The Thing About Leftovers by C.C. Payne

ignored me and turned the heat on full blast. As she backed out of the parking space, she said, “Mrs. Gita is thinking of advertising piano lessons with us, so we’re thinking of taking piano lessons with her—that’s the way the world works.”
    â€œWell,
I
was thinking of taking karate lessons,” I said, feeling very . . .
kicky
.
    No answer.
    Just to be clear, I added, “I
definitely
want to learn karate.”

Chapter 12
    Mom and I stopped for dinner at Lush Valley Bistro. When we entered the restaurant, the hostess looked us up and down and seemed unimpressed, probably by our lack of designer stuff, but she gave us a table—in the back. After the server brought our drinks, took our orders and our menus, Mom and I were quiet for a few minutes.
    Then Mom said, “What are you thinking about, Fizzy?”
    I was thinking that Keene must’ve bought a lot of advertising from Mom because she was never trying to sell to him the way she was always trying to sell to other people. But I knew Keene bought a lot of advertising. I’d seen the ads for his hardware store—they were in the newspaper every day and they were big and colorful. That’s how Mom met Keene to begin with: He bought advertising from her.
    â€œFizzy?” Mom said, growing impatient.
    â€œI’m sorry,” I said. “What did you say?”
    Mom shook her head and smiled. “Nothing. Never mind. So. Zach Mabry.”
    â€œWhat about him?”
    â€œHe’s a little
slick
, don’t you think?” The way Mom said“slick” was the way she might’ve said “slimy.” So I knew it wasn’t a compliment.
    I shrugged.
    â€œIs he your boyfriend?”
    â€œNo, ma’am, just a friend.”
    Mom didn’t look like she believed me.
    â€œHe’s
just a friend
,” I said emphatically, but what I thought was,
You don’t like my friend Zach? Well, I don’t like your friend Keene. So we’re even.
    â€œAll right, all right,” Mom said, showing me her palms. “Listen, I want to talk to you about the wedding.”
    The wedding? There was still going to be a wedding? “Um . . . okay.”
    â€œKeene and I want to involve you, honey, because our wedding isn’t just the usual joining of two people, you know.”
    â€œIt isn’t?”
    â€œNo,” Mom said. “It’s the joining of a family, one that includes you.”
    The queasy feeling I got told me that wasn’t true, but even so, I said, “Okay.”
    Mom smiled brightly. “I want you to be my maid of honor, Fizzy. I want you to stand up in the front of the church with me.”
    â€œUmmm . . . okay . . . I guess.”
    â€œAnd I was thinking maybe we could go shopping for dresses on Saturday morning.”
    I nodded.
    â€œI want you to choose your own dress and help me choosemine,” Mom said. “Oh, and I was thinking you might like to have your own cake.”
    â€œCake?” I sat up a little straighter in the booth. There was nothing wrong with cake. I mean, cake is always good, right?
    Our dinner arrived, and after the server set our plates down and disappeared, Mom announced, “There will be wedding cake and groom’s cake and Fizzy’s cake.”
    I took a bite of a French fry. “Okay,” I said. “I know exactly the cake I want.”
    Mom clapped her hands together merrily and said, “Wonderful! Tell me.”
    â€œI saw a picture of this cake in
Southern Living
. It has three square tiers and pale purple icing, with tiny deep-purple violets all over it, and . . . well, it’s just the prettiest cake I’ve ever seen.”
    Mom frowned. “Purple? You want a
purple
cake?”
    I nodded and popped another French fry into my mouth.
    â€œBut my colors are peach and cream,” Mom said. “Everything for the wedding is going to be done in