Love and Leftovers
Page 7
Katie, You Don’t Understand
how lonely it is here
without any friends.
My mother is so distant
I need a telescope to see her.
My father is a stranger
whom I no longer know.
My Gigi has gone loopy, old-lady crazy
and tells me to wash my hair with mayonnaise.
My aunt Greta buys me panties
the size of South Dakota.
J.D. is the only person here
who makes any sense.
It Was Dumb. I Know.
But I got swept up—
J.D. invited me to homecoming.
He wore a tux.
And I, a blue satin prom dress.
It was just like in the movies.
My mother forgot my birthday
and J.D. planned a party,
invited all his friends,
had his sisters make a cake.
It was just like in the movies.
So when he kissed me good night
it felt like part of a script.
I got wrapped up in the plot—
just like watching a good movie.
It was dumb.
I know.
What Best Friends Are For
Katie seemed to understand
that J.D.’s good looks
and sweet gestures
would be too much
for any girl
to turn
away
and
that if it
was just one kiss—
nothing more than a moment of weakness—
she guessed she could live with the whole idea,
and keep it a secret from Linus. She promised.
“Just one kiss,” I repeat. “Because I can’t stand
how stupid perfect J.D. can be.”
Trapped
The shades have not been opened,
the dishes have not been washed,
and my mother has not left her bed.
At least when she did this over the summer,
I could sit on the dock, explore the woods and marsh,
soak up some sunshine,
and ignore her.
But here there are four walls,
a bookstore below us,
and another apartment above.
Trapped.
Home from School (Almost)
Today
I can’t bear it.
I can’t go inside
that dark,
four-room tomb.
I hang out downstairs
in the bookstore,
sunk on my haunches,
reading college textbooks
among the stacks
with plenty of time
to think.
Change Is Good
I need a change.
Not an Idaho > New Hampshire kind,
but a change in attitude.
All summer,
I didn’t talk much with the townies.
(I thought I was only going to be here
for a few months.)
But now it’s time to be Superman,
find a phone booth,
spin around,
and become a townie.
I Try Making Friends
I spy Sam sitting alone, her head bent
over Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein.
“Sam?” I interrupt her reading.
“I was wondering if maybe—”
“Don’t bother,” she chops my words off.
“You want to be popular. I understand.
And popular kids, like J. D. Gallagher, don’t
like me.
So don’t bother.”
I wanted to say that I missed having friends
who were girls, who gossiped and were silly,
and not nearly as boring as the popular girls
who only talked about fashion and horse shows.
“You sure?” I ask instead.
“I’m sure. I’d only talk trash about the kids you
sit with, anyway.”
“Like what?”
“Like J. D. Gallagher is a serial dater,
Melanie Hanson needs to go to rehab,
and Conner Lakoski has HPV.”
“How do you know all this?”
“People talk
when they think no one is listening.”
A Silent Thank-you Note
I have to thank Sam
for making the upper crust
at Oyster River
seem like
Boise High
Leftovers.
But what did she mean by
serial dater?
November 18–11:33 P.M.
MarsBars am i such an awful friend?
EmoK8 girlfriend, maybe . . .
but friend-friend, no.
MarsBars ouch.
EmoK8 marcie, it’s the truth.
MarsBars ok, ok. it’s just that i asked this girl
if she wanted to be friends
and she said no.
EmoK8 wtf?
MarsBars not those *exact* words, but close enough.
EmoK8 oh, marcie, that’s terrible.
god, you must feel like crap.
MarsBars sorta. crap girlfriend.
crap friend.
is this crap genetic?
EmoK8 well, your dad was a crap husband,
even if he’s a cool dad.
MarsBars and my mom makes a lousy friend.
she *says* we can talk, but she already has
101 things to be depressed about.
EmoK8 i’m here. talk to me.
MarsBars i miss that, just hanging out
with our pencils and notebooks.
i even miss studying at your house.
EmoK8 as if we get any studying done
with all the Leftovers here.
MarsBars hmm. i think that’s the point.
EmoK8 i don’t get any studying done
with angelo here.
he sends out latin love vibes.
MarsBars pheromones?
EmoK8 no, more like, on the bright side,
i’m now the girlfriend of a sex god.
MarsBars don’t tell me that you’ve had sex?
EmoK8 no.
MarsBars phew!
EmoK8 remember the plan?
we’re gonna get our
birth control pills together.
MarsBars like anyone will ever want to have sex w me?
EmoK8 i’m sure linus will, someday.
MarsBars i hope so. i’m shriveling up from lack of hugs.
EmoK8 (-------------------------------------)
MarsBars thanx. I luv u.
EmoK8 luv u 2. nite.
Questions
“Sam,” I whisper in the library,
“what did you mean by serial dater?”
“Cripes, Mahcie, you like him, don’t you?”
“Tell me,” I plead.
“I meant
that if a guy has a body like J. D. Gallagher,
a face that belongs in a Disney movie,
combined with his sweet, sincere, Boy Scout personality,
he can get any girl he wants.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Did I mention J.D. wants everything cute and female?”
“So he dates a lot?”
“If by ‘a lot’ you mean
every girl from Maine to Massachusetts?
Yeah.”
Chasing Boys
On Saturday,
J.D. rings my doorbell
(looking as adorable as ever,
with his toothpaste-commercial smile,
messy morning hair, and cheeks pink from the cold)
and greets me with doughnuts and coffee.
I consider not letting him in.
Ending our friendship
before it goes anywhere I don’t want it to go.
But
he looks so cute, so eager,
it would be like spanking a puppy for
bringing you the newspaper.
“Argh,” I tell him instead.
“Now that I live in town,
I can’t eat doughnuts every morning.
