I crack myself up.
Chapter 12
GUESS WHO’S COMING TO DINNER. GUESS AGAIN.
It’s Thursday night, and Mrs. Morris is a little distracted. She’s watching Wheel of Fortune, but she just doesn’t seem into it. She usually guesses the phrases way before the contestants do—sometimes before a single letter has appeared on the board—but tonight she can’t even figure out K__P O_ TRU_KI_G. Her mind is clearly elsewhere.
I’m pulling the ground beef out of the fridge and wondering what’s up with her when I suddenly remember that tonight was the night Marjorie was supposed to come over, and I have a little Oprah-esque aha! moment.
Marjorie.
Is it fair that a complete cornflake like Marjorie got a sweet person like Mrs. Morris as a mother? I mean, is it? Even when Marjorie isn’t here, she makes her mother miserable. And when she is here, it’s worse.
I wish I could take Mrs. Morris’s mind off her daughter. Just roll her out of here and meet up with some of my friends, maybe bomb around town. Let’s see, who would be fun to hang out with? Laurence Darcy, of course. Probably not Holden Caulfield, though. He’s cool but not exactly fun. We’d want someone more like… Nicki Minaj, maybe?
I imagine us finding some nice restaurant. Parking right up front in the double-wide handicapped space, thanks to Mrs. Morris, then strolling up to the maître-d’. He’d take one look and give us a table right away.
There are only three flaws in this plan:
I have no car and no money.
I don’t actually know Nicki Minaj.
Mrs. M would never recite Puff Daddy lyrics.
So, since we clearly aren’t going to have dinner at an expensive restaurant with literary celebrities and rock stars, I decide to do the next best thing. I mix up some meat loaf and put it in the oven, then pull a tablecloth over the table and drag out the candlesticks. I get the wineglasses with the blue stems down from the top shelf and fill them with cranberry juice, which looks really pretty in the candlelight. By the time I call Mrs. Morris to the table, things are looking pretty festive.
Mrs. Morris gets into the spirit of our special meal by nearly chatting my ear off.
Okay, so she’s not really a super-chatty person. But I can tell she appreciates the trouble I took by the way her eyes shine as she eats the meat loaf. Neither one of us mentions Marjorie.
After a while, I tell Mrs. Morris a little bit about Ms. Kellerman. Mrs. Morris listens carefully and clucks her tongue now and then sympathetically. She shakes her head, listening hard, and doesn’t interrupt once, not even to say “really?” or “mmm.” Most people have no idea how to listen that well.
When I’ve finished describing my “session,” Mrs. Morris says, “Well, you were very patient with her, dear, and I think that’s all anyone can ask.”
Here’s the thing: Mrs. Morris is made of awesome. She never tells me to put a smile on my face or goes on about how things were when she was my age. We’re totally different, but she trusts me. And I trust her.
She rolls with my stuff.
No pun intended.
Chapter 13
HOLLYWOOD COMES TO NORTH PLAINS
The minute I walk into school the next morning, I notice something odd. It’s quiet. Like, library quiet. But, weirdly, the hallway is packed with students lingering by their lockers, whispering to one another and giggling.
Mr. Tool is standing outside his office booming, “Good morning!” to every student and teacher who wanders by. Everyone ignores him. It’s a truly peculiar vibe, and I can only think of one explanation.
“Has the school been taken over by Pod People?” I ask Zitsy when I run into him near my locker.
He laughs way too loudly, and I’m thinking, Holy crap—the Pods got him, too! when Flatso jerks her head toward my Spanish class with this wide-eyed look, like, Clue in, dummy! and that’s when I see this handsome older guy who looks a little like Johnny Depp.
“Who’s that?” I ask.
“Johnny Depp,” Flatso says.
I look at the guy more carefully. “It doesn’t look exactly like Johnny Depp.”
I stare at the handsome older guy a bit longer. He isn’t wearing a purple suit or crazy eyeliner, or anything. “How do you know it’s him?”
