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.