Grice Squared, Blog

Aunt Morgan By Morgan Grice (Number 1) Chapter 1

Up until the start of June, I’d say things were pretty perfect for us Grices down on Creekbend Drive. School had let out, it was the start of summer, and I was looking forward to three carefree months of fun before Fifth grade began. Even Daddy and Grandma Celia seemed less grumpy and tired after work than usual, though Grandma Celia said that that’s because she didn’t have to worry about my report cards for a few months. I always tell her not to worry. But she always says she has to worry because if she didn’t, then who would? “Because you, Miss Grice, sure don’t,” she always says to me. I don’t know why she calls me Miss Grice when she could just say “Morgan.” But, when she does, call me Miss Grice, that is, I always know I’m in for some sort of scolding. “Well, I’ll have you know,” I began, boldly, the other day when she began her same old spiel, “that in the Fifth grade, I plan to study more.” Her eyes narrowed.

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“Uh-hoh, really? You’re going to study more this year, huh? You plan on chatting and goofing off less this year too? Not going to doze off in math, are you?” I simply sat and stared at her, knowing that she wasn’t being sincere. She always does that, asks me questions with that tone, that tone where I know she’s not being sincere. “Well, I’ll have you know,” she started, (as I thought, Oh, here we go,) “that I believe I heard that same line last year before Fourth grade and … perhaps the year before that, too.” I don’t know where she makes up these memories from; I never said that I’d study more last year. And if I did say that, she should’ve had the sense to know not to believe me. I was only nine last year, not even in the double digits. “Yet, how many times did your Daddy or I have to hear from Mrs. Foley this school year?” she asked me, as if I was going to answer her. By the way, Mrs. Foley was my Fourth grade teacher, and she was sort of a real snitch when it came to calling kids’ folks at home. One minute, you’d think you’re just palling around with your buds in class—next thing you know, she’s calling home to tell your folks you’re acting up and being a strain—she liked to use the word strain—on her class without even so much as a warning! “Nine times, Miss Grice, that’s how many times we had to speak to Mrs. Foley on account of your acting up.” 2

I think not-so-nice things about Grandma Celia, sometimes. Can’t help it.

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I guess I should mention that I live with my Daddy and Grandma Celia. We have a funny living situation, I suppose you could say. I wouldn’t say that, since it’s mostly all I know, but you might say that. It's not exactly a normal family, but Daddy always says that that's because we're a Real American Family, where there are very few “normals.” I began living with Daddy when I was around two years old, on account of my mom couldn’t take care of me anymore. I’m not exactly sure why, and no one will really give me a good answer—not Daddy or Grandma Celia or even my Mom, who I do see from time to time. Mostly, they sort of just say that the adults made the decision that it would be best for me to live with Daddy. I do know I came as a surprise, though. Daddy didn’t even know I was alive until I was two, if I’m going to tell you the whole truth, as I know it, at least. But, as soon as he found out about me, he said he took one look at me and saw that I looked like an little angel.

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He says that I still look like that, sometimes—mostly when I’m sleeping, he always says. He likes to give me a hard time like that. Sure, I'd like to see my Mom more, but I really wouldn't change a thing about the way things are at home for a million bucks. Well, the way things were at home, until June, that is.

Back to why my carefree summer was interrupted just as it was starting. I woke up one morning, still sleepy-eyed and tired, but with the smell of eggs and waffles wafting into my room. Oscar, our big old dog, was staring at me from his side of the bed, like always, nuzzling my neck and sending goosebumps down my spine. I could hear Grandma Celia walking around the kitchen; as I lay there, I pictured her with her house-shoes on and a spatula in her hand, humming some made-up song about God-knows-what. Despite Grandma Celia being a real stickler, in terms of grades, behavior, manners, utensil-usage, temperature-readings … well, everything, she’s my favorite person to wake up to. Even though I’d rather lay there staring at the ceiling sometimes, the thought of eating her big breakfasts makes me move my lazy bones. But, that early June morning, just as I was thinking how great and wonderful it was to wake up lazily on a summer morning, 10 years old,

