Leftovers Read online

  “Lots of chewing. Bet you felt like a piece of rawhide,” I interrupt, wondering if Sullivan has any inkling that his so-called problems are the stuff of a family sit-com. Or that my problems are—by comparison—the stuff of horror movies.

  “So now the punishment,” Sullivan explains. “I’m not allowed off-island until the puzzle is done. Mom believes in ‘creative behavior management.’” He throws himself back on the bed. “Why can’t she just smack me around the way some mothers do, then let it go? It would save us both time and—”

  Maybe because she loves you more than that! I think. I jump up.

  “Sarah...wait...”

  “Cut to the chase, Sullivan,” I say from the doorway. “You called me up here because you want me to help you with the puzzle, right? Why me?”

  “Because Johanna would tell me to piss off if I asked her. Brant’s not here in the evening; even if he were, he would tell me that jigsaws aren’t cool. Taylor scares the hell out of me. Nicky might eat the pieces. Please...will you help me?”

  “Is it still punishment if I help you?”

  “That depends on you, I guess.”

  Ouch. Ten points for Sullivan.

  Sullivan tosses the tiger aside, falls off the bed onto his knees and pleads with me. “Puh-leeeeeese, Sarah. Mom never said I had to do it alone. You know how she is, always preaching ‘resourcefulness.’ We can spread the puzzle out on this old ping-pong table that Dr. Fred keeps out in the storage shed. It’s got a broken leg but we can find a way to prop it up.”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  Sullivan doesn’t miss a beat. “Ratgut is in Ottawa the second week of August. I have two tickets. Won them last week on a radio call-in show. Ninth caller through. I’ve been so pumped about seeing them live. They’re amazing. I thought about seeing if one of the guys I was hanging out with yesterday wanted to go with me—they all have cars— but if you help me and we get the puzzle done by then, I’ll take you instead. How about it? We’ve got almost a month to finish the puzzle. If I ask, I’m sure my dad will come down from Riverwood to drive us there and back. It’ll be a late night, but you’re allowed off-island after evening chores, aren’t you? Ratgut is...” Sullivan pauses, gets down on all fours, reaches down under his bed again and extracts a CD. He thrusts it up at me. “Here. Take this back to your cabin tonight. You have to listen all the way through to get a real feel for it. It’s...genius.”

  Forget the stupid rock concert, I think, my brain spinning faster than any CD. Sullivan is my Golden Ticket. My ticket into the city. My ticket into my father’s restaurant without my mother knowing. My ticket to finding that hated shoe box full of old Polaroids. My ticket to freedom. My future.

  My facial muscles relax for the first time since arriving at Camp Dog Gone Fun. I smile openly at another human being for the first time in what is probably years. “I’ll do it.” I reach out to shake Sullivan’s hand, to seal the deal, hoping he doesn’t take it too personally when I ditch him at the concert gates.

  TEN

  A week later, Sullivan bangs into the kitchen through the screen door. I’m slicing carrots for a beef stew.

  “Nice job,” he says, sidling up to me and watching as the thin slices fall onto the cutting board like orange dominoes. He grabs a few and inspects them. “How do you get them all the same thickness like this?”

  “It’s all in the wrist,” I tell him, holding up my left arm and giving it a shake.

  Now get out, Sullivan, I think. You smell like the dog barn. Your cheerfulness distracts me from my work.

  And work it is.

  Dr. Fred and Victoria have put me in charge of meals. All meals. It wasn’t forced on me; they shamelessly spent this morning begging me to do it. Then, over lunch, the other “volunteers” and Sullivan voted unanimously to take on my dog duties, even Poo Patrol, if I’d take care of breakfast, lunch and dinner for the rest of the summer. It was the promise of no more Poo Patrol that clinched the deal. (“But not Judy. No way,” Sullivan had said. “She’s attached herself to you, Sarah, like a hairy overgrown leech. She’s your Special Project.”)

  It was my spaghetti sauce last night that tipped everyone off to the fact that I could cook. Really cook. Maybe I should have stuck to thawing frozen lasagna or stirring up a mess of Hamburger Helper like everybody else does when they draw the Meal Prep straw at flagpole. Maybe I should have known that adding those extra veggies and spices to the Prego last night was a bad idea.

