“For your information, I am not settling in.” I look around to make sure neither of the customers is listening, but they both seem absorbed in their individual quests for vinyl. I lean in and whisper, “I went to a party Friday night. A kegger.”
Now it’s Quinn’s turn to make the surprised O, but his astonishment is real. “A kegger? You?” he whispers.
I nod.
Quinn shakes his head, a rare moment of speechlessness.
“I didn’t get wasted or anything,” I say. “I needed to do something unexpected.”
“Mission accomplished.”
“I know, I know,” I say, covering my face with my hands. The party was a nightmare, but I’m enjoying Quinn’s surprise.
He switches out the record. I guess I’ve earned my way out of the blues, because he puts on Kiss’s “Rock and Roll All Nite.” Quinn does a little air-guitar riff while extending a Gene Simmons–worthy tongue.
I crack up. “It’s just been so weird since all this stuff started. So I thought, ‘What’s the harm in going to a party where nobody will talk to me?’ Check something off my high school bucket list.”
“And?” Quinn says.
“And . . . nobody talked to me. It was lame. It smelled of teen angst and desperation.”
“That’s it? Your first high school kegger and there’s nothing to report? You didn’t see anybody? Didn’t talk to anybody?” Quinn’s voice is skeptical. He knows I’m not saying everything.
“Well, not exactly.” I wonder if I can find a way to answer without really answering.
“Hmmmmm?” Quinn coaxes.
I slump a little further and start fiddling with the stapler.
Quinn removes it from my hand and puts it back on the counter. “Spill,” he says.
“There were some drunk wrestler assholes who got a little too close for comfort.”
Quinn makes a face. “You okay?”
I nod. “They assumed I’d be up for it. Apparently the rumor mill has cast me as this week’s slut.”
“Wow. That’s, um—How exactly did that happen?”
“I haven’t quite pieced it all together yet. But I have some ideas.”
“Well, I hope you did some damage while you were telling them where to shove their attentions.”
“I did. I used one of my best moves.”
“Elbow to the sternum?” Quinn asks.
“Knee to the groin. Sort of accidentally, but the effect was the same.”
“A classic. Well done,” he says. “You sure you’re okay?”
“I am. Thanks. Disaster averted. At least on that front.”
“What else? You’re still holding out on me.”
“Well . . .” I hesitate. “Tom was there.”
Quinn waits.
“And, um, we talked for a minute. In the backyard.” I pick at my thumbnail, trying to decide if I want to tell Quinn the rest. “And he was kind of . . . Well, like I said, we talked and stuff.” I look at Quinn now, wanting to run, but also wanting him to help me tell him everything.
“‘And stuff’?” Quinn asks. But I shake my head, so he changes tunes, again. This is another bone of contention with Quinn and me. He has no problem listening to little snippets of songs and changing things out every couple of minutes. But I feel the same way about songs as I do about books. Once I start them, it drives me a little crazy not to finish them. I’m sure it drives the customers insane too, but Quinn doesn’t seem to care.
This time Quinn puts on “Love Is a Battlefield.” “If I were Tom, I’d be just a little miffed.” Quinn takes a swig of his coffee.
“Oh, so this is all my fault?”
“He behaves like a decent guy, and you blow him off for your gay best friend who won’t talk to you anymore. He’s got to be wondering what your freaking problem is.”
“When you say it that way, it makes me sound like a complete whack-job. And define ‘decent.’ He was there with Kayla. He was drunk. And he . . .” I take a deep breath and say it. “We sort of . . . kissed a little. Again.”
“What?” Quinn shouts.
“Shhhhh!” I lean in. “We kissed. But it was dumb and I stopped him.”
“Because?”
“Because I remembered Nash. And because Tom clarified that he just wants to be friends. But friends who kiss, I guess. Whatever that’s supposed to mean.”
“Yeah, um, no.”
“Duh. Oh, and he’s the one who told Nash about the other kiss. Not Kayla. I didn’t see that coming.”
“Seriously?”
