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Leftovers

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208 pages
Fifteen-year-old Sarah Greene's father -- chef by day, camera buff by night -- choked to death on a piece of steak. It was the best day of Sarah's life. But a year later, Sarah still struggles with the legacy of her father's abuse. While other girls her age are determined to find boyfriends and part-time jobs and dresses for the prom, Sarah is on a search-and-destroy mission: to find the shoe box containing her father's collection of kiddy porn. After a brief skirmish with the law, Sarah is sentenced to do community service hours at Camp Dog Gone Fun, a summer program for shelter dogs. With the love of a big goofy dog named Judy, the friendship of Sullivan, a guy with problems of his own, and the support of a few good adults, Sarah begins to understand her past and believe in a brighter future.
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Leftovers
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Leftovers
H E A T H E RW A L D O R F
Text copyright ©2009Heather Waldorf
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Waldorf, Heather, 1966 Leftovers / written by Heather Waldorf.
ISBN 9781551439372
I. Title.
PS8645.A458L43 2009 jC813'.6 C2008907663X
First published in the United States,2009
Library of Congress Control Number:2008942003
Summary: An unruly dog and a scrawny teenage cancer survivor help Sarah begin to recover from years of sexual abuse.
Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit. Design by Teresa Bubela Cover artwork by Getty Images
Orca Book Publishers PO Box 5626, Stn. B Victoria, BC Canada V8R 6S4
Orca Book Publishers PO Box 468 Custer, WA USA 982400468
www.orcabook.com Printed and bound in Canada. Printed on 100% PCW recycled paper.
12 11 10 09 • 4 3 2 1
For Ace
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Ah, summer. Lazy mornings in bed, flipping through back issues of Peopleand munching on chocolate chip wafes. Long afternoons at the beach, slathered inspfand 45 sprinkled with sand. Breezy nights in the backyard, grilling gourmet veggie dogs under the stars, chilling with some hot guy to Mom’s old-dude cds: James Taylor, The Eagles, Simon and Garfunkel. Worries? None for me, thanks. Responsibilities? I’ll pass. Rain? Not on my parade. This is the life.MYlife. Me. Sarah Greene. Can you believe it? It’s the stuff of prom queens. Of Hollywood daughters.Of romance novel heroines. Of— BBBBRRRRIIIINNNNGGGG!!! “I hate you!” I shout at the alarm clock. No way it could be 6:15am already. But I’ve been wrong before.Like yesterday. And the day before that. All week, in fact.
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Heather Waldorf
Away-too-perky female voice comes over the loud-speaker from the ramshackle lodge across the field. “Good…SQUAWK…morning! Out of your…SQUAWKbeds, you…SQUAWK…sleepyheads! Last…SQUAWK…one to the agpole gets…SQUAWK,SQUAWK, SQU—” Bleary-eyed and yawning, I sit up, whacking my fore-head on the exposed rafters. On my way down from the loft bed, my foot misses the ladder; I tumble from my lumpy mattress to the floor, scraping my elbow. I feel around for the iron bedpost and pull myself to my feet, îghting an overwhelming desire to sprawl on the cool linoleum, maybe catch a few extrazzzzz’s. “Crap,” I mumble, wincing at my lemon-sucking reec-tion in the mini-mirror nailed to the wall.  Pulling on the îrst musty pieces of clothing I îndscattered around the drafty cabin (cabin is way overstating it; my quarters are no bigger than a gloriîed garden shed), I run a four-foot mad dash into my “private” bathroom, which is a closet containing a toilet, a sink and a shower stall as narrow as an upright coffin. I slap a Band-Aid on my scraped elbow, brush my teeth and shake out my dusty, peanut-butter-brown bedhead. Good enough. At six thirty sharp, I sprint out my cabin door into theearly morning fog to join the small stampede acrossthe muddy îeld to the agpole. At Camp Dog Gone Fun, the last one there gets Poo Patrol.
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I make it to the agpole second to last. No Poo Patrol for me. Not today. Today I draw the Grooming straw. Forget my own grooming; for three leisurely hours this morning, I’ll be washing, drying, ufîng and brushing out the matted and dirt-encrusted coats of a dozen-odd dogs of questionable parentage. Not that my own parentage is anything to brag about. Case in point: “Camp God Damnwhat?” my mother asked a month ago when she found out where they were sending me—“they” being the îne folks who run the juve-nile court system. Here’s the truth: There are worse places to spend a summer. Like a detention home for girls voted most likely to kill their families with an ax. Or a Britney Spears fan convention. Or one of those places where you chant, eat tofu and do yoga three times a day. Camp Dog Gone Fun isn’t one of those ridiculous rich-doggie spas that you see in magazines either. There are no
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