The Very Principled Maggie Mayfield

by Kathy Cooperman

  Maggie bit back a smile. She knew how forceful Mrs. Wong could be. “She made a meal of you?”

  “There was nothing left but bones.” Andrea closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the bathroom wall. “I’ve screwed up so much. What do I do now?”

  “Practice loving Rachel the way she is . . . And drink a lot of water when you get home.”

  39

  ANDREA’S ATTEMPT

  A week later, Andrea Klemper accompanied Rachel and Lucy to the district-level art contest—much to Lucy’s annoyance.

  Mrs. Klemper was so irritating. She hovered behind Lucy and Rachel all evening. Whenever they passed a strong contestant’s work, Mrs. Klemper would fumble all over herself to reassure Rachel (“It’s okay, baby. It’s an honor just to make it this far.”). Even worse, she laughed too hard when Lucy made wisecracks about the competition, saying “Oh, Luce!” and “You’re too much!” Lucy had never had an adult suck up to her before. She found it unpalatable.

  But Rachel didn’t seem to mind. She wasn’t chummy with her mother. That would have been gross. But Lucy could tell Rachel was happy to have Mrs. Klemper there, all to herself. Awful Alec had stayed home with a sitter, and Mr. Klemper was out of town on a case.

  Lucy wasn’t sure what had prompted Mrs. Klemper’s sudden interest in Rachel. Maybe it was Rachel’s triumph at the school contest. Lucy had read somewhere that success has many fathers, but failure is an orphan. When Lucy told her mother this, Mrs. Wong said the opposite would be true for Lucy. If Lucy failed, Mrs. Wong would never leave her alone (“I nag you from beyond the grave. Whoooo!”). Lucy suspected it was her mother’s tirade that had driven Mrs. Klemper to Rachel’s side. Mrs. Wong was the Michael Jordan of shaming people.

  Today, Mrs. Wong had to root for Rachel from afar. Lucy’s brother had a big piano recital that required every available ounce of the Wongs’ adulation. But Mrs. Wong had given Rachel a bracelet with a number eight charm. Mrs. Wong said, “The number eight is powerful good luck.”

  Eventually, “the moment you’ve all been waiting for” came, and an uncharismatic emcee started to announce the winners. It would have been dramatic, but the list was too long, one winner per grade plus way too many honorable mentions. When they got to the third-grade category, Lucy squeezed Rachel’s hand, and she heard Mrs. Klemper whisper, “No matter what, baby, I’m so proud of you.”

  Then the emcee said it—“First place for third-grade competition goes to Rachel Klemper.” Rachel and Lucy jumped up and down, hugging each other. And Mrs. Klemper pumped her fist in the air, crying, “Bull’s-eye!” She’d said it too loud, and it was completely out of place at this staid competition. But Lucy liked her for it. It was a start.

  40

  CRAZY HAIR AND SOCK DAY

  Time moves strangely as the school year winds down. For adults, it’s a mad rush. Teachers shepherd students through final projects and plan sentimentally charged end-of-year events (so meaningful!). Meanwhile, parents scramble to attend said meaningful events and sign their kids up for stimulating summer camps. But for kids, the spring crawls. Every new test, each new project, is one more obstacle between them and their hard-earned freedom. You can almost hear Morgan Freeman’s narration as they burrow their way out of academic prison to sweet, sun-drenched leisure.

  The academic year culminates in “Spirit Week.” Each day offers some new event or costume: Pajama Day, the Teacher-Student Softball Game, Superhero Day, et cetera. The last Thursday is—drum roll, please—“Crazy Hair and Sock Day.” Connor and Mr. Baran marked it by arranging a superhero-themed sock scavenger hunt for the entire school. Meanwhile, Lucy and Rachel wore “BFF wigs”—mimicking each other’s hairstyles.

  Spirit Week was so absorbing, such a total experience, that it tended to block out the real world. Maggie and Jeannie were so enmeshed in it that they had no idea how absurd they looked as they stood watching movers take away the remnants of Edutek’s headquarters. The movers chuckled at the tableau the women presented—two mature women—one, Maggie, with seven ponytails tied back with small toddler socks, and the other, Jeannie, with little red balloons threaded through her gray hair and rainbow-striped socks pulled up to her kneecaps.

