The Thing About Leftovers by C.C. Payne

hallway.
    When she saw me, Mom smiled knowingly. “It stopped snowing an hour ago and the roads are fine—school isn’t canceled.”
    â€œOh no . . . I, um . . . Is Keene gone?” I asked as she reached the top step.
    â€œYes.” Mom reached for my hand and held it. “What is it, sweet pea? Why are you still awake?”
    I begged her with my eyes, hoping she would try to understand even though she obviously felt differently, as I said, “Mom, I . . . I don’t like Keene.”
    She sighed. “You will, Fizzy, you’ll see. These things just take time.”
    There was something in Mom’s voice that kept me from saying more. She seemed so determined,
desperate
even, for Keene and me to like each other.

Chapter 8
    When the—hateful—Genghis started yelling at me on Monday morning, my room was still pitch-dark. My thoughts went something like this:
Who set that alarm? Is this some sort of joke? Because it’s not funny. It’s downright cruel.
Naturally I blamed Keene. Until I remembered that
I
was the one who’d set my alarm clock.
    I found Mom downstairs leaning against the kitchen counter, drinking a cup of coffee.
    Do you always do this?
I wanted to ask, because in my opinion, a person who’s always “running late” doesn’t have time for leaning.
    But Mom beat me to the questions. “What are you doing up so early?”
    I shrugged. “I thought maybe I’d walk to school today.”
    Wrinkles formed on Mom’s forehead. “Oh? And why is that?”
    I looked down at my bare feet and mumbled, “I can’t be late for school anymore.”
    Mom set her coffee down. “All right. Could you please explain?”
    â€œIt’s just that I don’t want to go to the principal’s office anymore,” I said softly.
    Mom’s eyes bulged. “When were you in the principal’s office?”
    â€œFriday . . . and it wasn’t the first time,” I told her. “I’m late a lot, Mom.” I felt bad saying it. I really did.
    Mom’s face melted into a sad sort of smile. “I’m still trying to figure out how I can do it all . . . by myself . . . and I . . . I . . .” She shook her head and then showed me her palms. “All right.”
    I headed for the stairs but when I glanced back, Mom looked so sad. “Enjoy your coffee,” I tried.
    Another sad—guilt-loaded—smile.
    I felt bad for her and didn’t want to leave her like that. I took another step toward the stairs and stopped, grinning as the idea hit me. I turned to face Mom fully as I said, “You know, I’m sure you’d feel much better about all this walking if I had a cell phone.”
    It worked: Immediately Mom hardened and said, “We can’t always get everything we want in life, Fizzy.”
    I took the stairs two at a time and was already at the top when she called after me, “The sooner you accept that, the better off you’ll be!”
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    Mom caught me at the front door on my way out and said, “I almost forgot: I spoke to your aunt Liz and she wants you to plan on going over to her house after school every day this week to try out a bunch of recipes for the contest.”
    I should’ve known something was up right then because Mom had talked to Aunt Liz—which she hardly ever does anymore—but I didn’t. So I just said, “Okay . . . but what about Thursday?”
    â€œWhat about Thursday?”
    â€œIt’s Parents’ Night at school,” I reminded her.
    â€œOh, right. Keene and I will pick you up from your aunt Liz’s right after work,” Mom said.
    â€œWhy?” was the word that tumbled out of my mouth, as in,
Why would Keene come?
He wasn’t my parent. He wasn’t anybody’s parent.
    â€œFor