Love and Leftovers Read online

I Want to Ask Dad Questions Too

  Why is he gay now and not before?

  Why is this bartender guy so special?

  Why did he start down one road,

  only to take the left fork

  at the last minute?

  Why did he break up our family?

  But when we’re talking on the phone,

  my brain churns and my mouth opens,

  but no questions come out,

  as if my words are swept away by the tide.

  “Are you there, Marcie?” Dad asks.

  I let a few waves tug at the dock,

  before I say, “I’m here.”

  Even though I’m not.

  I’m not home. I’m not with him.

  I’m not even sure I understand.

  “I love you, Sugar Cookie,” Dad says.

  My eyes sting with almost tears,

  and I want to ask him to say it again,

  because I’m not so sure anymore.

  “I love you too,” I say

  before we say good-bye.

  The First Day of School

  My mother is awake,

  making me pancakes

  on the one burner

  that still works.

  I sit by the fire

  in the potbellied stove,

  fluffing my short brown hair

  so it will dry faster.

  “I can drive you to school,” she says.

  But because she has adopted

  that I-don’t-care-what-men-think approach

  and is wearing two T-shirts

  but no bra,

  I say, “No thanks.”

  I walk down our lane

  and wait for the school bus

  in solitude.

  But the bus driver

  doesn’t stop for me.

  I contemplate running after it.

  Then decide

  that would be more embarrassing

  than my mother.

  The Second Day of School

  I apologize to the principal

  for my mother’s

  airheaded moments,

  like not registering me for school.

  I tell him we drove to

  the free clinic in Manchester

  after the school secretary explained

  that I needed a physical.

  And that my mother

  had forgotten

  my immunization records

  (back in Idaho)

  and they had to be faxed.

  And that is why

  my first day of school

  is everyone else’s

  second.

  Talk about Accents

  People from Idaho

  don’t really have accents.

  We could all be news anchors

  because we sound so vanilla.

  People from New England

  are another story.

  My mother grew up here

  with her sister, Greta.

  She used to leave the r’s

  off the ends of words that needed them (like New Hampshire)

  and add them to words that don’t (like idea).

  Yep, Mom used to say “I got an idear!

  Let’s go to New Hampshah.”

  Now, she just gets in the car and starts driving.

  Mom got tired of people

  not understanding what she said.

  So she learned to talk

  like a news anchor from Idaho.

  The Teachers Hate

  that I have messed up

  their seating charts,

  their textbook counts,

  and the neat, alphabetized

  list of names

  in their grade books.

  They ask me my name. “Marcie Foster.”

  “Mahcie Fostah?” I nod.

  “That’s not what it says heah.” “I know.”

  “It says Mahtha Iris Fostah.” Named after two

  grandmothers.

  Each time I hope

  that they will mangle

  my old-fashioned name

  so badly that no one

  will know

  what it really is.

  “Martha Iris?”

  a voice asks

  in the hall

  while I am trying

  to find my history class.

  I turn to say hi to

  the first person my age

  to acknowledge my existence.

  A goth girl

  with maroon lipstick

  and once-black hair

  that has faded to shades

  of purple, gray, and blue

  looms over me.

  “Uh, hi—”

  “Sam.”

  “Hi, Sam. I’m Marcie.”

  “I like Martha Iris better,

  it sounds so eighteenth century.”

  “Uh, thanks?”

  I Know I Shouldn’t Put People in Boxes

  or classify them into cafeteria table categories,

  but I can’t help myself.

  I can tell

  Sam isn’t the type to sit with the jockettes.

  Maybe with the drama freaks or the stoners.

  Or maybe she is like me

  and my friends back home

  who don’t fit in anywhere.

  Leftovers.

  Maybe Leftovers can spy Leftovers

  one hundred yards away.

  And that is why she said hello to me.

  But the problem is

  I don’t want to be just any old Leftover.

  If I can’t sit with my friends,

  I don’t want to be a Leftover.

  I want to fit in.

  So, even though I spy

  Sam’s multicolored locks

  on the other side of the cafeteria,

  I find a different table and ask, “Is this seat taken?”

  hoping for the best.

