My other friends didn’t know Mrs. Morris that well, but they know how important she is… was… to me. We all hold hands as I read the letter I wrote. It’s short. Here it is:
Eggy plays a really beautiful version of “Amazing Grace” on her trumpet. It’s a cold day, but sunny and perfectly clear. An inch or two of snow fell overnight—just enough to cover the ground and make everything brilliant white. The crisp air feels good in my lungs. I don’t cry, and I don’t shatter like glass, though I feel like I might do either at any moment.
Is it right that such a sad day should be so beautiful?
Chapter 30
KNOCK, KNOCK
A couple of days pass. Brainzilla can’t tell if I’m just sad or having a crisis, so she calls Dr. Marcuse, and she and I have a long talk. By the end of it, Dr. Marcuse says I’m just sad, and I’m handling things very well, and I should come and talk to her next week, so we set up a time.
I don’t mention my plan to stay in Mrs. Morris’s house.
I don’t think she’d support it, to tell you the truth. My friends sure don’t.
But I really, really want to. Someone has to take care of Morris the Dog. Besides, I miss my room, even if it was only “mine” for a short time. I miss having a place that’s mine, you know? Is this a good idea? Probably not. But what else am I supposed to do? Live with Brainzilla? Her family can barely afford the kids they have. Live with Eggy? Please—they’re sweet, but they aren’t looking for a new daughter.
Anyway, I figure I can stay at Mrs. Morris’s for a little while.… until Social Services comes after me.
It takes them only two days.
“Margaret Clarke?” the man asks.
I ask to see some identification, and Mr. Tenant Goldborough introduces himself. He’s slim and losing his hair. In fact, he’s losing his hair rapidly—in front of my very eyes. He walks around the living room, making notes in a small notebook and shedding all over the furniture. He seems kind of clueless, but mostly harmless. “Mrs. Morris was your care provider?”
“Yes.”
“And the two of you lived here?”
“Yes.”
Then he looks me in the eye and drops his bombshell.
“Ms. Clarke, I’m afraid that, as a minor, you can’t live here alone.” He’s kind enough to look sort of sorry about it.
So I drop a bombshell right back.
“I’m not alone,” I tell him.
Chapter 31
ENTER MARJORIE
Laurence and I are telling the truth.
Mrs. Morris’s totally confused, utterly unreliable, super-flake twenty-something-or-other daughter, Marjorie, has been staying in the house with me ever since the funeral.
I think she was living with a few of her fellow flakes in California before this, but I’m not sure. Probably because she isn’t too sure.
“I’m the adult here,” Marjorie tells Mr. Goldborough in her awkward, quavering voice. He doesn’t laugh, and neither do I, even though that’s one of the craziest things I have ever heard—and I’ve spent time in a nuthouse.
No, instead Mr. Goldborough just nods and asks a few more questions, checks out Marjorie’s ID, scribbles all the answers in his little notebook, and says he’ll get back to her with a follow-up. In this one case, I’m actually kind of relieved the social service system is so sloppy and short on resources. To tell the truth, I think Mr. Goldborough is pretty relieved, too, that Marjorie showed up. I guess it isn’t easy to find a placement for a sixteen-year-old with a (brief) history of mental problems.
“Do you plan to live here for the foreseeable future?” Mr. Goldborough asks.
“Oh, I can’t see into the future,” Marjorie tells him.
“Well, is it your plan to stay here?” he prompts.
“I try never to make plans,” Marjorie replies. “Because they always change, don’t they?”
Mr. Goldborough’s pen hovers above the paper. “Well—will you be here awhile?”
“Absolutely.” Marjorie checks her watch, as if a “while” might mean five minutes.
But Mr. Goldborough has heard the answer he needed and is already filling out paperwork. “Wonderful, wonderful. I’m glad this is going to work out,” he says.
Hmm. I’m not sure it’ll work out, but guess we’ll see. Marjorie and I are in this together… for now. Talk about the confused leading the more confused.
Chapter 32
RETURN TO THE BLACK LAGOON
I round out the first week of the new year with my new housemate. It turns out that Marjorie has some hidden talents. She can play the piccolo. She is an excellent cook. And she never loses at cards—because she cheats.
She has had a pretty interesting life.
It’s interesting to get to know her, but after four days, I’m feeling ready to get back to school.
I’m still spaced out, but I think a routine might help me. Sometimes acting normal is the best way to get back to being normal.
And, of course, I’m beyond thrilled to see my friends again. They seem happy to see me, too.
At lunch, I get a few cubes of fried tofu and something that I think is spinach before joining my friends at our usual table.
“Hey, Tebow,” Zitsy is saying as I plunk down my tray, “I never heard how your trip to Guatemala went.” Tebow and his church youth group spent Christmas building a library for some teeny-tiny town where there’s nothing but coffee beans and Mayan ruins.
Tebow shrugs. “Got a nasty tapeworm. It was, like, five feet long when it came out.”
“No good deed goes unpunished,” Eggy says darkly.
Tebow seems unbothered by the fact that a giant worm was living in his gut. “Meh. It was kind of interesting. In a disgusting way.”
“If you think that’s disgusting, you should’ve seen the pipe I helped my dad clear on New Year’s Eve,” Zitsy announces.
Flatso holds up a hand. “I’m eating.”
There’s no way Zitsy’s going to stop, though. “The clog was the size of a Chihuahua, and when it came loose, it spewed sewage everywhere! My dad looked like the Creature from the Crap Lagoon.”
Flatso drops her spoon. “I can’t even look at this stew.”
“Subject change!” Brainzilla announces.
Eggy looks grateful. “Thank you.”
“I’ve got an interview with an alum from—ahem!—Yale University in a week.”
“They interview juniors?” Eggy’s eyes bug in horror. “Oh, my God, are my parents going to want me to do that?”
“This is an informational interview,” Brainzilla explains. “It’s supposedly not a big deal, but I still have to figure out what to wear!”
“How about that Vera Wang wedding dress?” Tebow suggests.
And just like that, the Freakshow is off, suggesting outfits for Brainzilla’s interview. Nobody seems to notice that I’m being almost completely silent, but at one point, Eggy slips her hand into mine and squeezes my fingers.
I’m happy to just be with them, surrounded by normal, as if I belong.
Chapter 33
MY BAD (AGAIN)
Margaret, I have been informed about the recent death of your caregiver, Mrs. Morris. I’m very sorry for your loss.” Mr. Tool is facing me, but his eyes cling to the tidy pile of paperwork on his desk as he says this. He places a finger at his neck, like his tie is cutting off the blood flow to his head. It’s interesting to watch the vice principal squirm.