  Cooking is...well...it disgusts me a bit that I’ve somehow absorbed my father’s talent for slicing and dicing and sautéing and whipping. It kind of creeps me out that I can stir a pound of ground beef, an onion, some mushrooms, two cans of stewed tomatoes, a mess of dried herbs and a big pot of noodles into something that even Johanna, Camp Dog Gone Fun’s wannabe anorexic, can’t help but shovel in by the forkful. But part of me likes being good at something, so I’m secretly pleased when they ask me to cook.

  And I can’t believe that I’m already thinking ahead to tomorrow. I’m planning to set my alarm a half hour early to stir up some whole-wheat waffle batter and chop red peppers for an omelet. Next I’ll be wondering if that sunny dirt pile behind the lodge would support a small tomato patch.

  “Did you know,” Sullivan continues, popping carrot slices into his mouth and talking with his mouth open, “that when Michelangelo painted the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, he portrayed Adam receiving life from God through his left hand?”

  “Did you know, Sullivan,” I reply, “that while only ten percent of the general population is left-handed, fifteen to thirty percent of mental patients are left-handed?”

  That should give him something to think about. Somewhere else, hopefully.

  “Julia Roberts is left-handed,” Sullivan states, undeterred.

  “Here. Taste this.” I shove a wooden spoon dripping with stew into Sullivan’s mouth.

  He smacks his lips. “Incredible. Listen, can I come with you later? When you go out in the canoe? With Judy?”

  As part of Judy’s “program,” I paddle around the island each evening in an old beat-up aluminum canoe while Judy swims beside me. We never travel too far from the island. I tell myself that it’s because a) I’m no hotshot at water sports (I lied to Victoria about being able to swim) and b) if Judy tires, she can quickly make it to shore for a rest. Except that a) I got the hang of canoeing early on (making tipping, and therefore swimming, avoidable) and b) it seems Judy never tires. On land, she’s a clumsy, lumbering, knuckle-headed oaf; in the water, she’s a mermaid with energy to burn and a thick layer of body fat to keep her afloat. (Whatever the shortcomings of her previous owners, Judy appears to have been well fed.) The real reason I stick to shore is because on warm summer evenings, the tourists are out on the St. Lawrence in droves. The river is a regatta. Some of the smaller boats come dangerously close to Moose Island—not that I give a rat’s ass if they scratch their boats on the rocks, but the tourists have cameras and they’ll point them at anything, even at me and Judy. I just know that Enormous Dog Swimming Beside Girl in Canoe is begging to be photographed and published on the cover of some Thousand Islands travel brochure.

  “Aren’t you grounded?”

  Sullivan chews thoughtfully on another piece of carrot. “Mom said it was okay to go out in the canoe with you. As long as we don’t venture over to town.”

  “What if we ‘ventured over’ to upstate New York instead?” I joke, waving my knife toward the south-facing window.

  “Or not. Anyway, I just thought...the water’s a bit rough out there tonight. You might want some...help?”

  “It’s not that rough.” First the puzzle, now this. Sullivan is getting clingier than Judy. If I were one of those popular girls from the chick-lit novels I read in the school library, I might think that Sullivan was flirting with me.

  What the hell am I thinking? It can’t be that.

  “Well?” Sullivan persists.

  I can see out the window that the w
ind has picked up a little. And wake from some of the powerboats can be daunting.

  “I guess an extra set of puny triceps can’t be a bad thing.”

  ELEVEN

  After dinner, we head down to the dock. It’s Sullivan’s canoe, so I let him take the stern. I hate it, though. I can feel his eyes watching me, boring into the back of my skull like a couple of corkscrews.

  “So...that dog puzzle’s really coming along,” he says.

  I’m not sure if he’s asking for confirmation or just stating the obvious, so I stay quiet.

  “I’d say we placed at least one, maybe two hundred pieces last night? Not bad, since we only worked at it for a couple of hours. It’s hard, that puzzle.”

  “Not so hard,” I tell him.

  And it’d be way easier if Sullivan spent more puzzle time puzzling instead of yapping.

  “Think we’ll get it all done by the concert?” he asks. “It’s only four weeks away.”

  “We damn well better,” I mumble.

  “I can’t hear you!” Sullivan calls up.

  “Yes!” I shout. “We’ll get it done!”