  Watching the movers work, Jeannie said, “Oy, I sure got that one wrong.”

  “What?” asked Maggie.

  Jeannie said, “I didn’t see that the MathPal was actually teaching my kids. To be honest, I still don’t see it. This class doesn’t seem any further ahead than my old classes. But I must be wrong. You can’t argue with hard data.”

  “No, I guess not.” Maggie fiddled with a Hershey’s Kiss in her pocket, comforted by its presence.

  Jeannie went on, “Maybe I’m too old for this game. If I can’t gauge where my students are, then—”

  Maggie interjected. “Don’t be silly. You’re one of the best teachers I’ve ever met. We’ve just never had anyone go back through all the homework and tests for the early grades. We couldn’t afford the man-hours. We had no benchmarks.”

  Jeannie smiled ruefully. “It’s all numbers these days. Everything has to be quantified, measured. Once kids hit third grade, we pummel them with standardized tests. And those test scores are all that matter.”

  “It’s like a Fitbit for education,” groused Maggie.

  “So much data, and so little actual knowledge,” said Jeannie. “Listen to me. I sound like an old fart. Next, I’ll start whining that we should give up email and go back to the Pony Express.”

  “Yee-haw,” said Maggie.

  Jeannie said, “I guess, deep down, I’m a technophobe. But do they have to mechanize everything?”

  Maggie sighed. “I don’t like it, but I guess it’s inevitable. The new pushes out the old. It’s like that General Sherman quote.” Maggie fell silent.

  After a pause, Jeannie said, “So are you going to tell me what Sherman said or what? I’m old, but it’s not like I knew the guy.”

  Maggie flushed. “Sorry, I didn’t want to be pedantic.”

  “We’re teachers. Pedantic is our job,” answered Jeannie.

  “Right. So back in the 1800s, General Sherman—I think it was him—he said something like it was too bad for the Native Americans, but the US would have to take their lands. He said they couldn’t stop westward expansion any more than they could ‘stop the sun or the moon.’”

  Jeannie shot back, “So there’s nothing anyone can do? Mechanized teaching is inevitable?”

  Maggie shrugged.

  Jeannie said, “Calling something ‘inevitable’ is a great way to dodge responsibility, isn’t it?”

  Maggie nodded. Just then, Danny came from behind a corner. He smiled at the women, and quickened his pace. Jeannie said quietly—so only Maggie could hear—“Look, it’s Mr. Manifest Destiny.” Then she scrambled off.

  Danny watched Jeannie bustle away. “She still hates me.”

  Maggie shrugged, perversely pleased that someone had remained immune to Danny’s charms. “The truck’s almost loaded.”

  Danny smiled. “Yep. We’ve got all the electronics, the minifridge, the tables.”

  A mover walked by, rolling a dozen bankers’ boxes full of documents on a cart. He asked Danny, “Back of the truck, right?”

  “Right,” said Danny.

  “What’re those? I thought Edutek was paperless.” Being green was part of Edutek’s do-gooder, modernist mystique.

  “Edutek is. But your school’s not. Those are boxes of the younger kids’ homework and quizzes. You know, just in case our investors want the backup for our analysis.” Maggie nodded. Danny called out to the mover, “Put the docs in front of the pinball machine. Okay?”

  “The pinball machine?! Ohmigod, you really are leaving,” said Maggie in mock, real despair.

  “I told you. You’re welcome to come with me.”

  Maggie sighed. “And I told you. My life is here. Edutek is your baby. This school is mine.” She gestured round at the playground, trying to sound more certain
than she felt.

  He took her hand. “You could start a new school in San Fran. I know a bunch of people who’d love to invest.”

  Maggie gulped. “And you could move in with me down here. Maybe commute up to Edutek for a while?”

  He stepped in even closer to her. “I’m not sure I could swing that.”

  She tried to keep her tone light. “Sure, you could. I’ll help you. I’ve got an in with Edutek’s CEO.”

  “You do?”

  She blustered, “The guy’s wrapped around my finger.”

  “Yeah, he is.” Danny was suddenly sincere. He leaned down and whispered in her ear, “Come to San Francisco, Maggie.”