Flatso gives me a look like I’m insane. “I know because I have a subscription to Celeb Newz Weekly and also because he’s wearing a name tag.”
Hmm. Aside from the fact that he’s extremely handsome, this man could be anybody. He could just be a really, really, extremely, almost painfully good-looking substitute teacher, or a janitor, or something.
I’m actually a little weirded out by the thought that Johnny Depp is just a regular guy. I guess I don’t want him to be. I want him to be the kind of artistic weirdo who never leaves home without an elaborate headdress and/or eyeliner. I wonder if I should offer to lend him some, but he seems busy.
“What’s he doing here?” I ask.
Flatso explains, “He’s researching a role,” at which point Zitsy hoots his Pod Person laugh again.
I turn to Zitsy. “Why are you laughing like that?”
“Is he looking over this way?” Zitsy’s speaking without moving his lips.
I check. “No.”
Mr. Depp is, in fact, still engrossed in the math book. But I realize that everyone around him is doing a very, very quiet version of going completely batshit.
Students and teachers are desperately trying to act cool yet somehow make Johnny Depp notice them. It’s an interesting dynamic. The Thespians are singing in four-part harmony, as if they always hang out in the hallway doing that. The Twinkies are staring at Mr. Depp with flesh-melting intensity from behind their thick curtains of hair, so the effect is kind of lost. And the Goths seem to have added extra metal: on their necklaces, belts, wallets, ears, noses, lips, and eyebrows. Probably other places we don’t need to mention, too.
For a moment, I think maybe I’ll go over and say hello to Mr. Depp. He’s a normal person, right? And so am I. I even have paperwork that says so.
But something holds me back. Even the thought of walking over to him makes me let out a creepy, nervous giggle.
It’s weird, because a part of me thinks that Johnny Depp and I could really get along.
I wonder why he chose to come to North Plains High School instead of someplace closer to LA. Is it because we’re more “normal” than LA kids? Maybe he’s dying to meet normal people.
So part of me really believes that he’d like to talk to me, but another, bigger part of me doesn’t dare say hello. He’s an adult. And a celebrity. And I’m just… whoever I am. So even if he’s dying to meet me but just doesn’t know it, he isn’t going to.
It’s funny. He’s here to observe us as normal high school students, but his being here has made everyone act bizarre. I have the strange feeling that Winnie Quinn was trying to tell us something about this the other day—that you can change something merely by observing it. Here it is, happening right before my eyes.
I love science.
Chapter 14
THE OPPOSITE OF SPEED DATING
What could possibly be weirder than having Johnny Depp come to your school?
You might want to sit down for this.
Tebow catches me right after school at my locker. The rest of the Freakshow is over near Eggy’s corner, because she’s handing out the Friday Candy. (Friday Candy was her idea. It’s a fun way to celebrate the end of the week. It only happens once a month, though, and we never know which Friday it will be. Or what candy she’ll bring.)
So Tebow catches me alone and asks me in this quiet voice if I want to go to a movie. I say sure, and then he scurries off without even getting any candy.
Wha???
I go over to the Freakshow to get their opinion, and when I explain the situation, they’re like, “Wha???” too.
In the end, we decide that Tebow meant to ask just me, but nobody’s really sure it’s a date.
“M
aybe he just wants to talk to you about something,” Brainzilla says.
“Yeah,” Zitsy agrees. “Like how much he wants to make out with you.”
Flatso shoves Zitsy playfully, which sends him reeling halfway down the hall.
Eggy puts a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry. It’s just Tebow. He probably wants someone to see the latest action movie with. You’ll have fun.”
She’s right. It’s just Tebow.
So why do I suddenly feel completely sick and nervous?
Chapter 15
WHAT NOT TO WEAR
When I get home, I spend three hours trying to decide what to wear. If it’s a date, I should look kind of nice. A skirt? But if it’s not a date and I show up in a skirt, maybe Tebow will think that I thought it was a date. And then maybe things will get weird and awkward.
