Tilmore shrugged.
Maggie was relentless. “That’s right. You can’t. No one can. There isn’t another program out there that assesses student aptitude, designs individually tailored lesson plans, and entertains kids all at the same time.” Maggie held Tilmore’s gaze, radiating a level of certitude that a fundamentalist would have pegged as “a bit much.”
Tilmore asked, “What do the teachers think of it?”
Maggie shot back, “They think it’s one of the most valuable tools in their arsenal.” None of Maggie’s teachers had said this to her. But they had not yet taken the opposite stance, so Maggie figured she could pass the Pinocchio test.
Tilmore pursed his lips, clearly impressed. “Really? What’s so great about the MathPal?”
Maggie flailed. “It reinforces things, many things.”
“Like what?”
Shit-shit-shit. Maggie stalled. “That’s a good question. A fine question.” Tilmore looked at her expectantly. She sputtered, “The MathPal reinforces, um . . . number sense. Counting. Uh, cardinality. Algebraic thinking. Pattern recognition.” Now Maggie couldn’t stop herself. She felt like she had math nerd Tourette syndrome. “Measurement and classification. Um . . .”
Danny gently laid a hand on her arm, a physical “down, girl.” Maggie said, “Well, uh . . . you get the idea.”
Tilmore nodded. “Very impressive.” He looked at Danny with new respect. “Looks like you’ve got a winner on your hands.”
Danny did not miss a beat. “That’s what I’ve been telling you.”
Tilmore grinned triumphantly. “Sounds like I’m finally going to get a return on my investment in you, Daniel.” Tilmore’s minions mimicked his gratified grin and mumbled appreciatively. Maggie had never witnessed smugness in stereo.
Suddenly, Tilmore leaned down toward Maggie, and she forced herself not to recoil. “Mind if I steal Daniel for a moment? I promise, I’ll get him back to you soon.”
Maggie nodded eagerly, desperate to get Tilmore out of her personal space. Tilmore took Danny by the arm. Before the two men glided away, Danny looked over his shoulder and mouthed “thank you” to her.
Maggie smiled back, then realized that she was suddenly and completely marooned in Rich World. She had no idea what to do with herself. She tried to look purposeful as she milled around the room, like a society dame searching for her coterie of oh-so-intimate affluent friends. And then she saw it: a gigantic chocolate fountain surrounded by piles of luscious strawberries. Maggie felt a pang of desire in her empty stomach. She hadn’t eaten all day. She’d been too nervous. She lurched toward the dessert table as casually as she could.
But then, she saw something else that stopped her in her tracks—her boss, Arlene Horvath. Arlene wore a slightly dressier version of her usual garb, a snazzy powder-blue pantsuit with an expensive-looking scarf. Maggie’s mind reeled. What was Arlene doing here? Had Danny invited her? Maggie thought she was the only school rep here tonight—the satisfied-customer-in-chief. How many testimonials did Danny need? Maybe this really wasn’t a date; maybe it was just business.
Maggie shrank against a pillar, praying Arlene wouldn’t see her. Her last conversation with Arlene had been about as pleasant as a hysterectomy. Maggie’d laid out new strategies for STEAM fund-raising, and Arlene had bristled, construing Maggie’s attempts to raise money as a sign that Maggie lacked faith in the MathPal and the huge uptick it would bring in Edutek’s stock price. Maggie’d had trouble defending herself against this charge because it happened to be true. The conversation devolved quickly because Arlene identified so strongly with the MathPal that—in her mind—doubting the MathPal was tantamount to doubting her, which Maggie secretly did. Arlene struck back at this perceived slight by voicing perverse pleasure at the paltry sum Maggie had raised thus far.
Now Maggie watched surreptitiously as Arlene yammered away to a small group of women. Even Arlene had found friends at this shindig. Maggie felt bereft for a moment, like one of the outcasts who ate alone in the lunchroom.
But Maggie’s loneliness didn’t last. Suddenly, she felt a hand on her forearm. The hand belonged to a middle-aged blonde in a shimmery, silver-toned dress. Leaning clumsily in toward Maggie, the blonde said in a loud stage whisper, “Who’re you hiding from?” The woman’s breath reeked of wine. Listening to her at close range was like having an entire barroom try to blow out a birthday cake at once.