  Maggie pulled away, struggling to hold on to her composure. “Daniel, we’ve been through this. I’m not leaving my job—my school—just to follow my boyfriend around.” She said “my boyfriend” in her best California Valley girl voice.

  Danny leaned down and kissed her, and for the first time ever on campus, she did not stop him. Then, he asked, “Would you move for your husband?”

  Maggie drew back, searching his eyes. “Are you serious?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  A voice came over the loudspeaker. It was Diane. “All right, kids, everyone on the blacktop in five minutes for the school cheer. And don’t hold back. I want you to yell loud enough to scare off the birds.”

  Danny pulled back. He said, “Look, I know you’ve got a lot going on here, but think about it, all right?”

  Maggie nodded dumbly. She suddenly understood the stupor that could lead a female lemming to jump off a cliff after its mate.

  Danny went on, “I’ll be gone through the end of the week, but come by the apartment this Sunday, and we’ll talk. Okay?” Danny had an apartment in Carmel Valley, an apartment he’d be leaving all too soon.

  Maggie nodded again—still at a loss for words. It was like she’d pulled a reverse Little Mermaid—losing her voice after nabbing her man. She watched Daniel get into his Tesla and drive away.

  When he disappeared out of sight around the bend, Maggie suddenly snapped out of her trance. She squealed, “Diane!”—startling two birds.

  41

  AN INCONVENIENT TRUTH

  The following Sunday, Maggie felt like she was floating as she drove to Danny’s place—floating in a happy way, not as part of some sad dissociative episode. She and Diane had dissected the proposal.

  Okay, it wasn’t a full-on proposal. There’d been no ring, no getting down on one knee, no “Will you make me the happiest man in the world, my dearest Margaret?” It was vaguer than that, more like Danny announcing the formation of an “exploratory committee” for his potential candidacy as a husband. A promise of the potential for a promise. Not great, but the word “husband” had been bandied about. It had been bandied!

  Maggie pinballed between possible futures. She told herself she couldn’t move to San Francisco. No, everything she loved—except for Danny—was here: her school, her friends, her Diane, her neighbors, her staff. She didn’t know a soul up in San Francisco, except for Danny. And it wasn’t like he could carry her around in a baby sling all day.

  But how could she turn down the chance to be Mrs. Danny Zelinsky? He was perfect—sweet, sexy, considerate, smart, funny, and soon-to-be-rich. Maybe she could start a whole new life up there. She could find work at one of Silicon Valley’s upscale private schools (so swank!) or at one of the publicly funded charter schools (so earnestly dedicated!). Or maybe she could turn around some terrible public school in one of San Fran’s seedier areas. Did they have seedier areas up there or had Google paved the streets with gold?

  But wait. The plane ride from San Fran to San Diego was just an hour. An hour! Couldn’t Danny commute up to San Fran? If he became a rich jet-setter, wouldn’t jetting be one of the perks? He could work up there five days a week and then fly down to Maggie on the weekends. Sure, their lives would be compartmentalized—like on those TV Land sitcoms where people share a room by drawing a line down the middle. But it could work, theoretically.

  Maggie kept giddily planning her alternative futures as she pulled into Danny’s driveway. She used a key to open his apartment door. Six months in and she still savored the intimacy of having a key to his apartment. He loved her, he wanted to marry her, and they could make it work. All the materials were there; they just had to shape it into something. She arrived an hour before Danny was scheduled to arrive. She wanted to tidy up the place before he got there. She didn’t want to plan her happy future next to piles of laundry.

  She worked her way through his living room, stopping to admire the magazines strewn about the coffee table—all with headlines touting the MathPal. Now that Danny was her fiancé, sort of, she savored his accomplishments even more, imagining herself at parties—a glass of merlot in her hand—saying things like, “Oh yes, my Daniel came up with the MathPal. But you already know that, don’t you?”

