MarsBars: so are you. *wink*

  EmoK8: i see being in solitary confinement in the NH wilderness has not done anything for ur sense of humor.

  MarsBars: very funny.

  speaking of solitary confinement,

  i should get back to my jailer

  b4 she realizes i stole her Mac.

  EmoK8: luv ya bye

  MarsBars: luv u 2, nite

  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,

&nb
sp; 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