I nod.
“What a tool.”
“Yeah. Who knew?”
“No comment,” Quinn says.
I pick up the stapler again, and Quinn takes it away from me again. “Besides, I didn’t want him to kiss me. Okay, I like kissing him in general. But I didn’t want him to kiss me then, not with all that other stuff swirling around us.”
“A woman who knows her own mind. I like what I’m hearing.”
My cheeks get warm. “Yeah. Sometimes.”
Quinn nods. “So what else?”
“Kayla was . . . a little drunk. More drunk than Tom. And I’m pretty sure she’s the one who told those Neanderthals I was ready and willing. I wanted to punch her in the head. Hard.”
“Did you?” Quinn asks.
“No!” I laugh. “No! Of course not.”
“Why not?” Quinn asks. “She deserved to get her butt kicked from here to Texas with that popular-girl, shit-talking, gossip crapola.” Quinn chooses another record, placing the needle before speaking. Hall and Oates warn us to watch out for the maneater. “Please tell me you at least gave her a piece of your mind?”
I duck my head and start picking at my cuticle again. I tear off too much, and it starts to bleed. “Not exactly,” I mumble. “We sort of talked for a minute, and then she was off with Tom, and her friends were there. She was so clueless and drunk. It was pathetic.”
“I’m beginning to understand that when you say ‘not exactly,’ you actually mean ‘not even close,’” he says. “That girl needs to understand what she did. And you need to tell her.”
I suck on my bleeding finger, but I don’t say anything.
“‘Once more unto the breach,’ Maggie,” Quinn says.
“It’s going to take more than cookies and some old blues ballads to fix this, Quinn.” I change Hall and Oates out for some Three Dog Night: “One Is the Loneliest Number.”
“Har, har.” Quinn digs through the RAPs; he’s looking for something specific. “So what is it going to take, Maggie?”
This stops me. I know he’s right. I planned on telling Kayla off at the party, but at the moment, the thought of telling Kayla how much damage she did makes me want to hurl. And now that ship has sailed. What’s my plan B?
He puts his hand on my arm. “Time to stand up for yourself, Maggie,” he says. “To Kayla. To your mom. To Nash. To Tom.”
“I forgot to tell you. I did talk to my mom.”
“Well done! And?”
“I told her she has permission to talk about any of my wonderful qualities except my weight. She understands, and she agrees.”
Quinn chooses another record: the Smiths telling me shyness can stop me from doing what I want in life. The guy shopping in the Classical section keeps giving us dirty looks, clearly not appreciating the fact that we keep changing out the song every ten seconds.
“Racking wrestlers in their privates is all well and good, but now it’s time, Maggie. Time to tame your fear monkeys and make them stop throwing their feces all over your life. Whatever her intentions, Kayla screwed up in a big, bad way. You have to tell her.”
On top of the RTP pile I see a way to end this conversation. Donna Summer: “Enough Is Enough.” I place the needle, watching Quinn for his inevitable reaction. Quinn hates Donna Summer, and the quaver of her voice causes Quinn to close his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. He grabs the needle, scraping it across the record. Both customers look up in alar
m.
“Enough is enough. At the end of all this, the only person you know for sure will still be there for you is you. So find a way to be true to yourself, Maggie. Follow your bliss and all that.” He waves me away and turns back to his accounting. “It’s time to do this thing.”
“Thanks, Quinn.” I grab my backpack. “Love your guts. Gotta go.” And as I leave, I know he’s right. It’s time for badass Maggie to step up to the plate. At this point I’ve got nothing to lose.
With that I’m out the door, but I don’t want to go home yet. I wander through town and find myself at the swing set. I’m not in the mood to swing, but I move myself back and forth a little. The sun is shining, but it’s cold enough to see my breath. The lake shimmers and the deep green of the firs looks nearly black against the clear sky. Snow has dusted the trees farther up the hillsides. Leaning back in the swing, I close my eyes and soak in the feel of the sun on my face. I know Quinn’s right: I can’t make any of these other people happy with me. But I can do something that makes me happy with myself. Suddenly that kernel of idea that’s been rattling around my brain takes root.
