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?