I take a seat near the back of the room. There’s a guy in a baseball hat sitting in front of me, and its flipped-up brim is blocking my view, so I lean forward and tap him on the shoulder.
“Excuse me,” I say politely. “Would you mind taking off your hat? I can’t see the podium.”
The guy turns and looks at me. He’s handsome, about my age, with pink cheeks and eyes like a crisp sky. “Sure, Cuckoo,” he says with a smile.
Have you ever seen one of those pictures that look like a candlestick until you look at it a different way and realize it’s, like, two friends talking to each other? Sometimes the new picture comes to you suddenly. Like, you didn’t see it and didn’t see it, and then—suddenly—it’s there.
That’s what happens to this guy’s face as he takes off his baseball cap. Suddenly, this super-cute dude in front of me morphs into Winnie Quinn, my biology teacher.
“Oh!” I say. “Hi, Mr. Quinn.”
He looks vaguely horrified by the use of his Teacher name.
“I mean, um, Winnie,” I add awkwardly. I hurry to change the subject. “Are you a fan?”
Winnie holds up three books. “I get this one autographed every time she comes to town.” He opens the cover of Rules of Survival and shows me the title page. Nancy Werlin is signed in five places.
I pull open my copy of Double Helix.
“Wow,” Winnie breathes when he sees my seventeen Nancy Werlin signatures.
“Which is your favorite?” I ask.
“Impossible,” Winnie says as pink sweeps up his cheeks. “I know it’s not the most macho choice,” he rushes on, “but I read it a bunch of times when I was in college and I couldn’t go out with everyone else because I wasn’t old enough to get into the bars and it just kind of spoke to me and… uh… sorry. I’m babbling. I should’ve just said Rules of Survival.”
“I love both of those books,” I tell him honestly. “I can’t wait to read her new one.”
I realize I’m fidgeting wildly with the cover of my book, flipping it back and forth between my hands. Why am I so on edge? He must think I’m a nut job, which I am certifiably not (now). But it’s just so weird to see him outside the classroom and talk to him like we’re two regular teenagers hanging out at a book signing. (Except regular teenagers, sadly, don’t usually go to book signings.)
“Me neither.” The dimple in Winnie’s right cheek winks at me, and I’m tempted to reach out and touch it lightly with my finger, but just then, Ms. Jackson, the owner of Pagemakers, steps to the front of the room, and everyone gets quiet. Ms. Werlin stands to the side, smiling brilliantly as the toad-voiced Ms. Jackson gives her introduction, and Winnie turns around in his seat.
For the next hour, I try to concentrate on Ms. Werlin’s words and the section of her latest novel that she shares with us. But all I can think about is the handsome boy in front of me, my biology teacher, the teenager who never got to go to high school, the college student who probably spent his nights alone.
I can’t help wondering what things would be like if he were a student instead of a teacher. Would we be friends?
I don’t see how we could help it.
The thought makes me just a little bit sad.
Chapter 23
CHRISTMAS MORNING
You know that feeling when you wake up and you’re all cozy in bed and then you remember, It’s Christmas!
Well…
It’s Christmas!
The minute my eyes snap open, I fling off my covers, which is a huge mistake because it’s freezing in my room. Luckily, Brainzilla gave me a Snuggie as an early holiday present yesterday. I slip it on and yank a pair of socks over the pair I had on in bed. Then I hurry downstairs—although I’m not really sure why. I mean, Mrs. Morris made me promise not to get her a gift, and I can’t imagine that she’s gotten me one.
The other day, Winnie Quinn told us about Pavlov and his dog. Pavlov would ring a bell, then give the dog a treat. After a while, the dog would drool whenever it heard a bell—even without the treat. Christmas is kind of like that, I guess. Glee is hardwired into our brains.
Even for people who don’t believe in Santa, there’s something magical about Christmas morning. Our tiny fake tree covered in tiny white lights looks surprisingly elegant in the pale winter morning light. And someone has put a few gifts in my stocking: a candy cane and a battered copy of The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson.
I run my fingers over the faded gold letters on the cloth cover. When I open it, the book lets off a sweet, old-book smell. Mrs. Morris has written me a message in her shaky handwriting.
There are some gifts that are so perfect that you can never, ever express how much they mean to you.
I hear someone banging in the kitchen and go in to find Mrs. Morris pulling something from the oven. “Good morning!” she says when she sees me. “Merry Christmas!”
I rush to help her with the hot pan. It’s full of warm, gooey sticky buns. “Oh, Mrs. Morris,” I say, “I thought we weren’t doing presents!” I feel bad that she’s gone to all this trouble.
“Now, sweetheart, you should know that being able to fuss over you is a present to me,” Mrs. Morris says. “I haven’t made sticky buns in years. No reason to.”
“Well… I do have a present for you,” I say.
Mrs. Morris clucks and frowns. “I told you not to buy me anything.”
“I didn’t buy it. I made it.” I hurry upstairs and return with a scroll.
Mrs. Morris smiles when she unrolls it. “Well, isn’t that sweet. A family portrait!”
It’s a picture I drew of the two of us and Morris the Dog. I had considered adding Nicki Minaj and Laurence, too, but wasn’t sure that Mrs. Morris would realize I was joking.
Mrs. Morris gives me a hug. “This is one of the nicest gifts I’ve ever received,” she says, and dabs at her eyes a little with an oven mitt. She puts the picture on the fridge while I give Morris the Dog his special Christmas treat—a large green dog biscuit. I pull out a chair for Mrs. Morris, then serve us each a sticky bun on a plate along with some coffee. (Mine is mostly milk with four tablespoons of sugar.)
After we clean up from breakfast, we go into the living room to watch Elf.
It’s not the most exciting, expensive holiday… but it feels warm and cozy. As I sit on the couch beside Mrs. Morris, I realize I’m happier than I have been in a long time.
I guess making the sticky buns wore Mrs. Morris out a little, because she falls asleep near the end of the movie. I hold her delicate, papery hand for a while.
I’m filled with gratitude for her, and I remind myself not to take her for granted. I’ve been so wrapped up in my own life that I haven’t been thinking about her nearly enough. But, really, where would I be without Mrs. Morris?
Chapter 24
LIFE GOES ON. AND ON.
Call me sentimental, but I think the holiday season is really all about one thing: money.
Big bucks. Crazy cash.
Well, that’s what it seems to be about at the country club. I’ve been working tons of parties this holiday week and raking in the dough.
I don’t mind the work, to be honest with you. Even servitude has its moments. Brainzilla and I agreed to work both the Christmas and New Year’s gigs. Eggy joins us for a few of the midweek parties. She doesn’t really need the money, but the club is desperate for extra help, and she finds the place pretty humorous.