Homeroom Diaries

by James Patterson

  “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.

  I wonder if the ending of The Catcher in the Rye will be different this time. Whenever I reread something, especially if the ending is sad, I always kind of hope that there will be a new, perfectly happy ending on the last page.

  For instance, I’m currently working on a new way to wrap up the Twilight books. I have to admit, I loved all of them. If that makes me so 2012, then so be it.

  Chapter 7

  CLUBBING

  Oh, don’t mind me, I’m just heading out to the country club. Why, yes, I do like to spend a great deal of time there. No, I don’t play tennis; I mostly spend my time at the restaurant. It’s ever so droll!

  Sorry. I start talking like that whenever I go to the club for work. It’s completely involuntary and usually only stops when Brainzilla starts mocking me.

  We take the bus to the club whenever they need us, which is a lot during their busy seasons and not so much the rest of the time. But, hey, we’ll take what we can get.

  The city bus huffs up in a cloud of carbon monoxide and belches to a stop. “Here.” Brainzilla is waiting with me, and I hand her two crisp dollar bills.

  “How did you know?” she asks, tucking her long blond hair behind her ear. Brainzilla is one of the prettiest girls in school, and a total clotheshorse. She spends every spare cent on clothes and is, therefore, always short for the bus.

  My best friend blushes and says, “Sorry I’m short, but this scarf was on sale—”

  “It’s great. Just hit me back on the way home out of your tips.” Brainzilla always makes a killing at the club. Gorgeousness + excellent manners = serious cash. The cash I earn is much less serious.

  When we arrive, we’re greeted by two kinds of people: people who work there and people who play there. The people who play there are mostly okay, but I always feel a little dingy around them. They’re shiny. Shiny, shiny people. Their teeth are white and even, and their skin is all glowy, and their clothes always look brand-new.

  The people who work there are like me and Brainzilla. You know—kinda deprived. Mostly broke.

  Usually, I start out doing prep for the kitchen, but when the main floor gets busy, I waitress with Brainzilla. So once I’ve set up all the garnishes, I grab my pad and pencil and head out to Table 16 where—surprise!—Marty Bloom is waiting for me with his entire family.

  Actually, it’s interesting to see Marty here, instead of at school. His little sister leans against him, like she thinks that he’s the greatest big brother ever. His mom is very smiley, and his dad is the kind of guy who seems to always be clapping everyone on the back. They seem really nice, and when they place their order, Marty’s mom apologizes for wanting her sauce on the side, which I think is cut
e.

  So this raises the question. Why such a Hater, Marty Bloom?

  I’m about to head over to check on Table 4 with a pitcher of water, when I nearly run into Marty, who is headed for the men’s room. “Hey, Maggie,” Marty says. “You look pretty.”

  I stop, too surprised to say “thank you” or even “my name is Cuckoo,” while he doesn’t even break his stride—just heads right into the restroom, as if giving me a compliment is the most natural thing in the world.

  I don’t know what to make of it. Is it a sign of remorse for torturing Zitsy? A sign of an imminent zombie apocalypse?

  Or maybe just a sign that I look relatively cute in a black skirt and apron?

  Chapter 8

  NOTHING EVER CHANGES

  The next day at school is a red-letter day: Tater Tot day at lunch! Of course I get some, then grab some juice and follow Zitsy toward our table. He’s got a tray loaded down with two Cokes, a slab of meat, and a mountain of fried starch—french fries, Tater Tots, two bags of chips.

  We pass by the Hater table, and I shoot Marty a smile. He smiles back, then shifts in his chair, and before I know what has happened, Zitsy goes flying, his tray doing a triple somersault in midair. A rain of starch and Coke splatters all over Jenna McClue—head Barbie and on-off-on girlfriend of Marty Bloom. She lets out a screech one second before Zitsy’s meat loaf lands with a thwack on her chest region. And approximately one nanosecond later, the lunchroom erupts into food fight chaos.

  “Everybody, listen up!” Tebow shouts. The cafeteria quiets down as people stop throwing stuff and stop to look up at him. “Look, I know this is fun, but… it’s wrong to waste food when there are starving people in the world.”

  Tebow is always thinking about poor people, even when people around him are tossing mashed potatoes in one another’s faces. It’s sweet that he cares, although I’m not sure anybody else does.

  “Wouldn’t we all feel better if we shared what we have instead of throwing it at each other?” Tebow asks. “Wouldn’t it be—”

  Yes, that’s a chili dog that just smacked into Tebow’s forehead. The minute it hits him, the cafeteria cheers and everyone goes back to flinging food.

  “Was I really being that annoying?” Tebow asks as he pulls a kidney bean out of his blond hair.

  “Never!” Flatso insists loyally just as Zitsy says, “Yeah, dude—totally.”

  Tebow looks at me to break the tie. “Not everything is a ‘What Would Jesus Do?’ moment,” I point out.

  Some kind of green substance splats against the side of Eggy’s head. “Ew!” she shrieks, and before I know it, she has flung my Tater Tots at the jock table.

  Zitsy grabs two squirt bottles of ketchup and squeezes them all over the jock table. One of the Barbies comes after Brainzilla, who tosses a glass of fruit punch in the girl’s face. Even Tebow starts hurling fried tofu squares like ninja throwing stars.

  Wow. We’ve been trying to bring the Nations together… and we ended up causing a food fight instead. And the weirdest part is that everyone’s having a blast. It’s like we almost managed to achieve the goal of Operation Happiness… in a twisted, food-fueled, Hunger Games kind of way.

  But it’s a start, right?

  Chapter 9

  THE CRUCIFIXION OF TEBOW

  The next day, I wear an old pair of jeans and a sweatshirt to school, just in case anyone gets any more food-fight ideas during lunch. I go looking for Brainzilla and find the entire Freakshow gathered around Tebow’s locker.