So then I think that maybe I should just wear what I already have on. But will that make Tebow think that I don’t realize we’re on a date?
I need help. Clearly. I start to dial Brainzilla, but I know that she’ll want to come over with a bunch of different outfit options. Flatso will want to give me a full makeover. Eggy will offer to lend me her Cowboy Bebop T-shirt. And Zitsy? I don’t see any possibility of help there.
So I decide to do a mental check-in with my other BFFs—imagine what they might think.
Right. This is great advice… as long as it is translated into “wear something that Cuckoo would wear.” Which is black cords, my softest green sweater, and a swipe of pale pink lipstick.
“Perfect,” Laurence tells me. “You look neat and clean and elegant in a simple, understated way.”
Nicki Minaj just shrugs, which I guess means that she’s not impressed.
Tebow picks me up at exactly 7:13 PM. Mrs. Morris chirps out, “Have fun, sweetie!” as I climb into the front seat of Tebow’s dad’s very roomy Oldsmobile.
American cars of the 1980s: large and in charge.
And here is the weird thing—I’m sitting here with Tebow, who I see every day and frequently call on the phone at night, but I can’t think of anything to talk about. I’m still obsessing over whether this is a date, which is complicated by the fact that I don’t even know if I want this to be a date or not. Do I? Maybe. Tebow is insanely good looking. And sweet. But he’s also Tebow. I’ve never thought of him that way, and I need a little time for my brain to try out the idea and see if I can get used to it.
That’s when I notice that Tebow isn’t talking, either. After a while, I decide I’m okay with quiet. And the minute I decide that, I remember something I wanted to tell him.
“Oh!” I pull my journal out of the messenger bag that I always carry around. “I made up a movie for us to star in.”
(Don’t worry—it’s not the Hunger Games one.)
“You have a great imagination, Kooks,” Tebow says. That makes me happy, even though I’m not really sure he gets my sense of humor. But it’s okay. He doesn’t have to get everything.
Eggy was right. It’s just Tebow.
There’s no need to overthink it.
Chapter 16
MULTITASKING
I didn’t have strong feelings about it, so I let Tebow pick the movie. He chose something with valor in the title. That’s Tebow’s style. He likes soldier heroes who sacrifice all for friendship and/or country. He also likes inspirational true stories and action comedies. I like all that junk, too, so I was perfectly happy with Valor Whatever.
So we sat down and made fun of the commercial slideshow they were showing before the previews.
This feels good, because it’s what we usually do with the Freakshow when we all see a movie. So there’s less of the strange “I’m just out with Tebow for some reason” vibe.
Then the previews come on, and I remind Tebow that I’m going to punch him in the arm every time he tries to talk to me during the movie, same as I always do. The movie starts.
It’s long and borderline incomprehensible, like maybe the script was cut and pasted from a lot of different movies and then jolted to life with a burst of lightning and a marketing committee.
On the other hand, there were a lot of great action scenes. And I really liked the characters. Maybe too much. Okay, I sobbed through the last ten minutes.
Here are the highlights:
There were soldiers in the movie.
Tebow’s fingers touched mine when we both reached for popcorn at the same time.
There was something gross on the floor right in front of my seat, and no matter where I moved my foot, my shoe kept getting stuck in it.
I was reasonably sure I could’ve written a better movie.
I even came up with several excellent alternate scenes and endings as it was going on.
After the movie, we walk around the mall for a while and get cappuccinos. I keep thinking, “This seems like a date. Not really. Well, maybe,” and on and on like that.
Then Tebow drives me home, and I never really get up the nerve to ask if this was a friends deal or a date deal. And he doesn’t bring it up, either.
So it just hangs there like a stinky fish that everyone’s too afraid to touch while we say good night.
Chapter 17
MAJOR FREAK-OUT
Mrs. Morris?” I call as I step into the living room. I hear Tebow’s car pull away as the door clicks closed behind me.
