The Thing About Leftovers by C.C. Payne Page A

shades of peach and cream.”
    I didn’t really see how that was a problem myself. I mean, we were talking about cake, not curtains.
    â€œA purple cake won’t match anything, Fizzy,” Mom said, still not touching her salad.
    â€œ
Qui se soucie?
” I said, which is French for “Who cares?”
    Mom stiffened. “Fizzy, you know I think it’s rude when you speak French.”
    â€œThen maybe you shouldn’t have moved me to Lush Valley—they didn’t teach French at my old school.”
    â€œNo, I’m glad you’re learning French; I just think it’s rudeto speak it to someone you know doesn’t understand—it’s like whispering in front of someone you know can’t hear you.”
    I didn’t respond.
    â€œAs for the cake, I don’t know what to think of a purple cake,” Mom said. “And no one else will know what to think either.”
    Suddenly I was mad. I’d had enough and I was just plain mad. I sighed loudly and said, “They’ll think you did something nice for your daughter. They’ll think you let her choose. For once!”
    Mom’s eyes narrowed. “For once?
For once?
”
    Now, if I was really as smart as Mom thought I was, I would’ve stopped talking. But I was mad, so I didn’t. Instead I said, “Yes, for once, Cecily.” (My mom hates it when I call her by her name—it’s way worse than speaking French.)
    Cecily crossed her arms over her chest and her cheeks turned pink.
    I continued, “I never get to choose,
never
! I didn’t choose you and I didn’t choose Dad. I didn’t choose for you to get divorced. I didn’t choose who I was going to live with. I didn’t choose Lush Valley or our town house or my school, or even piano lessons, and I surely didn’t choose Keene Adams to be my new stepfather!”
    Our server appeared out of nowhere to ask how everything tasted. Mom smiled easily and said that everything was fine. I almost believed her, but when our server walked away, she took Mom’s smile with her.
    Then, through clenched teeth, Mom said, “Close your mouth and eat your dinner, Fizzy.”
    Now, just how was I supposed to do that?
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    I should’ve been sleeping, but I was still up doing my homework when Mom came into my bedroom that night, wearing pajamas with a cardigan sweater. “You’ve been up late every night this week, Fizzy.”
    It was true. Since I’d been cooking with Aunt Liz all afternoon every day, it had been late when I started my homework each night. And I had a lot of homework—like I said, there’s more of everything in Lush Valley, even homework.
    â€œMy book report’s due tomorrow,” I said, without looking up from my paper.
    Mom sat down on my bed. “You know, Fizzy, pretty soon, you’re going to be all grown up and you’re going to go off to college.”
    â€œCulinary school,” I corrected.
    Mom smiled a sad little half smile. “The point is that one day you’re going to be gone, and I don’t want to be alone for the rest of my life. I want a family.”
    Me too. I want a family, too,
I thought, but I didn’t say it. Instead I put my pencil down, got up from my desk, and went to sit beside Mom. “I’m your . . . it—
I’m it.
”
    â€œYes, and you’ll always be my family,” Mom said. “But one day, you’re going to grow up and set out into the world to create your own life, your own home, your own family.”
    I stared into my lap and stammered, “So you want Keene to be your . . . f-family.”
    â€œYes,” Mom said, but the way she said it was like,
Yes and . . .
I’d heard the
and
even though she hadn’t said it.
    I tried to think. “Do you want more children?” I asked.
    â€œI think I do,” Mom said, taking my hand in