Read Online Leftovers by Heather Waldorf - Free Book Online

her water quickly and wiping her chin with her wrist.
    â€œThey don’t put you in jail for stealing gum,” Nicky sneers.
    â€œThey will if you keep getting caught,” Taylor tells him.
    â€œOr if you start filling your Fruit of the Looms with iPods and jewelry,” I add.
    Nicholas reaches into the crisper and pelts a red grape at my head. “Well, Miss Mario Andretti, at least I never stole a car!”
    â€œFuck off, Nicky,” I say, but I can’t help laughing and whipping the grape back at him. He ducks, catching it in his mouth.
    â€œTen points for Captain Underpants!” he shouts. “Hey, Sarah, did you know that if you write your name backwards, it spells
harass
?”
    â€œYou won any spelling bees lately, Nicky?” Taylor laughs, chucking her water bottle into the recycling bin and heading back outside.
    â€œYou want a stick?” Nicholas asks me, holding out two open packs of gum. “You like spearmint or cinnamon?”
    I take one of each. What the hey.

    Nicholas finally goes to hide his stash in his cabin, and I enjoy about thirty seconds filled only with the sizzle of chicken strips browning in a pan before Sullivan crashes through the kitchen door, his big feet bare. I glance out the kitchen window and spot his red-and-green-plaid high-tops strewn on the field. “Stepped in dog you-know-what. Be back in a flash.” He makes a beeline through the kitchen to the rec room and then pounds upstairs to his room.
    He’s back in less than a minute, wearing enormous black flip-flops that look like scuba flippers. He leans against the dishwasher, watching me chop onions and mushrooms and peppers.
    â€œDon’t slice off your fingers,” he warns. “It’s a fact that lefties like you, Sarah, are fifty-four percent more likely than right-handers to have accidents with tools.”
    â€œWhere do you come up with this stuff?” I ask.
    â€œOprah did a show on left-handedness one day when I was off sick from school. She’s a leftie too.”
    â€œSo was Jack the Ripper,” I say, giving the chicken strips a toss in the pan.
    â€œYou look like Martha Stewart,” Sullivan remarks.
    I reach around Sullivan for the garlic press. “Martha got sent to
real
jail.”
    Sullivan’s ears turn the color of the red peppers on the cutting board. “No, no. That’s not what I meant. You look like...who’s that other woman...the one with the funny accent...she used to be on TV too...Julia Child?”
    â€œShe’s dead.”
    â€œSorry, I mean—”
    â€œAnd she was
old
. And
fat
.”
    â€œI just
mean
...you look like a real chef.”
    â€œGenetic mutation,” I say, cringing at the compliment. Not everyone in Riverwood knew my father,
the
Ian Greene of Sarah’s Bistro, but still, his “unfortunate” demise was written up in all the regional newspapers. Local tragedy, blah, blah, blah.
    Sullivan smacks the side of his head. “Right. Your dad owned that restaurant up in the city. By the way, sorry about what happened...you know...to him.”
    â€œDon’t be,” I say, blinking hard. I mean it—and then some. But the damn onions are making my eyes water. I sure hope that Sullivan doesn’t think I’m crying over my father.
    Like
that
would ever happen.

    Here’s something you should know: if my father hadn’t given me one huge, skin-crawling reason to hate his guts for all eternity, there were a million small reasons why I loved him.
    Take away his despicable Polaroid camera, and I had a dad who helped with homework, showed up at all my school concerts, and patiently taught me how to separate eggs, use his fancy food processor and melt chocolate in the double boiler. He took me to petting zoos, museums and parks on weekends. He encouraged me to name my dog after my favorite dessert.
    Dad knew how to make Mom laugh, how to make her agree to some