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

hers.
    â€œSo I’m not enough,” I whispered as tears burned behind my eyes.
    â€œYou are wonderful,” Mom said. “
You
are what makes me want more children—I’d like to have three more just like you.”
    â€œ
Three?
” I felt sick.
    Mom smiled. “Yes, but I’ll take just one. One doesn’t sound so bad, does it?”
    â€œI guess not,” I said, even though it all sounded pretty bad to me.
    â€œFizzy, look at me,” Mom said.
    I lifted my head and met her soft green eyes.
    â€œCan you imagine giving up on your dream of becoming a chef?”
    I swallowed. “No, ma’am.”
    Mom nodded. “I can’t give up on my dream of having a family either.” She stood.
    I just sat there.
    Mom placed a gentle hand under my chin and bent to kiss my cheek. “Good night, sweet pea—oh, and I promise to think about the cake.”
    When she was almost to the door, I said, “A very wise woman once told me that things don’t matter, and what other people think about our things certainly doesn’t matter. People are what matter.”
    Mom stopped moving but didn’t turn around. She sighed. “Fine. You’ll have your purple cake.”

Chapter 13
    On Friday morning, I found Zach waiting for me on his front porch again. “Your mom doesn’t like me,” he said as soon as he met me on the sidewalk.
    I turned away, watching my breath crystallize on the air like smoke. “C’mon,” I said. “It’s too cold to stand around.” We started walking.
    â€œWhat’d she say?” Zach asked.
    I thought about what Mom had said and felt myself smile. Zach would probably take it as a compliment—black leather and all. “She called you ‘slick.’”
    Zach laughed. And laughed. And laughed.
    So I did, too.
    We were almost to school by the time we settled down. As we stepped off the sidewalk, into the grass, Zach said, “Your mom’s right, though. When you’re on your own, you learn real quick that it’s best for everybody if you just say whatever the adults want to hear, you know?” And then he pulled the door open for me.
    I nodded as I passed, like I completely understood, even though I wasn’t sure what Zach was talking about. All I really knew was that maybe he didn’t think I had good looks afterall—he’d just said what he thought Mom wanted to hear—right?
    â€œLater,” Zach said.
    â€œNo hot chocolate?” I half whined, coming to a dead stop in the hallway, causing the boy behind me to bump my backpack.
    â€œCan’t do it every day—wouldn’t want to take advantage.” Zach smiled and winked, then headed for his homeroom.
    I thought about what Zach had said all through science class. And even though I didn’t fully understand where he was coming from, I was pretty sure I understood part of it: It really was easier on everybody to just say whatever the adults wanted to hear, or, in my case, it was easier on everybody if I
didn’t
say whatever the adults
didn’t
want to hear—like how Mom doesn’t want to hear about Dad, and Dad doesn’t want to hear about Mom. Would I become “slick”? I tried to imagine myself dressed in black leather from head to toe, maybe with silver, spiky bracelets around my wrists, which caused me to giggle.
    â€œSomething you’d like to share, Miss Russo?” Mr. Moss said.
    I sat up straight. “No, sir.”
Not if my life depended on it.
After that, I stayed focused on my work.
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    By Friday night, I realized there was a lot about Zach that I didn’t know—and probably couldn’t even guess. But I
did
know three very important things: 1) I knew that no one at school was going to laugh at Miyoko again—or me either probably—because there was a rumor that Miyoko could kill a person just as fast as she could