Read Leftovers for Free Online Page B

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.
    â€œDid you know,” Sullivan continues, popping carrot slices into his mouth and talking with his mouth open, “that when Michelangelo painted the ceiling of the SistineChapel, he portrayed Adam receiving life from God through his left hand?”
    â€œDid 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.
    â€œJulia Roberts is left-handed,” Sullivan states, undeterred.
    â€œHere. 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 closeto 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.
    â€œAren’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.”
    â€œWhat if we ‘ventured over’ to upstate New York instead?” I joke, waving my knife toward the south-facing window.
    â€œOr not. Anyway, I just thought...the water’s a bit rough out there tonight. You might want some...help?”
    â€œIt’s not
that
rough.” First the puzzle, now this. Sullivan is getting clingier