Love and Leftovers
Page 11
to put hetero or homo
in front of sexuality.
I loved Charlene
and I wanted
to become a father.
So I tucked
that other part
away.”
Staying Home from School Because My Head Hurts
Dad makes me chamomile tea
and tucks me into bed on the couch
like I am nine and home from school
with a stomachache.
I tell him that nothing
will make me feel better.
Orange juice,
chicken noodle soup,
and One A Day vitamins
won’t cure my heartache.
Staying home from school,
and drinking tea on the couch
with my security blanket
won’t change the fact
that Linus and I are history.
And J.D. and Mom
are over two thousand miles away.
Dad says,
“Time and love
cure everything.”
I Call Mom
After I blubber about
Linus saying “I love you,”
and my dismal but honest confession,
I tell Mom I’m lonely,
that the house is too big.
That without someone to take care of,
I feel lost.
She says it’s too quiet,
that the college kids are at class,
that she wandered around the bookstore today,
because there was no one to talk to.
I tell her I’m sorry
for acting like a teenager,
for not following her advice.
She says she’s sorry,
for not being a better mother,
for not taking my advice.
I say that I’ll go for a run,
clear my head
if she’ll take a walk,
breathe in fresh air.
After a Loop around the Park
I look at the clock,
add two hours,
and figure J.D. should be
home from school
by now.
I giggle when I hear
him say my name
without all the letters. “That good?” he asks.
“Say it again.” “What, Mahcie?
I said I pahked the cah
down at Bah Hahbah.”
“You paRked the caR
down at BaR HaRboR?” “I miss you, Mahcie—
even though you talk funny.”
I tell him that
I miss him too.
Innocent Questions
I sit with the Leftovers at lunch,
leaving an empty chair between
myself and Linus.
Everyone is quiet, even Garrett and Ian.
And Katie and Angelo are too wrapped up
in each other to say hello.
“Where were you two lovebirds yesterday?”
Emily inquires, breaking the silence.
Linus pushes his cafeteria tray away
as if the thought of me repulses him.
I didn’t know that he stayed home yesterday, too,
as if heartbreak were a disease.
“We broke up,” Linus says.
Emily looks at me to verify.
“We did?” I ask him,
unsure of what really happened between
the tears and the truth.
“Last I checked,
when your girlfriend cheats on you,
it’s over!”
“Last I checked,
some guys actually touch their girlfriends!”
“Forgive me for showing you a little respect.”
“I didn’t want respect,” I tell him, sharp and loud.
“I wanted—” I search my brain for the right word.
“I wanted passion!”
I Can’t Believe
I once thought
breaking up with Linus
over email
was the worst thing
in the world.
It wasn’t.
The way
he looked at me
when we passed
each other
in the hall
before Spanish class
made me feel
guilty sorry miserable
times
a billion.
I’m So Stupid
Linus had every right to dump me.
And zero reasons to take me back.
Why did I ever think
our relationship deserved
a second chance?
There is no three-strikes
when it comes to dating.
One heartbreak and that’s it.
Done.
Over.
Gone.
I really should have told Linus
that I’d rather be just friends,
instead of spilling the goddamned truth.
Katie’s right.
I am a crap girlfriend.
Oh my God!
I don’t even like
myself.
A Recipe
“Hey,” Katie says,
running to catch up with me.
“Hi.” I pretend not to notice her panting.
“You weren’t on the bus,” she says.
“I saw you walking and got off.”
“I didn’t feel like seeing Linus.”
She’s quiet for a few strides, then says,
“You knew this would happen—
that’d he break up with you.”
“He said he loved me,” I admit.
“So I wasn’t sure.”
“Whoa, he said, ‘I love you’?”
“And then I told him about J.D.
It was horrible.”
“And you didn’t call me?” Katie asks.
“I felt like shit,” I say. “And you were right.
I am a crap girlfriend.”
“I’m your best friend! And I didn’t know
you broke up with your boyfriend
for two whole days!”
“I didn’t want to talk about it.”
I don’t tell Katie I didn’t want to talk to her
because I was ashamed. And she was right.
“I thought you were out sick.
I got your homework assignments.”
“Thanks.”
Katie shrugs.
We walk a block in silence.
“I can’t believe you brought it up at lunch—
the whole cafeteria heard you shouting.”
“Emily brought it up.”
“She didn’t bring up sex and whatnot.”
“Passion.”
“Passion,” Katie says slowly
like she’s mulling it over.
“God, Marcie, you’re picky.”
Katie’s words feel like gravel
inside my sneakers.
“You don’t understand.”
“Then tell me.”
“You know that feeling—
the one that says, ‘I want sex’?
Passion is more than that.
Love, conversation, understanding,
and the physical stuff—
all stirred together.”
“And you have passion cake?” she asks.
“Yeah. That’s what I want.”
To Cheer Me Up
Katie says we’re having a sleepover,
come hell or high water.
She already told Olive, Carolina, and Em.
I volunteer my house,
because I don’t want to go anywhere else.
At Albertsons we gather
essential supplies: popcorn, sodas,
pretzels, chips, and peanut M&M’s.
At the Redbox we gather essential movies:
Johnny Depp, Jude Law,
Michael Cera, and Jon Heder
(because
we all have a weak spot
for the skinny, homely, Leftover,
Napoleon Dynamites of the world).
