Love and Leftovers

by Sarah Tregay

  drive to the summerhouse and build a fire,

  to celebrate with birthday sandwiches on the patio

  furniture.

  More Birthday Presents

  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.

  My Wish

  is to fall

  cranium over Converse

  in dizzy daydream-worthy

  love.

  After the Guests Have Gone

  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.

  Kissing J.D.

  I feel

  like I’m standing

  in a rocking canoe.

  Tomorrow, Tomorrow

  The only way

  I am able to fall asleep

  is to promise myself that

  I’ll straighten everything out

  in the morning.

  I Inherited It

  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?

  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?

  Procrastination

  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

  would put her smack

  in the middle

  of an awkward situation.

  Maybe

  Maybe my attraction to J.D.

  is just physical.

  Or maybe there is too much distance

  between Linus and me.

  Or maybe all this loneliness

  and no security blanket

  has messed with my head.

  The End

  I know

  I need to call Linus

  and tell him about J.D.

  or at least let him know

  that maybe we should see other people,

  since

  I’m far away

  and probably not

  coming back.

  I Told My Mother

  I told my mother she was

  self-centered

  stubborn

  bitchy

  and

  stuck in a rut.

  I told my mother she should

  put on a bra

  see the colors on the trees

  eat lobster at Newick’s

  and

  take Dad’s Mustang for a drive up the coast.

  I told my mother she couldn’t

  go on moping about Dad’s boyfriend

  sleep all day and all night

  eat only sourdough toast

  and

  pretend that the rest of the world does not exist.

  I told my mother that I

  didn’t mind chipping in and doing my chores

  but doing all the housework was another story,

  especially

  when my social life was picking up

  and my morals were falling down.

  I asked her (in a near-hysterical shriek),r />
  “Since when am I the parent and you the teenager?”

  Now

  I feel guilty

  for being the big, bad, mean grown-up

  when all she needs

  is a

  friend.

  The Next Best Thing to a Security Blanket

  The box springs creak

  as I climb into bed with my mother.

  My tears dampen her pillow.

  She pushes my hair back

  and pulls me close.

  I sob that

  I am sorry

  I must be a bad person

  if I can’t love my own mother

  (or even my boyfriend)

  if I can’t understand another person’s loss

  and only think of myself.

  She shushes me with quiet disagreements, telling me that

  it is wrong

  for an adult to burden a child

  with personal problems

  that are best discussed among adults.

  On the other hand, she explains,

  it is okay

  for a child to turn to an adult

  when things get complicated.

  And it would be better for both of us

  if she were the mother and

  I were the teenager,

  and if I wanted to talk about things

  she’d be happy to listen.

  I decline.

  She doesn’t need my problems

  on top of her own.

  Morning

  I awake

  to the smell of

  my mother

  making pancakes

  with little

  round slices

  of bananas

  fried into them.

  Peeking from Behind My Locker Door

  I watch J.D. come down the hall,

  saying hello to cheerleaders,

  to guys on the soccer team,

  and nodding politely to teachers

  as if he is the eighth wonder of the world.

  His hair is wet, darker than usual,

  he’s wearing an OR school sweatshirt

  over loose, worn jeans, and Adidas

  and he looks as appetizing as he did in a tux.

  “Mahcie?” he asks, pulling the locker open

  so he can see my face. “Doughnut?”

  “No thanks.”

  “You’re mad at me,” he says.

  “Nah. I ate breakfast.”

  “So you’re ignoring me?”

  “Yeah, kinda,” I admit,

  because I had purposely

  not run into him yesterday

  by skipping lunch.

  “Look, I’m sorry about the kiss,” he says.

  “Don’t be. It was nice—more than nice.”

  “You just looked so beautiful. . . .

  All I’m sayin’ is that if you don’t wanna—

  you know—it’s okay with me.”

  “Yeah, all right. Thanks.”

  “But you can’t say no to coffee.”

  “Of course not, you’ve got me addicted.”