I’ll get fat.”
“You won’t if you exercise,” he says,
then invites me out for a jog
(and waits for me to change my clothes
and find my sneakers under the couch).
He shows me a few key stretches
(which reveal two cans of his six-pack,
and the fact that he’s wearing Calvin Kleins),
bounds down the flight of stairs,
and hits the pavement at a steady pace.
I keep up with him as we weave through
the coffee shop crowd,
up the hill past the redbrick university,
and out of town,
hitting the highway
with fire in my lungs
forgiveness in my head
and desire in my heart.
Answering Machine Message from Linus
Please call me sometime.
Katie says things aren’t so good.
I really miss you.
I called him back
and choked up
when he told me
how much he
missed
me.
“I miss you too,”
I said back,
crying not
because I did
but because I didn’t know
if I was telling the truth.
Baking Pies for Thanksgiving
My mother doesn’t believe in women’s work.
She thinks in terms of equality, equal pay.
A second-wave feminist with one little quirk.
She washes her hands, dons apron as if to say,
“To hell with philosophy, religion, and politics,
I am woman! I will make pies today!”
She reveals old secrets, tapioca tricks,
how to slice the apples, stir in sugar and spice,
make pea-sized crumbles and not overmix.
Dust the counter in flour, the rolling pin, twice
from the center out, short strokes for flaky crust
lift the dough carefully, lower slowly, be precise.
Fill the pan high with apples, pride, love, and trust,
weave dough strips in and out for a basket top
and don’t forget to dab with milk, it’s a must.
With the pie in the hot oven, down she’ll flop.
“I did my duty, taught my daughter to bake
and not to buy a pie at the corner shop.”
Thanksgiving at Aunt Greta’s
(DOESN’T COMPARE TO DAD’S COOKING)
Turkey
Baked potatoes
Sweet potatoes
Stuffing
Cranberry sauce
Green beans and almonds
Tossed salad
Apple pie and ice cream
and
Half a glass of white wine.
Like Clockwork
J.D. shows up at my door
in his sweats and sneakers,
asking if I am too sore for another run.
“No,” I say, because my quads
only hurt a little
and being alone all weekend
hurts a lot.
“You know,” he says, setting the stride,
“we should hang out more often.”
“I’ve got a gift certificate to the mall in Manchester.
We could go Christmas shopping.”
“A road trip?” he asks.
Blue Cafeteria Trays
must be rare.
I got one today,
sat down next to J.D.,
and everyone
started laughing
and punching J.D. on the shoulder,
as if they knew
we spent all of Saturday
breathing the same air.
When I asked
what was going on,
they said a blue tray
meant you were
going to get laid.
How I Learned that the Cutest Jock at OR Had a Crush
J.D. picks me up at my locker,
offering me a ride home.
“Why don’t we get a slice?” I suggest.
“Yeah, maybe.” He sounds distracted,
turns the key in the ignition,
but doesn’t back out of the parking space.
“I’m sorry about the blue tray thing.”
“Oh, J.D. It’s not a big deal.”
“I told Conner how much I like you,
and he kinda blabbed it around.”
So J. D. Gallagher does want me.
“You’re pretty and smart, but different.
You don’t care that I can’t dance.
You didn’t laugh at my sisters’ cake.
And you talk about everything
but clothes and horses.”
“Thanks.”
“What I mean is,
I had a great time this weekend.”
“Me too.”
“No hard feelings?”
“Nope.”
“So how about that slice?”
“Do you like marshmallows?”
“Huh?”
“I changed my mind.”
S’mores
After a quick stop at the Durham Market
to pick up marshmallows, graham crackers,
and Hershey’s Special Dark,
J.D. follows my directions,
turning
right at the stoplight,
left at the Y,
and left down a gravel lane.
With the spare key,
I open the door to the summerhouse,
where we sit cross-legged on the floor
and breathe a fire to life in the potbellied stove.
Waiting for coals,
J.D. asks me about Idaho,
what it looks like and how much it snows.
I ask him what J.D. stands for
and if he prefers the nickname
to the full-blown one like I do.
He asks me about my friends
and what we do for fun.
I ask him about Conner
and how long they’ve known each other.
He asks about Katie
and if I like manga, too.
We toast marshmallows on barbecue skewers,
sandwich the molten sugar
between two crackers and a square of chocolate,
and eat them in slow motion
to savor the sweetness.
I Don’t Know Who Started It
It may have been me
reaching to wipe chocolate
from the corner of his mouth.
It may have been him
kissing marshmallow goo
from my sticky sweet fingers.
It might have been me
wondering if his lips were sweeter
than marshmallows and chocolate.
It might have been him
wondering what it’d feel like
to touch the skin under my shirt.
All I know is
chocolate and marshmallows
weren’t the only things melting
in the heat of the coals.
Writer’s Block
I’m writing Linus an email
to make us
just friends.
But it’s so mean
(to dump him via email).
I can’t hit Send.
J.D. and I
share secret smiles
over Styrofoam cups of hot coffee,
in the halls between classes,
over ordinary cafeteria trays,
when Conner isn’t watching.
News to Me
Friday night, J.D. and I
and some
other kids
snuck into a frat party.
I thought they’d kick us out
because we weren’t college students,
but J.D. said the Greeks were open
to showing everyone a good time.
Inside the floor pulsed with bass.
The sound waves made me seasick
as they rolled through my body.
I liked the woozy feeling
because I could act tipsy
while drinking Diet Coke.
Because J.D. doesn’t dance,
I was nestled deep within his embrace,
swaying to the music
when some girl shrieked,
“YOU’RE DANCING WITH MY BOYFRIEND!”