Maggie hesitated for a moment. The blonde egged her on. “C’mon, you can tell Winnie. I’ll tell you my secret. I’m hiding from him.” The blonde—Winnie—gestured sloppily toward an impeccably fit, fiftysomething man with a spray tan and a full head of hair that had been shellacked back against his skull. He looked vaguely familiar to Maggie, but she couldn’t place him. Winnie slurred, “Thass my new boss. We used to be coanchors, but then he blabbed upstairs. Said I drink too much.” Maggie’s eyebrows shot up, and Winnie explained, “I do drink too much, but it’s only because of him.”
Maggie said lamely, “Maybe it’ll all work out for the best.”
Winnie narrowed her eyes. “Nope. He’s evil, that one. A human canker sore. Channel 5’s Kyle McKellen. We slept together for two years. Then, when he was through with me, he crept upstairs and told them I’m a souse. They busted me down to field reporter. I covered a knitting circle last week. You know how far down in journalism hell you’ve sunk when you’re stuck holding some old lady’s yarn? You’re in the gutter, that’s where. Nothing but turds floating by.”
Maggie said, “I, uh . . .” She didn’t watch Fox 5. Netflix had wrecked her ability to tolerate commercials.
Winnie continued, “He’s gonna get me canned. He’ll say it’s all about journalistic integrity. But that’s crap. I’m the real reporter around here, not him. I won two local Emmys, and him? Nothin’. But I’ll get back in the anchor’s chair, you’ll see.”
“I look forward to it.”
Winnie looked gratified. “So do I.” She looked off into the distance for a moment, as if suddenly unsure where she was. Then she refocused her gaze on Maggie. Her eyes suddenly grew large. “Where’s the baff-room?”
“I, uh, I don’t know. I . . .”
Winnie said matter-of-factly, “’Cause if I can’t find a baff-room, I’m gonna make a baff-room. Know what I mean?”
Maggie nodded. She craned her neck and surveyed the room. She couldn’t see any bathrooms or hallways, just wall-to-wall guests. Beside her, Winnie said ominously, “Oh boy, here it comes.”
Maggie spun round and caught sight of a pair of French doors. She grabbed Winnie’s hand and dragged her out onto a mercifully empty veranda toward a clump of bushes. They made it just in time. Winnie retched into the bushes while Maggie held the woman’s hair out of her face.
When it was over, Winnie stood up, wiping at her mouth. Then, smiling at Maggie with genuine warmth, she said, “Whew. That was a close one. But we made it. Winnie lives to fight another day. I’ll . . .”
Maggie bit down on her lower lip. She gestured to the vomit-soaked front of Winnie’s dress. Winnie looked down too. Head down, she said, “Oh boy.” Then, looking back up at Maggie with a sloppy smile, she said, “That’s a lot of forensic evidence, isn’t it?”
Maggie did what she always did—she took charge. “Wait here.” She ran inside and grabbed a stack of napkins from one of the food tables. Then she ran back out. While Winnie stood uselessly still, Maggie used the napkins to scrape the vomit off the front of her dress. Maggie tossed them in a small chrome trash can, and then ran inside to fetch some water. She returned to dab at Winnie’s dress with another pile of wet napkins.
By the time she was done, after a full twenty minutes of Maggie pawing at the dress, Winnie looked almost presentable. Almost, but not quite. She still had a big wet stain across her chest.
As Maggie stared at it, Winnie followed her gaze. Winnie giggled. “Houston, we have a problem.”
But Maggie was in fix-it mode. She yanked off her black shawl and dr
aped it over Winnie’s slim shoulders. Then she tied the shawl’s ends together so as to hide the offending stain. All business, Maggie said, “There. That should do it.”
Winnie studied the effect for a long moment and then beamed at Maggie. “You are a genius lady. Genius!”
Maggie put her hands on Winnie’s shoulders and fixed her with her best “listen-to-me-now-if-you-want-to-live” gaze. “You’re not out of this yet, Winnie. Here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to take out your cell phone and call an Uber. Then you are going to go home and take a long shower. Then you get straight into bed. Got that?”
Winnie smiled, then managed a sloppy salute. She loyally took out her phone and pawed at the Uber app. Minutes later, Maggie put her in a car.
As Winnie settled back, she grabbed Maggie’s wrist. “Whassyername?”
“Maggie Mayfield.”
“Maggie Mayfield, I owe you big-time.”
Maggie exhaled loudly. “Yes, you do.”
Winnie patted Maggie’s hand. “I will always remember you, Maggie Mayfield.”
Maggie smiled. “I sincerely doubt that.”