I stop at the store for supplies, then settle into the kitchen for a marathon baking session. I make dozens of cookies, all my best inventions: chocolate cherry coconut, pecan butterscotch chip, dark chocolate snickerdoodles.
Dad comes into the kitchen around dinnertime. He starts to say something but thinks better of it. I think he can tell I’m not going to make room for anyone else to cook, so he orders pizza and leaves me alone.
Later my mom comes in. “That’s a lot of cookies,” she says.
“Yep,” I say.
“Any idea when we’ll have our kitchen back?”
“Soon-ish.” I expect Mom to flee in the face of all these baked goods, but she surprises me by tying on an apron.
“Can I help?”
“I didn’t know you could bake.” Grandma used to let me help her with Christmas cookies, but Mom never baked a single thing that I can remember. I didn’t think she knew how.
“There are still a few things you don’t know about me, honey.”
“True.” I point to the mixing bowl in the sink. “That bowl needs to be washed. I was going to start the peanut butter chocolate chunk next.” I hand her the recipe, and we work side by side for a while before she speaks again.
“Can I ask what you’re going to do with all these cookies?”
“Bake sale.”
“Oh? What are you raising money for?”
“Food bank. They always need extra donations around the holidays.”
“I don’t think you’ll have any trouble selling these cookies,” Mom says. “They look amazing, honey. Besides, I’m sure Nash will help eat whatever’s left over.” She’s joking, but the Nash-shaped hole in my heart gets a little bigger.
“Not so much lately. I’m not his favorite right now.”
“Ahhh, I wondered if there wasn’t something,” she says. “Want to talk about it?”
“Nope.” I pull a pan out of the oven. “But thanks.” We finish the cookies, and Mom helps me wrap them after they cool. I go upstairs to make signs and finalize my plans. I’ve been hiding too long, waiting for the storm to pass. It’s time to get out there, even if I get drenched.
Chapter 33
That night my mind whirs with all the disparate, crazy revelations I’ve had in the last couple of weeks. But what, if anything, does it all mean? These unfamiliar versions of people I thought I knew leave me wondering how my perceptions of them could be so convincing, and still so wrong. I think about how people see me. Nash is obviously convinced I’m some sort of backstabbing closet nymphomaniac. Kayla thinks I’m a loser who should be grateful for whatever attention she tosses my way. Tom thinks I’m an immature idiot who runs away from a little fun. None of these things are entirely true, but people are convinced of these truths and act accordingly.
I roll over; the clock glows 1:30. I have to be up in about four hours, but I can’t stop thinking. I know this bake sale is a long shot. But I don’t really care. I need Kayla to see she hasn’t beaten me. And I need Nash to see I’m still the same person I always was. More than that, I need to prove it to myself. I shove my fist into the pillow and look at the clock again: 1:34.
Rolling over on my back, I stare at the sparkles on the ceiling reflecting the light from the streetlamp. I think back through the catalog of my favorite Billie Holiday songs, the songs that have gotten me through the last couple weeks. I know what Billie would say about all this: she’d say it’s nobody’s business what I do. Then I remember that Lady Day’s life wasn’t a joy ride; in fact, it was more like a train wreck. But she kept singing. That’s what I’m trying to do. I look at the clock again: 1:42 a.m.
Sleep comes at some point. When my alarm goes off, getting my eyes open takes some effort. But I realize I feel sort of okay, I guess. Feeling okay is such significant progress over the way I’ve been feeling that I pop out of bed and get ready with a new sense of purpose.
By the time I get to school, I’m ready for action. I set up my bake sale table in the hallway before school. A few of the skaters buy cookies, and one girl stops by to ask if I’ve used all organic ingredients. Mostly people pretend I’m not there.
The one bright spot is when Cece buys five cookies.
“Are you going to eat all those?” I ask.
