Love and Leftovers (4 page)
Read Love and Leftovers Online
Authors: Sarah Tregay
She counts every calorie and wears padded bras
to compensate for her lack of curves.
I get where she’s coming from—
a chubby childhood—and she gets me.
too athletic to be nerds,
Garrett is Olympics material.
He rides his bicycle fifty miles a day
and talks a mile a minute.
He’s cute in that jock-meets-geek kind of way.
and too clean to be stoners.
Ian is thoughtful, generous, and a vegetarian,
but hates that we know these things about him.
He’d rather be known for his mad drum skills.
Things I Left Behind in Boise, Poem 5:
MY SECURITY BLANKET
Everyone says
I am too old
for a security blanket.
But a baby blanket
tucked in my
dresser drawer back home
is a lot
less expensive
than
psychotherapy.
And I’m
starting to think
that I should have
brought it
with me.
Things I Left Behind in Boise, Poem 6:
MY BABY FAT
I was a pale, chubby child
with permanent teeth that seemed too big for my face—
a combination ripe for jokes and embarrassment.
It was like I was destined to be a Leftover.
I wore too-big sweatshirts to hide my pudge
and closed my lips tight over my teeth.
Which didn’t win me friends.
Only Katie could make me smile.
And although she, Olive, and Carolina were friends first,
I became her BFF.
We didn’t know it in sixth grade,
but we were slowly becoming Leftovers.
Sure, I grew taller
and my round tummy became breasts, hips and thighs.
Sure, I got my braces off
and my teeth no longer seemed too big for my face.
So by the time I finished junior high
I looked normal.
Not pretty or skinny, just average.
But I had already been labeled a Leftover.
When My Mother Takes an Ambien
I have eight hours to devote to whatever I choose.
Some nights, I take her laptop
down to the end of the lane
to pick up a Wi-Fi signal from the neighbors,
IM Katie, and watch Linus’s music videos.
Other nights, I sit facing the glowing coals
and read steamy romance novels that Aunt Greta
has left behind.
Without Mom to tell me
to get off the computer,
or to come inside unless I want West Nile,
I can hang out with my friends (online).
Without Mom to tell me
that weak female characters
are the result of an unimaginative author,
I can read about women who go weak in the knees
at the sight of a cowboy in Levis
and nothing else.
But most of the time
I write poems in this blue notebook
because
I feel free
when Mom is out cold.
The Worst Thing
I Have Ever Done
was lie to my parents
and say
it was a girls-only
slumber party
in Katie’s backyard.
No.
We didn’t do anything
that we needed condoms for
because
Olive, Katie, and Carolina
Garrett, Angelo, and Ian
were there.
was sneak out of the house
and crash
the sleepover/campout,
spending the night
in my sleeping bag.
And,
to tell you the truth,
we couldn’t really
move
with two people
in one
Snoopy sleeping bag.
When Linus calls
I take the cordless outside on the porch.
“I wish you were here,” he says.
“I’ve never had my own room before,
and it’s kind of lonely.”
“Maybe I’ll move in,” I say.
“You wouldn’t want to.
My dad’s gonna lose his job.
Roland’s working double shifts.
And I’m on constant babysitting duty.”
“I dunno. Might be okay.”
“Mom and Dad were joking
about charging Roland rent.
And I said he should pay me, too.
Roland said he’d trade
babysitting for driving lessons.”
“Free drivers’ ed? That’s great!”
“And he’ll let me borrow his car.”
“Road trip?”
“Maybe we can go to Bruneau.”
“And go sledding on the sand dunes.”
We toss ideas back and forth
until Roland’s Honda has seen Canada,
Mexico, and every state in between.
And, like all of our conversations,
it reminds us that we are miles apart
when we’d rather be close together.
“This long-distance thing sucks,” he says
as if he read my mind.
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 sulk
on the dock
bobbing on the waves
until
my mother
promises
me
pizza.
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 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.
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
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?
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 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,