  Everyone is friendly,

  but I can’t follow a single conversation.

  It’s like they are continuing

  their discussion from yesterday.

  The girls talk about modeling class

  and dressage horses imported from Ireland.

  The boys reenact a soccer game

  play by play, in excruciating detail

  like sportscasters caught in an infinite loop.

  Things I Left Behind in Boise, Poem 1:

  MY BEST FRIEND

  Katie is adopted.

  And her parents are really cool about it.

  They always told her that it’s okay

  to be different—

  from your parents,

  from your peers—

  and Katie took this to heart.

  She has a collection of wild-colored socks.

  She’ll wear one striped one,

  and one argyle,

  and look at you cross-eyed

  if you say something.

  She plays the bass guitar—

  sometimes so loud the floor joists hum—

  but mostly because it’s not a chick instrument,

  and therefore totally different.

  She’s taking Japanese for her foreign language

  instead of Spanish like the rest of us

  because she loves reading manga,

  drawing pictures of the characters,

  and writing and illustrating her own graphic novels.

  Katie has blond hair, wide blue-gray eyes,

  and the kind of figure guys notice,

  which is all too ordinary for her tastes.

  So she dyes colored streaks in her hair,

  sometimes blue, sometimes pink.

  And her very cool parents

  even let her get a tattoo.

  So one of Katie’s butt cheeks

  has the Japanese word for love

  gracing its curve.

  Things I Left Behind in Boise, Poem 2:

  MY BOYFRIEND

  Linus is not adopted.

  But sometimes
he wishes he was

  (by a different family).

  He has three older brothers

  two are in college (majoring in drinking and girls)

  and the oldest, Roland, is a manager at McDonald’s

  (who leaves his daughter at his parents’ house

  for Linus to babysit).

  Linus walks in his brothers’ shadows,

  but he isn’t loud and obnoxious,

  nor a jock on the football team,

  nor scraping by with Cs.

  Unlike his brothers,

  Linus is quiet, and genuinely sweet,

  prefers music to team sports,

  has a 4.0, and doesn’t have to shave.

  This makes him the perfect boyfriend because he

  holds my hand in the halls

  and whispers little secrets in my ear,

  writes me songs and sings them softly

  while we rock Roland’s baby to sleep,

  helps me with my math homework

  and rewards right answers

  with smooth-cheeked kisses.

  Oh, and youngest siblings are the best because they

  are never on their parents’ radar

  and can do whatever they want,

  are missing that switch

  that turns them into bossy, older-brother jerks,

  wear hand-me-down clothes

  that are all soft and huggable.

  Things I Left Behind in Boise, Poem 3:

  MY FATHER

  My father has always been

  a little too good-looking

  cleft chin | floppy bangs | clean-shaven

  blue eyes | white smile | a touch of a tan

  a little too well-dressed

  cotton shirt | gabardine slacks | silk tie

  wool sweater | cashmere scarf | leather jacket

  a little too neat

  knives | forks | spoons

  paper | plastic | aluminum

  a little too gay?

  good-looking | well-dressed | perfect.

  Things I Left Behind in Boise, Poem 4:

  THE LEFTOVERS

  My friends and I don’t fit

  into any high-school sitcom caste system.

  And we really don’t care.

  We have each other,

  even if the others think we’re:

  too smart to be jocks,

  Angelo is a geeky numbers guy

  who is also on the swim team.

  He’s both sincere and funny,

  and a blast to be around.

  too pretty to be losers,

  Emily is a beauty.

  She had a baby freshman year

  and gave him up for adoption.

  I used to want to be Emily.

  Now I’m glad I’m not.

  too nice to be popular,

  Olive is a Girl Scout.

  She goes camping with Brownies for the fun of it.

  She’s happy and bubbly, and will be the best

  camp counselor ever.

  too self-conscious to be cheerleaders,

  Carolina is compulsive about what she eats.

  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.

  The Best Thing

  Linus Ever Did

  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.

  Driver’s License Daydreams

  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.