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

Parents’ Night—isn’t that what we’re talking about?” Mom gave me a quick hug and headed for the stairs before I could think what to say.
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    It was a cold, gray morning. A few patches of snow remained in shady spots, with dead grass sticking up through them in an unruly way, which seemed out of place in Lush Valley, where yards aren’t only strictly ruled but sculpted—some bushes are even carved into shapes, like art—even in the winter.
    As I walked, I thought about how happy Coach Bryant would be to know that I get all this fresh air and exercise outside of gym class. I thought maybe I should tell him. Maybe he would say something like,
In that case, you’re excused from gym class for the rest of the year. Sit and read all you want. You’ve earned it, Fissy.
(The way Coach Bryant says “Fizzy” sounds more like “Fissy,” which sounds a lot like “Fussy” to me. I don’t like it.)
    That’s what I was thinking when I heard a door slam somewhere behind me. I turned to look: Zach Mabry, a blond-haired, blue-eyed boy who was in my math class came thudding down his front steps, hugging an unzipped black backpack with papers sticking out of the top, his coat half on and half off. When he saw me looking at him, he showed me his teeth.
    Was that supposed to be a smile?
I wondered as I turned back around and resumed walking.
    Within two minutes, I heard footsteps on the sidewalk right behind me. I glanced over my shoulder.
    Zach showed me his teeth again.
    I decided not to look behind me anymore and picked up my pace.
    But Zach stayed right with me. Until we reached the school. Then he jogged around me, moving ahead of me as he hurried for the door. But he didn’t open it. Instead he just stood beside it, staring at me.
    I slowed, looking around, unsure. But then I remembered how I couldn’t be late again.
    As I neared the door, Zach pulled it open and held it for me.
    â€œTh-thank you,” I stuttered as I passed.
    â€œIt’s not working, is it?” Zach asked as he entered right on my heels.
    I turned. “What?”
    â€œMy I’m-not-a-violent-maniac smile.”
    â€œOh,” I said. “Um . . . why do you need an I’m-not-a-violent-maniac smile?”
Because wouldn’t only a violent maniac need one of those?
    â€œWhen you come up behind kids who’ve lived on the street, especially girls . . . ,” Zach started, but then he shook his head and said, “never mind.” He smiled a real smile, winked, and added, “Have a nice day.” I was a little unnerved. Until I reminded myself how cool I must look as a walker,
voluntarily
showing up for school and all.
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    Mr. Moss began science class by announcing that he was going to give each of us a marble for our experiment in force of motion, and then spent the next twenty minutes detailing all the terrible things that would happen if we lost our marble. For starters, we wouldn’t get another one and we wouldn’t be allowed to share with a friend.
Blah-blah-blah.
Cut to catastrophe: “Accidentally drop your marble down the sink? Too bad. No marble means no experiment, no data, and no points—you’ll get a zero if you lose your marble. Everybody understand?” We all nodded, ready to get going.
    But Mr. Moss spent another ten minutes telling us about all the different kinds of marbles he’d collected over the years: cat’s eyes, devil’s eyes, rubies, butterflies, bumblebees, and so on.
    When we—finally!—got our marbles, I saw the one belonging to the girl in front of me, Miyoko Hoshi, roll off her table and onto the floor. The girl at the table beside Miyoko’s, Ada Montgomery-Asher—one of Buffy’s friends—saw it, too, because Ada reached out with her foot, rolled Miyoko’s marble under her table, and kept it there,