  Sullivan splashes my back with his next stroke. “Admit it, Sarah, you loved that CD I lent you.”

  I need to maintain my cover, but here’s the truth: the CD sucks. Ratgut is just a bunch of screaming losers. Their “instrumentals” sound like ice cubes in a blender.

  But I swivel in my seat to face Sullivan. “Ratgut is amazing! Just like you said, Sullivan. Genius! I can’t wait to get to that concert!”

  Well, at least that last part is true.

  Sullivan is encouraged by my enthusiasm. “Listen, maybe we could...you know...rush through evening chores that day? Get an early start to the city? Make time to stop somewhere for pizza before the concert?”

  Sullivan’s not trying to turn this little concert outing into a date, is he?

  Nah. I lay my paddle across the gunwales and take a deep breath. Besides, once I ditch him at the concert, Sullivan will know that I’m just using him. That I am not someone he should pursue even a basic, no-frills friendship with.

  He deserves better than me.

  Sullivan doesn’t wait for an answer. “I called my dad today. He remembers you from school and agreed to come down to Gananoque that night and hang out with a guy he knows from his teachers’ college days. He’ll let me drive his car to the city and back.”

  “And Victoria is okay with you going with me?”

  “Sure, as long as I get the puzzle done first. That’s our deal. She’ll run us over to the mainland to hook up with Dad. Then, as long as I call her every hour on the hour to let her know I’m still alive, we’re cool.”

  “I mean...she’s okay with you going with me?” I ask. “One of the...”

  “‘Volunteers’? Sure. She likes you, Sarah,” Sullivan says; then he laughs. “Your cuss fines are single-handedly funding this summer’s supply of rawhide and tennis balls.”

  “Very fucking funny. So why is she so overprotective?”

  Chewing his lip, Sullivan points over my shoulder with his paddle. “Hey, watch out for that driftwood!”

  I swivel back around to face front.

  No driftwood.

  “I don’t see—”

  “So...how about that pizza before the concert?” Sullivan persists.

  Judy is leading the canoe by a good thirty feet. I speed up my stroke to close the gap, wondering about Sullivan’s sudden evasiveness, relieved that he’s not really the wide-open, brightly colored picturebook he always seems to be.

  “Sarah?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Pizza?”

  “Uh...sure. Sounds...great.”

  What choice do I have, anyway? I have to do whatever it takes to get into my father’s restaurant this summer without my mother knowing. I should be glad that all Sullivan wants is help with his puzzle—and now pizza.

  Except I am wrong. Sooo wrong. Because after canoeing around the island and putting away our paddles and life vests, Sullivan blindsides me.

  He kisses me. Right there in the damp, musty-smelling darkness of the boathouse.

  I am NOT cut out for teen romance. Kissing happens to other girls. Girls in novels with glossy pink covers. Girls with pretty clothes and bright smiles.

  So why the hell am I kissing him back? Why is my heart pounding with excitement, not fear? Why does his mouth taste like warm cinnamon buns, not disgust?

  TWELVE

  It doesn’t take much time for life to get back to normal. Meaning crappy.

  Fifteen minutes later I’ve disentangled my tongue from Sullivan’s, towel-dried Judy and settled her down in the barn. I am walking, a bit dazed, my lips still tingling, toward my cabin to change out of my splash-damp clothes before returning to the kitchen to slice up some banana bread for evening snack.

  Brant yells up to me from the dock. He’s sitting in his crappy tin can of a motorboat, about to leave for home. “Hey! Sarah-ha-ha! Get my cell phone? It’s on my bunk.”

  I hate—hate—him calling me Sarah-ha-ha. And I know that “please” would be too much to expect from Brant. But I mumble, “Yeah, sure,” since I’m going that way anyway.

  Like everyone else here, Brant gets his own small cabin. Old Mr. Moose had originally built the five tiny sheds to house his summer guests and housekeeping staff. But unlike the other Camp Dog Gone Fun “volunteers,” Brant only uses his private quarters to change clothes, blast music, lift weights between dog duties and—I suspect—pop steroids and admire his muscles in his tiny bathroom mirror.

  I push open his cabin door (there are no locks at Camp DGF. Something to do with fostering trust, blah, blah, blah) and gasp at the mess. I’m no neat freak, but the crumpled chip bags, moldy crusts, Coke cans erupting with ants, wet towels, heaps of sour-smelling workout clothes...it’s truly revolting.

