Love and Leftovers (6 page)

He just kind of stands there

and holds me.

Which makes me think of Linus

and how he dances through life—

his fingers across his guitar strings,

his stocking feet on the Twister mat,

his bare toes on the school gym floor.

The guy even dances onstage.

I don’t mind not dancing.

I’ve been craving human contact,

touch, connection

ever since Mom and I drove away.

“You okay with us being friends?” J.D. asks,

pulling away and looking down at me.

“Yeah,” I say, closing the gap again

and resting my head on his shoulder.

I linger in his arms

after the last note has been played

soaking up all the warmth

and hoping it will last

until the next time

someone hugs me.

October 5–11:54 P.M.

I Close Mom’s Computer

and creep back down the lane,

alone again in the middle of the night.

I feel more alone than ever,

because I didn’t/couldn’t

tell Katie about

how beautiful Grammie Iris’s dress fit

and how nice it felt to dance/not dance with J.D.

I thought I could.

But I couldn’t.

Because she’s friends with Linus.

And he might get the wrong idea.

I know I should have explained

to Katie

how J.D. and I had agreed

that we were just friends.

But I’m not really sure

I could explain how

it felt so good to be held,

and kissed on the cheek.

Because it
did
feel good.

Too good.

Middle-of-the-Night Daydreams

I pile on more blankets to keep out the cold.

Still shivering, I drag them into the front room

and build a fire in the potbellied stove.

Watching the flames,

I see Katie’s words on the screen of my mind:

speaking of boyfriends . . .

we ran into your dad and danny . . .

they got us Cokes. we talked.

So it
is
true.

Dad really is gay.

(I wish he wasn’t.)

Dad and Danny hang out together—

shop for my birthday present together.

(I wish they wouldn’t.)

This gay-dad-depressed-mom craziness

is not a nightmare I can wake up from.

(I wish I could.)

In this universe there are no time machines,

or keys that can turn hearts back around.

(I wish there was.)

If there was a restart button

that’d reboot my parents’ relationship

I’d press it.

Dinner

My mother glances up at me

as she twirls spaghetti.

We share a soft-lipped smile.

I look down

and realize

I twirl noodles

just like she does.

And

in my very next thought

I wonder

if my boyfriend is gay.

That would explain

why he never once

took off

my

clothes.

When I Was Little

my mother used to tell me

how wonderful my father was

how smart, how funny.

She used to explain

how perfect it was to share

books, art, and music.

What she meant was

don’t fall for a hard body

without a soft heart

like Aunt Greta did.

I ask her, “Do you take it back?”

She doesn’t understand

so I explain about soft hearts.

“Your father had a little more than a midlife crisis.

I liked his sports car fetish better.”

“But do you take it back?”

“No. I still believe in kind men.”

“But what if all the nice guys are gay?”

I ask.

“What if Linus is gay?”

I panic.

“If he is,” Mom says, “you’ll have two best friends.”

Crap.

So I waited fifteen years

for some guy to call me his girlfriend.

And he probably has a crush on the quarterback.

When Dad Calls and I Answer

I take the cordless down the steps to the dock

and hide from my mother.

He asks me when I’ll be coming home.

I tell him Mom needs me,

that she’s coming unraveled.

“What about you? Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I made a friend. We went to homecoming.”

“A guy friend or a girl friend?”

“A guy friend, Dad.”

He sighs.

“It’s the guy friends of yours I worry about.”

I laugh.

“You
and
Mom.”

“At least we still agree on some things.”

He sighs again, louder this time

and more tired.

“Did I tell you that I cut my hair?”

I say to change the subject.

“You Cut Your Hair?”

So I had to tell him

the whole haircut story:

It started with a bad hair day.

Because three months of

swimming in Great Bay

and attempting to wash my hair

in the trickle of well water

that resembled a shower,

left my once-straight, long hair

tangled and sticking out like a wilted Afro

and feeling like it was well on its way

to dreadlocking itself.

Hairapy

My great-grandmother, Gigi, told me that

I should wash it with apple cider vinegar

(because I am a brunette),

and condition it with mayonnaise

(not Miracle Whip),

in order to get

clean,

straight,

shampoo-commercial hair.

Needless to say,

I smelled like

potato salad

for three days.

Until

I marched into town,

plunked my butt in the salon chair,

and told the lady

to cut it off.

I didn’t expect

her to put the scissors

between my ponytail holder

and the back of my head.

I didn’t expect

my hair to fall to the floor

in just one

soft
tha-wump
.

My head felt instantly lighter,

the back of my neck cooler,

and the smell of salad dressing

had faded just a little bit.

I didn’t expect

a simple haircut

to change my appearance

so much.

I looked cute,

almost pretty—

but vanity embarrasses me.

So I didn’t take a picture

to send to my boyfriend

back in Boise.

Family Hairstory

Aunt Greta informed me

that every single Otis/O’Grady girl

had fallen for the vinegar-and-mayonnaise trick

since Gigi was young.

In 1927.

And even though I had smartened up,

Gigi kept trying to get me to do

things she did when she was my age.

“When I was a young lady,

I sent this young man a lock of my hair,

so he’d remember me.”

“That’s very
Sense and Sensibility
of you, Gigi.”

“You should send a lock to your sweetie.”

(I kept my old ponytail to remind myself

not to wash my hair with items from the fridge.)

I knew her mind was getting old-lady foggy,

because I have proof

that she and G’pa traded

sexy pictures of themselves in bathing suits

when he was off at war.

My Relatives Are Like Grapes on a Vine

Aunt Greta,

Great-uncle Arthur,

Grammie Iris,

and Great-grandmother Gigi

run the world’s most efficient grapevine.

Aunt Greta

considers gossip

an evening on the town

over a glass of wine the size of Lake Winnipesaukee

in one of Boston’s finest restaurants.

Uncle Arthur

loves to play hooky from work,

stopping at the deli on his way through Durham

and borrowing a beer from the summerhouse fridge.

He shares his sandwiches with whomever he finds

lounging on the porch and watching the tide.

Gigi has a sweet tooth

that she lies about every time

she presses a quarter into my palm

and tells me to be a dear

and buy her an ice cream downstairs in the parlor.

Together we lick Blue Bunny,

whispering so her roommate won’t hear.

Grammie Iris moved to Bennington

eons ago

(to escape the Grapes).

But because she is away from the vineyard

everyone calls her and keeps her up-to-date.

Mom used to be like Iris

(when we lived in Boise)

overhearing every word about

Aunt Greta’s divorce,

Uncle Arthur’s fake knee,

Gigi’s moving into a nursing home,

and Grammie Iris’s promotion to professor emerita.

Now the Grapes

are talking about us.

Money

“Don’t turn on the furnace,”

my mother warns

when she and Aunt Greta

head out for the evening.

“Or Gigi will get the bill.”

Since my great-grandmother

lives in a nursing home

she gets lots of bills