The talking heads on the evening news are blabbing, sending blue-and-white light flickering across the walls. Mrs. Morris is usually sitting right there—right in front of the television—from 10:00 to 11:00 PM. Cold snakes writhe through my stomach.
“Mrs. Morris?” I call. “Mrs. Morris?” I try to keep the rising panic out of my voice. Where is she? My skin feels cold and shuddery, like I’ve stepped into a giant spiderweb.
The clatter of toenails, then Morris the Dog bursts into the living room, barking hysterically. God, if only this were an episode of Lassie!
“What? What is it?” I ask, and I am so temporarily insane that (a) my first idea is that Mrs. Morris has been kidnapped and (b) I don’t even notice that the back door is open until Morris practically drags me toward it.
That’s when I hear “Yoo-hoo!” coming from the garage, and when I burst in, I find Mrs. Morris sprawled across the floor.
“Oh my god!” I’m crying and halfway hysterical—it’s like that Bridesmaids moment all over again—but Mrs. Morris is all cheerful and acting like it’s perfectly normal that she has fallen out of her wheelchair and is lying splayed across a slab of concrete.
“I didn’t mean to worry you, dear,” she says gently. “I just wanted some paper towels, and they were a little out of my reach, so I took a spill.”
She reaches for my hand, and we sit there for a moment, our fingers interlaced. Her gray hair is pooled around her head on the concrete. I keep trying to say, “You didn’t worry me,” but my throat is clogged, and I can’t speak at all. All I can do is make a wheezy-squeaky noise, which sets the wrinkles in Mrs. Morris’s face to worry mode.
“Oh dear,” she says. “Oh dear. Oh, oh, I’m so sorry.”
I take a deep, shaky breath and wipe the snot that’s pouring from my nose all over my sleeve.
“It’s all right. I’m all right, dear.” Mrs. Morris’s voice is a gentle whisper, and I realize that she’s trying to calm me down. I take another breath, forcing myself to pull it together. I sit there with my eyes closed until my tears dry up. When I open them, Mrs. Morris’s dark eyes are watching me.
“I’m okay,” I tell her. “I’m okay, too. I didn’t mean to worry you, either. I’m sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry.”
“No, really, I’m sorry,” I insist, and then I realize how ridiculous that sounds, and I let out a shallow little snort-chuckle. Then Mrs. Morris giggles. And after a minute, the whole thing starts to seem really funny, and soon neither of us can stop laughing.
After a while, our laughter quiets down. Then I lock my arms around her and haul her into her wheelchair. Luckily, Mrs. Mo
rris only weighs about ninety pounds.
Nothing broken. No harm done.
Except for the major flashbacks I’m having to when my mom skipped out.
I’m still shaking like I may never stop.
Chapter 18
HERE IS WHAT HAPPENED
People always want to know what happened.
The answers are: no, no, not more than most people, and yes.
Look, my mom isn’t a horrible person. She’s just kind of flaky. Which is great if you’re piecrust, but not so great when you’re responsible for the welfare of another human being.
My mom goes through boyfriends faster than I go through a box of Kleenex during a Bridesmaids marathon. Whenever she starts a new fling, she disappears for a few days. That has been happening since I was seven or eight.
The thing is, my grandmother used to live across the street from us. So when Mom would disappear, I’d just head over there. Mom usually came back after a day or two. The longest she was ever away was five nights.
But Grammy died two years ago. And this time, Mom has been gone for two months, eleven days, and fifteen hours.
For the first two days, I hardly even worried. I just ate peanut-butter sandwiches and made sure I got to school on time. But after a week, I was low on food. Mom hadn’t left me any money.
After two weeks, I started bursting into tears at the slightest problem.
After a month, my hair started to fall out in clumps. I lost eight pounds. I was flunking math.
Finally, after my Bridesmaids meltdown, the Freakshow staged an intervention and demanded to know what was going on. I didn’t want to get Mom in trouble, but I didn’t know what to do, so I told them.
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