  I Take the Cup of Coffee

  brushing J.D.’s fingers

  before he turns to go.

  Anger flashes over me

  and I tilt the cup back,

  gripping it like a football.

  I stop myself

  before I throw it at him.

  Dammit, I want to shout

  why the hell do you

  have to be so nice?

  You just apologized for kissing me?

  Guys don’t apologize for things like that.

  You’re too goddamned perfect.

  Stop it.

  Before I hate you.

  Before I like you

  too much.

  Stomping into homeroom,

  I toss the coffee into the trash can

  and swear not to think

  about kissing J.D.

  ever again.

  My Sweaters Arrive Parcel Post

  Snuggled among soft sweaters,

  fleece-lined hoodies,

  jeans,

  and leather boots

  are three little boxes.

  Not good little boxes,

  like that hold jewelry,

  but logo-emblazoned,

  drugstore boxes—

  slick and shiny,

  and glued shut.

  I don’t even want

  to look at them.

  I don’t want

  to think about them.

  I can’t believe

  my dad sent me them!

  Because inside the boxes are

  individually wrapped condoms:

  1. In a rainbow of neon colors

  2. In latex-free for sensitive skin

  3. In fruity flavors

  There’s also an envelope

  with a letter from Dad.

  I Open the Envelope Dad Sent

  Dear Marcie,

  I miss you. I hope school is going okay. Everything’s all right here, a bit quiet.

  I know that we’ve had this conversation before, but I was thinking about you and your friendship with J.D. Sometimes good friends become more than friends, which is normal because our friends understand us best and we are comfortable around them. That’s why I’m sending the condoms. I want you to be prepared if the special moment comes along.

  Your mother has encouraged you to wait until marriage, and if that is right for you it is a great decision and I will support it. Then again, I don’t want you rushing off to get married the minute you turn eighteen. That isn’t a good decision. Instead, think carefully about sex and what is right for you. Always, always protect yourself.

  Sex, like alcohol and drugs, can have life-altering consequences. Unlike beer and meth, it can be wonderful and special.

  I know you understand that you can get pregnant and if you do, there are options like abortion, adoption, and keeping the baby. Your friend Emily gave her baby up, while Linus’s brother and his girlfriend kept theirs. I’m sure you have witnessed the hardships brought on by these decisions.

  STDs are the other risks you take. Some are curable, others will change (and maybe shorten) your life. As a father, I don’t want any of these things to happen to the daughter I love very much.

  Please be careful, very careful. I love you.

  Dad

  I Crumple It Up

  My father thinks

  I’m falling for J.D.?

  I’m not.

  He’s too

  perfect.

  Back to the Boxes

  To cheer myself up,

  I take a neon-green condom from its candy wrapper,

  feeling the slippery softness with my fingers.

  I tuck it under my pillow,

  and sneak to the kitchen for a banana.

  Reading the instructions

  (and gawking at the pictures)

  I roll my lime-green condom

  over the perky yellow banana,

  which cracks me up

  beyond reason.

  I howl with laughter

  as I dial Katie’s number.

  Tears squirting from my eyes,

  I try to explain how funny it looks.

  But all she says is,

  “Marcie, why’d your dad

  send you condoms?”

  I Explain

  about how J.D. looks

  like David Beckham in his soccer uniform

  but smiles like Prince Harry

  with boy-band dimples—

  that he’s just too goddamned perfect.

  “I can’t believe you dumped Linus and didn’t tell me!”

  “I didn’t not tell you, Katie! I swear!”

  She is, after all, my best friend.

  And I’d never keep a secret like that from her.

  “I haven’t dumped Linus.

  It was just a birthday kiss,

  nothing more.

  I don’t even like J.D.

 
I swear.”

  Lambasted

  Katie

  gets

  righteous

  on my

  ass.

  Threatening

  to tell the sweetest

  brown-eyed Leftover

  boy

  on planet Earth

  that

  his

  long-distance girlfriend

  isn’t watching

  his YouTube videos,

  but rather

  kissing

  another

  boy

  good night.