Read Love and Leftovers Online
Authors: Sarah Tregay
Love and Leftovers (20 page)
I couldn’t do it.”
“Daddy doesn’t seem
like he expected much.”
“No, I just felt like he was too good for me—
because I had to see a psychotherapist
and take medicine just to get by.”
She says she won’t stay too long—
that she’s looking for a job in Boston
and has to move in with Aunt Greta
before the first of March,
but she’ll come see me.
I don’t care
what she’s planning
as long as she’s here.
Even if
it is
just for a little while.
that women could be anything they wanted to be
mayor | governor | senator | president
But I guess it never occurred to her that I’d act like
a player | a frat boy | my father | Bill Clinton
Then again, I don’t think it was part of her plan to be
a thief | a kidnapper | addicted | depressed
She certainly thought I was above depending on boys for
doughnuts | coffee | companionship | acceptance
Instead I had turned to J.D. to make me feel
worthwhile | beautiful | sexy | happy
And hurt someone who loved me because I was
careless | insensitive | mean | self-centered
Now that I am man-free, Mom would probably say
that I have achieved some sort of feminist
Zen | pride | accomplishment | freedom
But no matter how hard I try, I still yearn for
hugs | kisses | smiles | a hand to hold.
Today I was looking at Linus
in that way girls look at guys,
watching his actions,
his body,
his hands,
listening to the timbre of his voice
(and not hearing the words),
watching his eye movement,
just in case our eyes should meet
for a brief moment
in time.
What My Ex-Boyfriend Doesn’t Know
I have the
biggest crush
on him.
Seeing Linus at the bus stop,
slouched on Katie’s couch while we study,
in the cafeteria, pushing ketchup around his plate,
starts an emotional tug-of-war.
I’m on one side rooting for Emily
(because she deserves the nicest guy on planet Earth).
As Emily’s cheerleader I want her to win.
(She deserves a decent boyfriend.)
But she keeps dropping passes
(turning her head away from a direct on-the-lips kiss)
fumbling the ball
(letting go of his hand to tuck her hair behind her ear)
and faking left instead of running right
(making excuses every time he invites her somewhere).
The only thing she and Linus do together
is babysit his niece.
And it’s okay. I’ve done that, too.
But you can only get so much kissing done
between bottles, baths, and binkies.
I’m on the other side
(wanting Linus back).
When I root for my team, I want to win.
(Because I deserve a rematch).
I receive every serve
(smiling when he says hello to me)
return every volley
(talking about the weather when he offers one word)
and covet every match
(hoping to shake the “ex-girlfriend”
label and trade it in for “friend”).
The only things Linus and I do together
are wait for the bus,
eat lunch (well, I eat, anyway), and
study at Katie’s with the Leftovers.
But you can only get so much conversation in
between buses, bells, and books.
| I say hello to Linus, | hoping that someday, |
| like back in eighth grade, | we can be friends again, |
| when we hung out in his room | and talk about everything |
| for hours. | just because. |
| “Brrr,” he says, | “Cold,” I agree. |
| his breath forming steam | “But at least, |
| in the frostbitten air. | it’s gonna be sunny.” |
Katie and I
spread our notebooks and pencils across the coffee table
to write, draw, and eat chocolate chip cookies.
Although we’re quiet,
I know we’re going to be okay.
No more fighting. No more blame. No more tears.
I know because we’re spending time together, alone.
Before the Leftovers come over to study for a history test.
Linus sits next to me on the couch,
oddly close, but distant.
Sometimes his knee touches mine,
the soft fringes of torn denim tickling my bare skin.
Maybe it is too close, too soon,
but I enjoy every minute.
I must have left it at Katie’s.
I know it’s safe.
Katie would guard my secrets
with an army of anime ninja girls
with shadow-clone
jutsu
powers
who’d leap into action
if anyone tried to read
my poems.
“Your cheeks are pink,” Linus says.
My heart beats once.
He steps closer.
I hold my breath.
He takes his hands from his pockets.
And touches my face.
He caresses my cheeks
as if to warm them.
I search his eyes
as if, in them, I could read his thoughts.
Longing? Tenderness? Love?
Okay, so I’m not so good at reading minds.
Except my own.
Longing? Check.
Desire? Check.
Lust? Check.
Heartbeat? Check.
I reach up,
wrap my cold fingers around his warm neck,
and pull his face down toward mine.
At that moment, I decide
I must be dreaming
because he’s not resisting or pulling away.
I kiss his lips, his mouth.
Hungry for him, for heat,
for the stolen moment in dreamland
before he realizes I am not Emily.
He pulls me close.
Air whooshes from my parka.
Our mouths press on.
Tasting like toothpaste and Scope.
“God, Marcie,” he whispers
prayers into my lips.
I pray that my alarm clock
doesn’t run out of snooze.
“Shit,” Linus says. “The bus.”
Linus doesn’t swear in my dreams.
In Boise,
we don’t ride school buses
in high school.
So Linus and I
slide our cards
through the city bus
fare box.
We step past commuters,
the usual kids from earlier stops.
There’s one seat
and Linus motions
for me to take it.
I do. Even though
I’d rather
sit on his knee
like I used to—
his arms around me
like a seat belt.
I tug on his sleeve, whisper,
“What just happened?”
He bends close.
“That,” he says in my ear,
“was amazing.”
“Does that mean, that you and I—”
“Not so fast,” Linus warns,
caution written in his voice.
“There’s one more thing
you need to know.”
And from his backpack,
he removes a blue notebook.
“It’s yours.
I read it.”
Immediately, I know the notebook’s contents:
poems about love, lust, and loneliness,
docks, fires, and gravel lanes,
big panties and condoms,
blue dresses and rocking canoes,
talent shows and selfish bitches,
quiet crushes and candlelit cupcakes.
“I picked it up by accident—
at Katie’s when we were studying.
I didn’t plan on reading it,
but I couldn’t help myself.”
Somewhere inside me
the dammed-up storm
of missing Linus
and not knowing if he liked me
enough to touch me
of kissing J.D.
and leaving him in New Hampshire
like an unwanted puppy
of losing Katie
and wondering if we’d ever be friends again
of wanting back
what I had to begin with: Linus
begins to overflow,
and tears streak down my cheeks.
I stand up, fling myself into his arms.
He cups one hand over my head,
and pulls me to his shoulder,
shushing me with quiet lullabies
as we sway to the motion of the bus.
Linus takes my hand,
leads me down the aisle,
down the steps.
The bus rolls away,
leaving us in the privacy
of a dark winter morning.
“People were staring,”
he explains, handing me
my notebook.
I take it from him,
fold it
in my arms
over my beating heart—
as if
to shield myself
with the one thing
that made me
most
vulnerable.
“You didn’t happen to skip
the one about
me holding you close
under the covers
with only
a condom
between us?”
Linus smiles
and says
he wouldn’t have