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with your dog by your side and a big breakfast waiting to be eaten, I heard the doorknob turn, and there She stood. It was my Aunt Morgan, a bigger, older, intimidating version of … me. We have the same long dark brown hair, dark brown eyes, monkey-long arms, and legs that are a little too skinny for their good. I wasn’t expecting to see her this summer morning—or for any time in the near future, for that matter. People are usually charmed when they see us together at first, thinking we're sisters who look a lot a like; then, they're a little confused to find out they're talking to two Morgans. Since my mom had already named me by the time I went to live with Daddy, he ended up with two Morgans in his life—both of whom give him grief, he likes to say. That's another time he gets to remind me: Real American Family. My Aunt Morgan is 19, so technically an adult, I guess, but she doesn’t really act like it. Even Grandma Celia says that—she always tells me to mind my Aunt Morgan when she's around, but when she does, Grandma Celia always mentions that my Aunt Morgan is still kind of a kid. “And still behaves like one,” she adds. But, Aunt Morgan goes to Harvard; and, somehow, that seems to make everyone think she’s King Crab of Shrimp Mountain. That’s a phrase I coined myself. 5

So, my Aunt Morgan flung open the bedroom door, took one look at me—her first look at me in almost a year—and said: “Hey there, Rat. Outta my room.” My jaw was on the ground so long, I think I might’ve swallowed some mosquitoes. Aunt Morgan hasn't lived at home for years.

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Daddy and I moved in with Grandma Celia when I was six years old. We moved in from our old little apartment on Crevice Street where it had been just me and Daddy and Oscar—or, Old Ox—ever since I switched from my Mom's house to live with Daddy. He wanted to save money to buy us a house because I was getting bigger and things were getting cramped. So, Grandma Celia said that we could live with her while he saved up. Nowadays, when Grandma Celia has one of her headaches because Daddy or I have made a mess or have forgotten to feed Old Ox, she reminds him that that was four long years ago. Something tells me Daddy hasn’t saved much just yet. When we moved in, Aunt Morgan was just moving out to go to some fancy school up North for high school. She won a scholarship there after getting first place in this big national contest for a story

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she'd written, something Grandma Celia reminds me about all the time when she's lecturing me about my grades. Since then, I've only ever seen my aunt on Christmas, or for a week or so during the summer because she's always going away to camps. I'd always sort of preferred it that way.

I love my Aunt Morgan, don’t get me wrong. I mean, everyone loves their aunts; you have to. But you especially have to love ones that share your own name, and she shares both my first and last names. Or, I guess you could say I share her names, since she had them first. She always reminds me of that. Just like she always reminds me that my elementary school, Presley Elementary, used to be her elementary school; that my piano teacher, Mr. Tortellini, used to be her piano teacher; that my gymnastics coach, Ms. Flippant, used to be her gymnastics coach; that her… Well, you get the picture. My Aunt Morgan likes to remind me of a lot of things. My birthday even copies hers—she's September 17, I'm September 18. When I was turning eight, I asked Grandma Celia if we could celebrate my half-birthday instead of my regular one. She said no, and that I should be grateful to have a birthday at all. When I asked 7

why you have to be grateful for something everyone has—a birthday— she shot me a look that said to stop being smart.

“I’m glad your home,” I squeaked out, ignoring Aunt Morgan's demand to get out of the room—not to mention ignoring the fact that she called me a Rat. And I wondered if I meant it. “Hello, Little Rat,” she responded. “Hi, Aunt Morgan. How long you going to be here for?” I asked, trying to sound sweet and innocent. “I’m moving in, Squirt!” she exclaimed. Then she bopped me on my head, dropped her suitcases next to the door, and took a running leap and landed on my bed. “Ahhhhh, it feels so good to be back home—in my own bed,” she cried out as she closed her eyes and sighed. I don’t know if I need to point it out, but it was my room, and my bed where this took place. “You’re moving in? You mean, for good? But, what about … about Harvard?” I stammered. “Hmmm?” she droned, with her eyes still closed and a little smile on her face. Then, she opened one eye and looked at me and said, “Oh, no, not for good, good. But I can see you'd really like that! I guess Grandma Celia and your dad didn’t tell you ’bout the summer?”

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“What about the summer?” I asked, slowly, as my carefree summer started to melt before my mind’s eye. Aunt Morgan chuckled and said, “Your Daddy and Grandma Celia decided it might be a right and good idea if I came home for awhile and spent the summer with you. Something about being a good influence on you. Seems you've been slacking off a lot in school. They're worried and think that you need a little structure.” In that one swift sentence, I saw my summer flee before my eyes. “Don’t worry, Kid, we’re going to have us some fun.” I was very worried. So, I just squealed: “Daaaaaaaaadddddyyyyyy!!!” I should’ve studied harder in Fourth grade.

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