Temporary Tattoos
Just after ten,
we unroll our sleeping bags,
slip into our pj’s.
“What happened to you?” I ask Katie
as she emerges from the bathroom
in a baby-doll nightie.
“Sharpie fight,” she replies,
showing off the red, black, and green marks
on her arms and chest.
“With Angelo.”
“You lost?” I ask.
“No! He has an entire ninja battle
drawn on his stomach.”
“And you?”
Katie turns, lifts up her nightie,
and peels back her panties.
Olive gasps and covers her eyes.
Carolina explodes into a fit of giggles.
While Emily and I simply gawk.
On her ass, above her tattoo,
is the letter I
(her tattoo is the kanji for “love”)
and under it,
lettered in awkward capitals,
ANGEL.
Slumber Party Interruptus
Danny walks into the living room,
in his hot body and pajama bottoms,
and joins Carolina in laughing
at Em and me peering at Katie’s ass.
Olive tugs Katie’s nightgown
back into place.
“Who’s Angel?” Danny asks.
“My übercute boyfriend, Angelo,” Katie explains,
not at all fazed that Danny saw her bottom.
Sure, it was only for a millisecond. But still.
“I’ve got pictures,” she says, eager to share.
Danny joins her on the couch,
admiring the photos on her cell phone.
“Hispanic?” he asks.
“Puerto Rican,” Katie agrees.
“Sorry,” he says.
“But evidence suggests,
that boy is no angel.”
Tearjerker
I can tell Emily doesn’t
want to talk about boys
because she is crawling
backward into her shell.
I sit next to her
and ask her opinion
about which movie to watch.
She chooses Chocolat,
probably not
because of Johnny Depp.
But, I think, because
she knows how it ends,
and that it
will be okay to cry
when the grandmother dies.
The Truth about Emily
When Katie and I were in seventh grade
we’d relish the moments when we stepped aside
to let Emily Townsend-Smith pass us in the hall
because
she had curves where we were flat
she had highlights where our hair was frizzy
she had confidence where we were clumsy.
When I told Mom
I wanted curves, highlights, and confidence,
she said I should feel sorry for Emily Townsend-Smith
because
girls whose bodies grew up
before their minds could catch up
have a hard time in life.
When Katie and I were in eighth grade
and mobs of sevies
didn’t part like the Red Sea when we walked by,
we watched
Emily Townsend-Smith, the freshman,
flirt with the varsity quarterback, a senior,
in the food court at the mall.
When Katie and I were freshmen,
and Emily Townsend-Smith sat beside us
in ninth-grade math, science, and global studies,
she wore
baggy sweatshirts and corduroys,
sneakers and kneesocks,
her hair in a ponytail, sans highlights.
And she was as pretty as we remembered,
just fragile sad crushed,
hiding
a year behind her peers.
Never able to escape
the loss of her virginity and her baby the year before.
The Truth about Danny
After the sleepover,
Danny was more than some
gadget | appliance | addition
to my house.
I guess I have
Katie to thank for that.
Because she welcomed him
into her world with one
sweet, silly gesture.
I overheard them talking
about how we reminded Danny
of his high school friends—
all of them straight girls.
“Your friends were Leftovers?”
Katie asked.
“Leftovers?” Danny echoed.
“Individuals who don’t fit
into any one category.”
“We were like that,” he said.
“We called ourselves floaters—
drifting from sports
to theater to cheerleading
to what have you.”
“You were a cheerleader?”
“Nope,” Danny said.
“But I took one to prom.”
My Best Friend Is the Best
After school Katie and I
take over my kitchen table,
spreading out
notebooks, sketchbooks,
manga, and markers.
We play her iPod
over Dad’s speakers
and let J-pop mingle
with Bowling for Soup
and the Violent Femmes.
We write and draw
then trade notebooks
and let words mingle
with line, shape,
and color.
Then Again
I feel bad
about not calling Katie
when Linus and I broke up.
Sure, she was right,
I was a crap girlfriend.
And I felt awful enough
without her being there
to rub it in.
But the weird thing was
that I had gotten used to
not telling Katie everything.
I didn’t tell her about
making out with J.D.
in the summerhouse
and my very own
not-so-misplaced back rub.
I didn’t call her when
we pulled into the driveway
after seven months
of summer vacation.
I guess I was used
to keeping my secrets
to myself.
Out of Habit
I tie on my sneakers,
step into the brisk weather,
and attempt to regain my sanity
or lose it completely.
Most of the time,
Danny comes running after me
because he thinks that the Greenbelt,
Julia Davis Park, and the Boise State campus
are crawling with crazy people.
Thank God
he gets that I’m not always
in the mood to talk.
Unless it’s to complain about
how my teachers are annoying,
my homework assignments impossible,
and my grades dismal.
Driven
Dad took me
to the DMV,
made a big show
of picking up
a driver’s manual.
He made me
flash cards
about stopping,
and yielding,
and turning left.
Danny bought me
a remote control car
and has me parallel parking
between
cereal boxes.
Teaching me
to drive
has
become
a friendly competition
between them.
And I’m
soaking up
the attention.
One Sunday Morning
“What?” Danny asks me. “No run?”