“You know I can’t resist your cookies!” she says. “But no, I’m only eating one. The rest I’m using as bait. Like those drug dealers who give out free samples to get people hooked.”
“You’re an evil mastermind, Cece.”
I pack up just before the first bell. I haven’t seen Nash, Tom, or Kayla. But the day has just begun.
Back at my locker I find an envelope scrunched into the vents. I have to open the locker and pull the letter through on the inside. I feel a little jolt of excitement, thinking that Nash has finally made contact. Then I recognize Tom’s handwriting on the envelope. I rip it open and scan the letter inside.
Dear Maggie: After the other night, you probably don’t want to talk to me, but to paraphrase the lovely Ms. Holiday, who I know you admire: Ain’t nobody’s business if you do! —Tom
I grab the books I need and shove them, along with the note, into my backpack. It doesn’t seem fair, Tom using Billie against me that way. But the message hits me in the gut and gives me some hope. I dig the note back out of my pack, smoothing it out, and put it in my pocket.
I set up for the bake sale again at noon. More people buy, and fewer people ignore me. Halfway through lunch, I put samples out like Cece suggested. This pushes the final holdouts over the edge. One taste of homemade goodies and all that feeble resistance goes out the window. I even get a few people to sign up to volunteer at the food bank. I’ve sold about two-thirds of my stock when I hear Kayla’s voice.
“Hey, Maggie!” she says.
The hallway is crowded, and I don’t see right away where the voice is coming from. I hand some change back to a skater, a guy who’s bought several cookies today, and Kayla and her friends move to the front of the crowd standing around the table.
“How’d you like Tara’s party? Crazy night. I can’t believe you went; I told Tom you never go to parties!” She looks like she’s waiting for something, and I wonder if there’s a question in there that I missed.
“Anyway, it’s so great that you’re helping the food bank. I totally want to support you. Which kind is your best seller?”
“I think we’re all sold out,” I say, smiling.
“What do you mean?” She looks at the table, her forehead wrinkling. “There are plenty of cookies left. I only want to buy a couple. They’re for Tom.”
“Sorry, these are all spoken for.”
“You okay, Maggie?” Kayla asks. “What’s going on?”
My stomach clenches in anger, and the red that’s been creeping up my neck reaches the top and explodes like some Saturday morning cartoon character.
“Am
I okay?” I ask, leaning forward. “Really? You have no idea what the answer to that question might be? Are you really that self-absorbed?”
Kayla’s posse stares, and Kayla gapes like a trout on a hook, but only for a few seconds. Then she gathers her wits. Grabbing my elbow, she pulls me up and leads me to a corner where we can talk in private.
“What the hell are you talking about?” she hisses. “I just want to buy some of your stupid cookies. What’s your problem, Maggie?”
“My problem is you ran your mouth about things that weren’t yours to talk about.”
“And?” Kayla is right in my face now.
“And it hurt people I care about, and it was a shitty thing to do. And I think you owe me an apology.”
“An apology? All I said was that you liked Tom and that the two of you got together. All true, by the way.”
“Really? That’s all you said?”
“I’m not responsible if someone takes the story and runs with it.” She glances back at her friends, who are straining to hear the conversation. “Maggie, why are you doing this?”
“Are you really going to stand there and pretend you didn’t spread the rumors about Tom and me? According to the guys who tried to maul me at the party, I’m the girl who will do it anytime with anyone, and should be grateful for the attention.”
“Well, I didn’t tell them that.”
“Maybe not, but you were the source of the information.”
“Not my fault.”
“Jesus! Really?” My voice is getting louder now. “Is any of this sounding familiar to you, Kayla? Aren’t you having just the tiniest bit of déjà vu?”
Kayla grabs me again and pulls me into an empty classroom, shutting the door behind us.
“What are you talking about, Maggie?”
“I never said a word to you when you sucker punched me in middle school. But you’re pulling the same shit now that you did then.”
“Are you kidding me?” Kayla says. “This is about something I did to you in middle school?”
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