With the earnestness of the truly drunk, Winnie vowed, “No, Maggie. I mean it. I owe you one. If you ever need anything, you call me. You got that?”
Maggie nodded.
Winnie winked and motioned for the Uber to take her home. Maggie turned and made her way back into the party, confident that she had earned her chocolate strawberries.
She was headed for the chocolate fountain when Danny caught up with her. “Maggie, where . . .” He drifted off for a millisecond, just long enough for Maggie to realize that her cleavage was bared in all its jaw-dropping, red-dress glory.
Danny recovered nicely, “Uh, your wrap. It’s gone.”
Battle weary from the Winnie fiasco, Maggie was too tired to be embarrassed. “Yeah, I gave it to a friend. She needed it more than I did.”
Danny said, “Sounds like you’re in a generous mood tonight.”
Maggie met his gaze and—for once—managed not to blush furiously. “Want to find out?”
Danny looked stunned for a second, then nodded eagerly. He took her hand and led her back out to the valet. He drove dangerously fast back to her house—then, once settled in, he shifted gears and took his very sweet time.
21
DR. SEUSS WEPT
Diane was worried. Maggie hadn’t responded to calls or texts since Saturday afternoon. Thanks to the long Veterans Day weekend, it’d been a full two-day media blackout between the friends, an eternity on the Maggie-Diane timescale. The La Jolla party must have been a complete disaster. Maybe Maggie had tripped in her stilt-like high heels and taken a header down some fancy staircase—her big sexy moment morphing cruelly into an I Love Lucy episode. Maybe she’d cozied up to Danny Z only to find out that he was already taken or gay or—even worse—unattached and hetero, but totally disinterested in her. Or worst of all, maybe Maggie had chickened out entirely. Diane had plenty of stock footage in her memory banks of Maggie hiding out at home—swaddled in blankets on her couch and eating ice cream as she heckled whatever rom-com was playing on the Lifetime network (“Check his browser, ladies!”).
But no matter how bad things’d gotten as Maggie mourned her turd-blossom ex-husband, Maggie’d never missed a day of work. She’d never even been late. That gal was as regular as Tax Day. But here it was, twenty minutes past the first bell on Tuesday morning, and no Maggie. And there were people waiting! Maggie’s tiny conference room was packed with half a dozen busybodies from the PTA Art Committee. They wanted to talk about that national art contest the school did every year. Diane couldn’t remember the contest’s name—Aspirations? Asphyxiation? Something like that. Diane wasn’t much for art. Museums made her sleepy. But the contest was a big deal for the artsy kids—so Maggie always encouraged it.
Diane had plied the PTA women with coffee, but if Maggie didn’t get in soon, she’d have to send them packing. Diane dreaded it. PTA women always got real huffy whenever things fell through, especially Rachel’s mom—Andrea “do-you-know-who-I-am” Klemper.
So, when Maggie breezed in at 8:35, Diane murmured a prayer of thanks to the God she pictured as a cross between a throbbing ball of light and Gal Gadot’s Wonder Woman. Sitting down at the table, Maggie said, “Sorry to be late, ladies. Car trouble.” Then, perhaps sensing that this was not contrite enough, Maggie added, “It won’t happen again.”
The PTA hens nodded sympathetically, all but Andrea Klemper. For the gazillionth time, Diane wondered how that hyperaerobicized, uptight creature had managed to birth the fantastic, and fantastically awkward, Rachel Klemper.
Andrea cleared her throat, calling the meeting to order. “So, Maggie, we wanted to bring you up to speed on the Aspirations contest. The competition will be really exciting this year.”
Another mom, a husky brunette with a distracting beauty mark, said, “Yes, Spaxxon is sponsoring it, and they’re promoting it like crazy.”
Diane shook her head. Spaxxon’s oil pipelines had sprung leaks on three continents, giving the world its first nasty glimpse of a tar-black polar bear. Many of the doomsday prepper websites were screaming about Spaxxon bringing on the end of days. So now the company was trying to rehab its name by sponsoring kiddie art contests? Diane didn’t want to be jaded, but sometimes, the world only made sense through shit-colored glasses.
Maggie poured herself a cup of coffee, murmuring, “Great, great.” Then, blowing on her coffee, she said, “I think we’re really going to knock this out of the park this year. Our art teacher—Miss Pearl—has already collected a ton of entry forms. And the theme . . . Wait, what’s the theme?”