  “Where did they get it?” Eggy asks.

  “Wow, it really looks like you,” Zitsy puts in. He touches the bloody nail in Jesus’s hand. I mean no disrespect, but seriously, the statue is just, like, completely weird looking, like maybe it was made by one of those artists in prison you read about sometimes.

  Tebow is wearing the same look he had after the chili dog hit him in the head. I touch his shoulder. “I got the point with the chili dog,” Tebow says.

  “Well, look on the bright side,” I tell him. “At least they don’t think you’re like Satan.”

  “If I were like Satan, they wouldn’t mess with me,” Tebow points out.

  “Good call,” Zitsy says. “Let’s all be more like Satan, everybody.”

  “I call devouring souls!” Eggy shouts.

  “Only if I can throw people into a lake of fire.” Flatso points to the Freaky Jesus. “I’ll start with whoever made this.”

  “Come on, you guys,” I say, taking the Freaky Jesus and holding it up. “It’s actually kind of cool. It can be our mascot.”

  “Let’s dress it up for Halloween,” Brainzilla suggests.

  We switch to coming up with costume ideas for the statue. I’m for lab coat and Einstein wig, but Eggy is very adamant about going cowboy. Flatso says she can make it a little hat.

  And just like that, we turned something weird and scary into something weird and funny.

  Mostly.

  Chapter 10

  I DIDN’T SEE THIS COMING

  Lucky!” Flatso whispers when she sees my note. (She’s no longer British in bio, by the way.)

  “It’s because I nearly flunked my lab,” I tell her.

  “Great idea!”

  “What? No! I didn’t do it on purpose!”

  Flatso thinks this over, like she suspects I might be trying to get some one-on-one time with our cute teacher. Which I am not. “Hmm,” she says.

  Actually, I’m pretty embarrassed by my lab. I’m usually a great science student, but missing ten days a while back really put me behind. I don’t want Winnie—Mr. Quinn… What am I supposed to call him? Anyway, I don’t want him to think I’m an idiot.

  “I’m not an idiot,” I tell him after class.

  “What? I didn’t think you were.” Winnie looks confused as students file out of the room. “The mistake you made is pretty common.” He starts writing on my lab to show me what I did wrong, and all I can think is:

  “You just missed a step,” he tells me.

  I snap out of my little reverie and realize I missed his entire explanation. He turns my paper—now full of his red marks—back around and smiles at me, and when I look into his eyes, I see that they’re this really beautiful greeny-blue around the iris and sort of amber at the center. I’m so busy looking at his eyes, that when I reach for my paper, I accidentally touch his fingers. A jolt of electricity shoots through me, and I feel myself start to blush.

  “Um, thanks,” I mumble, and hurry out of the room so fast that I knock my shoulder against the doorframe and stumble into the hallway. Attractive!

  “Hey!” Brainzilla grabs my arm and helps me stay upright. “You okay?”

  I nod and mutter something, and then she thrusts a copy of PlainSpeaking—which is our student newspaper, of which she is the editor, of course—into my face. “Check it out! Hot off the press! Now look at the front page!”

  “Winston Quinn is sixteen?” I ask.

  “He’s seventeen now,” Brainzilla says. “Cool, right?”

  Cool? Maybe. Maybe just weird. So I have this Downy-fresh crush on a cute teacher who’s… my age? Does that make it better? Or worse? And how could I forget that Flatso is totally in love with him already?

  I’m not sure. All I know is that now I’m having all kinds of Wrong Thoughts, and I don’t know how to stop them.

  Or even if I want to.

  Chapter 11

  THIS IS EMBARRASSING

  TGIF!

  Totally Gonna Instantly Freak!

  Just kidding. I mean, I know I’ve been in a mental hospital and my name is Cuckoo and all, but I actually think I’m pretty normal. You know, relatively.

  And yet I am heading off to visit the school psychologist right now. Mr. Tool insists that I see Ms. Kellerman every Thursday at 2:30 PM.

  “It’s for your own good,” Mr. Tool says. “Of course, we have to keep the best interests of all our students in mind.”

  Translation: If Cuckoo goes nuts, I want someone to
warn me that it’s coming so I can keep the rest of the student body away from her and keep their parents from suing me.

  It really gives me the warm fuzzies to know how much he cares.

  Do not get me wrong: Ms. Kellerman isn’t a bad person.

  Mr. Tool, maybe, but Ms. Kellerman? No. It’s just that she’s a little too excited about handling my “case.”

  Ms. Kellerman is fine dealing with manic overachievers, recreational druggies, and girls who are considering having (but do not actually have) an eating disorder. But she’s way out of her league when it comes to figuring me out. She’s got a BA in psych while I spent ten days in a hospital with a bunch of MDs and PhDs, and only one of them ever really understood me.

  Ms. Kellerman is also obsessed with my diary.

  She’s desperate to read it, but that is not happening. I won’t let her set eyes on a single word. Not even a comma.

  I usually spend my hour with her scribbling away, which really irks her. I’m not trying to be mean. It’s just that the few times we’ve had a conversation, it hasn’t really gone anywhere.

  So I decided to stop talking. I prefer to just stay quiet and work on my new ending for each of the Twilight books. The series had a good ending, but like I said, I hate endings. Rewriting it gives me a way to make it seem less… permanent.

  Hmm… let’s see what else could happen: Zombie attack? Beach party? Ninja scene? Dance contest? Asteroid hitting Earth? “It was all a dream”?

  None of those really grab me. So instead, I come up with a new ending for The Hunger Games, which feels easier—probably because I’ve only seen the movie and haven’t read the book yet.

  Oh, man. This is exactly why I can’t show Ms. Kellerman my diary. I’m guessing she would have a full-blown field day with this.