Love and Leftovers (10 page)
Read Love and Leftovers Online
Authors: Sarah Tregay
(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 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.”
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
?
| 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. |
“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.”
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.
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.”
(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.
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.
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.”
After a quick stop at the Durham Market
to pick up marshmallows, graham crackers,