A few of the ladies looked uncertainly at each other. Alpha Andrea answered, “Ideas Take Flight.”
Diane blurted, “Sounds like what happens when you get a lobotomy.” Andrea raised an eyebrow at her, and Diane shot back her best haughty look. Diane took most scolding as incitement.
Diane got ready to tune up on Andrea, but then Maggie made a strange noise—a cross between a giggle and a sneeze. Rubbing at her nose, Maggie said, “Sorry, some coffee ran up my nose. So, uh, tell me, how can I support the Art Committee with this?”
Another PTA hen started droning on. They’d need the auditorium for the big exhibition in two weeks. And the contest should go into the morning announcements. And then . . . Maggie made another weird noise and put a napkin over her mouth. Standing, she said, “Sorry, ladies. Something’s caught in my throat. I’ll be back in a minute.” Maggie strode out of the conference room, and Diane went after her, mumbling excuses.
Diane caught up with Maggie in the ladies’ room. Maggie was splashing cold water on her face. Propping her hands on her hips, Diane said, “You want to tell me what the hell is going on?”
Maggie dried her face and hands, studiously avoiding Diane’s gaze. Pursing her lips, she made another one of those weird, strangled noises. Diane said, “Maggie . . .”
Then Maggie broke into a fit of giggles. Diane checked the stalls to make sure they were alone, then asked, “What’s gotten into you?”
Maggie grinned naughtily. “Technically, Daniel did.”
Diane gaped. “Did you sleep with Danny Z?”
Maggie bit down on her lower lip, then nodded wordlessly.
Diane brightened. “Oh, sweetie, good for you.” She hugged Maggie, then said, “Give me details. Did you do it at your place or his?”
Maggie grinned. “Yes.”
“Wait, which was it?” After the Richard debacle, Maggie’d sworn up and down that she’d never be able to bring another man into her bedroom. Too many painful memories.
“Both.” Maggie started giggling again.
Diane flailed. “So, wait, in one weekend, you had sex at his place and at your place? Is that right?”
Maggie’s huge grin widened.
Diane sputtered, “Did you guys mark any other territory?”
Maggie pressed her hands to the sides
of her cheeks as if willing them to cool. “Uh, let’s see, in his car, in my car, on the kitchen table . . .”
Diane laughed. “Jesus, you sound like Dr. Seuss. ‘I would do him in a box. I would do him with a fox. I would do him here or there.’”
Maggie finished giddily, “I would do him anywhere.”
The two women giggled. Then Maggie stiffened. “Oh shit, we gotta get back in there. We have to be serious.” Maggie straightened her shirt and flared her nostrils, girding for battle.
Diane forced back her grin. She followed Maggie to the conference room, and the two women avoided each other’s gaze for the rest of the meeting. Meanwhile, deliciously dirty Dr. Seuss rhymes floated through their heads.
22
AN UNLIKELY FRIENDSHIP
Lucy had decided that art class was a waste of time. She understood why people needed art in the olden days. Back then, portraits were the only way for rich people to remember what their kings and fancy ladies looked like. But now, everybody had cell phones with superstrong cameras on them. Why spend an hour making some goofy drawing of a pile of fruit when you could take a perfect photo of it in two seconds? It didn’t make any sense. What would be next, classes on whittling? Candlestick making?!
Aside from its pointlessness, Lucy hated art class because she sucked at it. She did not know how to suck at something. She had no frame of reference, no experience with sucking. Okay, that wasn’t true. Lucy sucked at making friends. But making friends was not “doing” something. Making friends was just supposed to “happen” to you, like being born with blond hair. When it came to doing things, Lucy was tops.
But art was different. Smart people were supposed to like art, to care about it. And much as Lucy hated making art, she knew there was something there. Miss Pearl always brought in big, glossy posters of famous paintings: blurry Monets, vibrant van Goghs, and wacky Picassos. Miss Pearl said these guys had changed how people saw the world, how they understood it. And much as Lucy didn’t want to believe that, she sort of did. She did not understand everything that Miss Pearl said, but Miss Pearl’s passion—her fascination—made her hard to dismiss. Every time Miss Pearl brought in a new artwork or taught them a new technique, Lucy felt something shift inside her. She didn’t have a word for this feeling. It was a mix of wonder, weariness, and envy—like how she felt when her little brother started playing with one of her long-abandoned toys, like maybe he’d discovered something she’d overlooked.
The Very Principled Maggie Mayfield Page 13