He’s never going to get anywhere with that, I think. I feel pretty bad for him as he sits down behind his desk and nervously looks at his watch. Then he starts scanning the room again, but I realize he’s not just looking at the students. He’s studying the walls, the desks, even the ceiling, like he’s never been inside a regular old classroom before.
The room is still going strong with theories, but the main points for now are she’s not coming back, Winnie is our new teacher, and the front row no longer needs to worry about Ms. Donaldson’s rampant spittle problem.
Meanwhile, beside me, I can see Flatso falling madly in love.
I’m not the kind of person who gets crushes on teachers, but I can absolutely see where she’s coming from. He’s definitely working the cute cherub look with his pink cheeks and punk preppy haircut.
I try to picture Flatso and Winnie out on a date. Where would they go? The gym first, then the natural science museum?
Winnie eventually gets everyone calmed down and calls the roll, and when he says, “Margaret Clarke?” I raise my hand and say, “Everyone calls me Cuckoo.”
He gives me a dimply smile. “All right, if you insist. Cuckoo it is.”
“Her friends call her Kooks,” Flatso chimes in. Still English.
“So noted, Kooks.” And he actually writes that down. I’m starting to suspect that Winston Quinn might be extremely cool.
Chapter 5
MRS. MORRIS, THE DOG, AND ME
When I get home, Mrs. Morris is waiting for me with a plate of cookies. I feel like I’m six years old again… except that nobody ever had cookies waiting for me when I was six. But here they are, freshly baked and delicious! Mrs. Morris is my foster mom, and I love her, and she loves me, but we never really get into it like that.
I’m really touched that she went to all the trouble of baking me cookies, and when she heads toward the fridge to get me some soy milk, I leap out of my chair.
“I’ll do it, Mrs. Morris,” I tell her. I don’t want her to go to any trouble.
Yeah, I call her Mrs. Morris. She once asked me to call her Roberta, but I just… couldn’t. I think she was actually kind of relieved. That’s just how we roll.
Mrs. Morris has a sweet, old, floppy little dog named Morris the Dog. She says there used to be a famous Morris the Cat on TV. Morris looks kind of like a mop, handle removed. Maybe he’s got that in his bloodline.
Mrs. Morris also has a daughter, Marjorie, who is a total flake blowing around in the LA smog. She’s a wannabe actress/singer/songwriter/screenwriter working as a barista/telemarketing trainee.
Marjorie calls just before dinner tonight. I answer the phone, and her voice clues me in right away that something’s up. “Oh, uh, I don’t think she’s available right now,” I mutter, but Mrs. Morris’s got some kind of Sixth Marjorie Sense (“I hear flaky people!”) and says, “Is that my daughter?” so I hand over the phone.
“Marjorie!” Mrs. Morris says into the receiver with a smile that practically reaches around to the back of her head. “We can’t wait to see you—what’s that? Oh. Uh-huh.” Mrs. Morris’s smile drops right off her face and onto the floor, splattering there. “I see. No, of course I understand. Of course. All right, Marjorie, well, another time, then.…” And she clicks the off button and carefully places the phone back in its cradle.
The silence in the kitchen is like something you could swim in. “She’s not coming next weekend?”
Mrs. Morris takes a deep breath. “Not this time,” she says. “She wants to pick up an extra shift or two to cover her rent. Well! When the screenplay sells, she won’t have to worry anymore, will she?” Then Mrs. Morris starts whistling, which is how I know she’s really, really disappointed.
Morris the Dog snorts.
I barely know Marjorie… but I know I really hate her for always breaking Mrs. Morris’s heart.
Chapter 6
MEET HOLDEN CAULFIELD
Mrs. Morris fries up some eggs and sausage for one of our incredibly early dinners, and I help by making dairy-free pancakes. We pretend we’re running a diner, serving up two Number Six Lumberjack Breakfast platters. I even class up the plates by adding some apple slices for a garnish.
“Verna—bus Table Eleven!” Mrs. Morris says when we’re finished eating.
“I’m on it, Trixie!” I load up the dishwasher and wipe down the table with a rag. Then, because I’m in a diner, I place the chairs upside down on the table and sweep the floor. While I’m at it, I mop. Why not?
“Well! The health inspector will be mighty glad to see this,” Mrs. Morris says, beaming at the shiny floor. It makes me happy to make her happy.
I head up to my room to start rereading The Catcher in the Rye for class. Ms. Olsson would probably freak out if I ever told her, but I never study for English. Instead, I just read all the books twice. The first time through, I read in a rush because I’m always dying to find out what happens and make sure everyone’s okay in the end. The second time around, I really get to enjoy the book, and I always notice new things.
When I walk through my bedroom door, I see that Holden Caulfield is sitting at my desk. Well, I’m just imagining him, but still. He’s watching me, and when I say, “Hi,” he says, “Hi. What are you doing in my room?”
That’s a little disconcerting, but when I look around, I notice the Pencey Prep pennant on the wall instead of my Nicki Minaj poster and the hardwood floors instead of the pink carpeting that runs throughout Mrs. Morris’s house. We are in his room!
“How’s your sister, Phoebe?” I ask.
“She’s got the grippe, but I think she’ll be fine. How’s Mrs. Morris?”
I’m thrilled that he knows about Mrs. Morris! “She’s great!” I say, sitting down on the bed. “Well, more like okay. You know, her MS bothers her. It gives her the shakes sometimes. She has to use a walker, and sometimes a wheelchair. And her heart is a little jumpy.”
I bite my lip. I really hate talking about Mrs. Morris’s health. It freaks me out a little. “Hey—while I have you here—could you help me out with some homework?”
I make up something about “coming of age” and “loss of innocence” and scribble it in my notebook. I try to use vocabulary that Ms. Olsson likes. You know: ostracize and liberate and innocuous and blahdeblahblah.
“Are you all right, Cuckoo?” Holden asks after a moment. “I’m worried.”
Holden has plenty of his own stuff to worry about—he doesn’t need to pile my problems on top of his. “Well, to tell the truth, Holden, I’m worried about you, too.”
Holden sucks in his breath, like I just tossed water on him. He sighs and rubs his hand over the million little short gray hairs on the side of his head. With soft eyes, he asks, “Will I be okay?”
I really want to say yes, but I just don’t know. It’s kind of hard to tell from the way the book ends. So instead I say, “I sure hope so, Holden. You’re one of my all-time favorite book characters.” I scoot to the edge of my bed and give him a light kiss on the cheek.
He smiles a little, but the sadness remains in his eyes. I reach for his hand, and we sit there for a while, not speaking. Finally, I open my (or I guess his) book and start reading, and when I look up, he’s gone.