  It’s only after I rifle through a pile of dog-eared Sports Illustrated magazines and cheesy-smelling socks on Brant’s cot that I locate his cell phone, wedged under a crumpled beach towel thrown across his bare foam mattress. Brant’s phone isn’t the no-frills kind I have and rarely use (the only person who ever calls is my mother). His is an expensive model, one that texts, takes photos, records videos, plays Mp3s and would probably make you a grilled cheese sandwich if you asked it to.

  Phone in hand, I turn to hightail it back out into the evening breeze, and my peripheral vision catches sight of an open magazine poking out from under Brant’s cot. I nudge the magazine a few inches farther with my toe and gape down at the naked woman with fake boobs and fake hair and a fake smile sprawled on a white wicker beach chair.

  I know that magazines like this one exist. And that guys like Brant read them—though “reading” is absolutely the wrong verb. And I know that if a grown woman wants to take her clothes off for money, or the sick thrill of having guys like Brant jerk off to her naked image, it’s not illegal.

  But that doesn’t stop me from clamping my hand over my mouth to avoid adding a layer of post-dinner puke to Brant’s already filthy floor.

  Shaky-legged and gulping oxygen, I finally make it back to the dock and toss Brant his phone.

  “Took you long enough,” he says, catching it in one hand. He revs his boat’s engine and takes off across the river before I can gather enough breath to tell him to go to hell.

  My father might like the company.

  THIRTEEN

  At breakfast a few days later, Dr. Fred drops two books into my lap: Loving Your Large-Breed Puppy andDog Training for Dummies.

  I peer up from my blueberry pancakes. “Is this some kind of a joke?”

  Dr. Fred’s eyes sparkle with benevolence. “Thought they might help. With Judy.”

  Oh, come on. No one will ever write a book to help Judy. Think about it; even the title would be overwhelming. That Crazy Bitch: Coping with the Oversize, Overactive, Overaffectionate and Underachieving She-pup from Hell.

  But Dr. Fred looks so enthusiastic and...hopeful.

/>   “Okay,” I say. “Thanks.”

  Before it’s time to start slicing and dicing veggies for the lunch salad, I take Judy down to the beach for her morning aerobics. A solid hour of stick fetching in the river is the only activity that exhausts her. It frees me up to cook lunch while she curls up under the kitchen table like a hibernating black bear.

  Judy and I have developed a stick-throwing routine: As soon as we get to the beach, Judy bounds off along the shore to find a stick of appropriate width and length. Then she drops it at my feet. I pick it up, take random aim and whip it as far as I can out into the St. Lawrence. I don’t worry much about the current; it’s not all that strong this close to the mainland, plus I’m pretty sure Judy could swim up Niagara Falls if she ever got the opportunity.

  Judy dashes out into the river after the stick, like a lifeguard after a drowning victim. She fetches the stick, bounds back out of the water, drops it at my feet and shakes, spraying water and sand and green river slime all over me.

  If I’m not quick enough to begin the routine again, Judy nudges me into action. Nudges me the way a speeding snowplow would “nudge” Frosty. Resistance is futile.

  Today, during the short periods when Judy is out in the water retrieving, I plunk down on one of the granite boulders littering the shoreline and flip through Dr. Fred’s books. Who knows, maybe I’ll learn something. I just hope that Dr. Fred won’t mind a few water-warped, sand-gritty pages when I return them.

  The basic premise of both books, I find out right away, is that to deal with the “difficult” dog, the human has to accept that he or she is not the dog’s playmate. So when it comes to Judy, I must promote myself to head honcho. Alpha dog. I have to be the one to initiate the stick game, not Judy. I have to enter or exit the kitchen ahead of Judy—not hold the door open for her, letting her charge in first. I have to exercise leadership and take more responsibility for Judy’s behavior.

  The theory makes sense, but I don’t know if I’m up for it. My whole life I’ve been told what to do. Turn to page sixteen, do problems six through eleven, the school told me. So I did. Take off those panties or the dog dies, my father told me. So I did. After my father died, I wondered if it was safe to start standing up for myself. Taking the initiative. Say cheese, Tanner told me. I told him to piss off, and then I stole his car.