  The magazines fawned over the MathPal. The Economist said it might close the proficiency gap between the US and other countries. Woman’s Day promised it would “get rid of sourpusses” and “make math fun!” Time said it would revolutionize early math education, doing for math what the Rosetta Stone had done for foreign language learning. This last tidbit nettled Maggie. She remembered only too well how California and other states had used the availability of Rosetta Stone and other such programs to justify cutting foreign language instruction from the elementary school curriculum. The Arlene Horvaths of the world had reasoned there was no need for living, breathing Spanish teachers (like Maggie) when computer programs could teach the kids. Arlene said it was a “win-win,” but Maggie had her doubts.

  Putting such doubts aside, she fanned the magazines neatly out across the coffee table, then headed for the bedroom. She made the bed and then turned to the desk, and that’s when she found it: a single pink sheet of paper. It was an invoice from Birox Document Disposal, charging Edutek for the shredding of twelve boxes of documents just days ago.

  It was the invoice’s bright-pink color that drew her eye. She’d have never noticed it if it had been plain white. But once she saw it, she couldn’t unsee it.

  Her mind flashed to the workmen rolling document boxes out of the school on a cart—the boxes of homework and quizzes that Edutek had supposedly used to come up with its baseline for the K–3 kids, the proof that those kids had reaped some huge benefit from the MathPal. Danny had told her he was taking those boxes in case his investors wanted “backup” for Edutek’s analysis. But what if he’d secretly had the boxes destroyed, their contents shredded? There was only one reason to do such a thing, right?

  Maggie groaned. Then she grabbed the invoice and ran out of the apartment.

  42

  THE BIGGEST LOSER

  Diane listened as only she could. Then she said, “Maggie, you have got to stop cleaning men’s rooms.”

  Maggie laughed through her tears. It was true. She’d discovered Richard’s porn habit during a wifely cleanup of his study. And now, her Mrs. Clean instincts had screwed up her life all over again. Maggie sniffed back some snot. She had cried all the way to Diane’s place. “I’m right, though. Aren’t I?”

  Diane sighed. “Yeah, he’s covering his tracks. It all makes sense now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Diane pursed her lips, as if she’d tasted something sour. “I thought it was weird that Edutek shrugged it off so easily when it didn’t see results for the upper grades. I mean, if the MathPal was that good, why wouldn’t it work for the older kids?”

  “Huh?” Maggie felt sluggish.

  “Maggie, baby, he couldn’t shill the MathPal for the older kids ’cause we have a baseline for them. Thanks to state standardized tests, we know exactly how much kids improve from fourth grade on. You can’t lie about how much the MathPal is helping them.”

  “I see,” said Maggie.

  “It’s like on The Biggest Loser,” said Diane.

  Maggie bridled. “You’re saying
I’m the biggest loser?”

  “The TV show, Maggie. It’s a show where obese people lose weight at a ranch.”

  Maggie said, “Why on a ranch?”

  “That’s not my point. Anyways, the show can’t lie about how much weight the contestants lose because—bam!—as soon as those fatties show up at the ranch, the show weighs them. Then at the end of every week, the contestants get half-naked and step up onto a giant-ass scale. And—in front of God and the viewing public—a big, noisy digital readout shows their weight down to the pound.”

  “What does that have to do with the MathPal?” asked Maggie.

  Diane gave her best “elementary, my dear Watson” smirk. “The Biggest Loser can’t lie about how much the contestants are losing because of those scale numbers every week. And Edutek can’t lie about grades four to six because we’ve got years of standardized test results on those guys. But Danny could lie about K through third because we don’t have any tests for those years. We don’t get any test results at all till the end of third grade, so—up till then—Edutek can make up whatever it wants. It’d be like if they sent a real fat kindergartner to The Biggest Loser, said she was losing all kinds of weight, but they don’t actually weigh her till the end of third grade. She coulda lost nothing, coulda lost a ton. Nobody knows.”

  “But wouldn’t you have an idea how much she lost by watching her slim out?”

  Diane suddenly looked cranky. “Don’t poke holes in my analogy, Mag.”

  “Sorry.” Maggie’s phone buzzed again. It was Danny texting to ask where she was. “What do I do now?”

  “Only one thing you can do—confront him,” said Diane.

  “What do I say?”

  “You know what to say. Tell him the jig is up. You found the invoice. Tell him he shouldn’t lie, that public schools are strapped. They don’t need to be wasting piles of dough on some math program that doesn’t even work. And if that fails . . .” Diane trailed off.