The Melting of Maggie Bean

by Tricia Rayburn

  Maggie’s stomach turned when Julia stood up from her seat to squeeze next to Peter. She thought she might lose her pizza as Julia tilted her head and gazed at him adoringly.

  “Maggie, I think it would be a great thing for us to do together,” Aimee said, snapping her back to reality. “But it’s your decision. We have four weeks till tryouts. Take a week to think about it—for me, okay?”

  Maggie gave Aimee a small smile, sorry to be disappointing her.

  “And don’t forget,” Aimee added, “I wore reindeer antlers Christmas caroling at the South Street Senior Center, and stinky bowling shoes that had seen a thousand feet before mine for the charity tournament—for the happiness of other people’s grandparents and our local animal shelters, yes, but also for you, Maggie.”

  Maggie smiled and nodded. She didn’t think wearing reindeer antlers and bowling shoes for charitable causes was quite the same as wearing a bathing suit in front of strangers for sheer self-humiliation, but … “I’ll think about it.”

  And she really would, because she owed it to Aimee and to the girl she wished she were: the pretty, fit one boys walked across crowded cafeteria floors for.

  6.

  “Get ready, Mag Pie!”

  Maggie finished the paragraph she’d been reading, slid her headphones around her neck, and glanced at the clock: 6:30 p.m. He was right on schedule.

  “What for?” she asked casually.

  He knocked on her door twice before pushing it open. “Your aunt will be here in fifteen minutes.”

  “Oh?” She reached for her earth science and social studies textbooks and brought them to her lap. “That’s nice, but I don’t think I’ll have time to chat. I’m really busy.”

  Her father raised his eyebrows. “She’s not coming to chat.”

  Maggie flipped open both books and scattered dozens of pages of notes around her. She rested her laptop on one knee and typed with her left hand as she highlighted random sentences in the earth science book with her right hand. “Maggie?” He came all the way into the room. “It’s Wednesday.”

  “Don’t I know it!” She shook her head, looked up quickly, and gestured to her surroundings. “Looks like an all-nighter for me.” The truth was she’d finished everything due through Friday the night before, but there was no way he’d know that.

  “Well, it’ll just have to wait.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re going to Pound Patrollers with Aunt Violetta.”

  She lowered the highlighter and met his gaze. “Sorry, Dad, no can do. I have three tests, two papers, and a presentation tomorrow.” She shrugged. “I’m swamped.” She turned to her laptop, her heartbeat quickening.

  “I know your studies are important.”

  She felt her muscles relax.

  “But nothing is more important than your health.”

  She put the laptop on the floor, pushed the textbooks and papers from her lap, and stood up. “We’ll just ask Mom. I’m sure she’ll—”

  “Your mother agrees, Maggie.” He shifted slightly so that she couldn’t fit past him through the door.

  She stood with her hands on her hips. “I’m not going.”

  “ Yes, you are. Aunt Violetta is on her way.”

  “I’ll give her gas money and thank her for her time.” She fanned her face with one hand as the heat began to spread.

  “Drop the attitude, Maggie,” he warned.

  Her notebooks and laptop grew blurry as tears filled her eyes. “But, Dad, you don’t understand,” she pleaded. “What if I see someone I know? Or someone I don’t know but who knows someone else I do know, and then people at school find out?” Forget the cool, calm, and collected plan. She wasn’t above old-fashioned begging if it saved her from life-threatening embarrassment.

  He cleared his throat and looked down. “I know it won’t be easy, but it’s for your own good.”

  Her mouth fell open. “But how do you know? No one even asked—”

  “Maggie!” He held up one hand to stop her noisy blubbering. “We paid hard-earned, nonrefundable money for these meetings and you’re going. End of story.”

  Silent tears zigzagged down her cheeks as she watched him leave her room and close the door. Money was such a sore household subject, he knew she’d never argue.

  She sunk across the piles of notebook paper and highlighters that blanketed her bed, put on her headphones, turned up the volume, and covered her head with a pillow. Instinctively she reached with one hand for the Snickers bag under her mattress.

  By the time Maggie heard the doorbell ring exactly fifteen minutes later, she’d finished off the Snickers and begun working through a new bag of Twix.

  Her parents had better be ready to raise her allowance. Her candy stash was going to need it.

  7.

  “Isn’t this going to be so much fun?” Aunt Violetta squealed as they pulled out of the driveway.

  Maggie tugged the hood of her sweatshirt over her head as her aunt started to whistle. She didn’t know what reason her aunt had to be so happy, but the whistling lasted for twenty minutes and didn’t stop until they reached the Pound Patrollers parking lot.

  “Mag Pie.” Aunt Violetta turned off the car and jumped out. “We don’t want to miss the opening number, do we?”

  “Opening number?” Maggie asked skeptically without looking away from the windshield. A group of teenagers had gathered in front of the adjacent pizzeria, and she sank in the seat, praying they weren’t from her class.

  “Yes, yes!” Aunt Violetta slapped her palm lightly on the window. “You know, where we all get together in a circle and sing the club song!”

  Maggie closed her eyes. Her parents were getting themselves into a fine mess very early on, because she planned on being very wealthy one day from her private medical practice, literary agency, or interior design company, and now she just couldn’t be sure of future generosity.

  “Aunt Violetta, is it okay if I stay in the car?” Maggie asked quietly, finally looking away from the windshield and leaning across the gearshift. She nodded her head in the direction of the teenagers, hoping her aunt would take pity on her. This would be so embarrassing that her already lame junior high experience could be shattered into a socially lifeless oblivion.

  “What?” Aunt Violetta scrunched her nose and squinted at the teenagers. “Those buffoons?” She waved the idea away with one hand. “You’d have to wave pepperoni-covered video games in their faces to distract them from an upcoming meal.”

  Maggie slid so far down in her seat that she could no longer see through the windshield. She knew she was acting more childish than she ever had when it would’ve been more understandable and acceptable, like when she was five, but she just didn’t care. She stomped her feet against the carpeted car floor and resisted the urge to bang her fists on the dashboard and scream loud and long enough to send the teenagers running home. Of course if she did any of these things, her next meeting would probably be in the psychiatric ward, courtesy of her loving parents.

  She briefly wondered if the straightjacket would even fit.

  “But, Aunt Violetta, I just don’t think this place is for me,” Maggie whispered, glancing at a pair of chubby dyed blondes walking together toward the Pound Patrollers door, their colorful rear ends bouncing into each other with every other step. “I mean, I’m so young.”

  Aunt Violetta inhaled deeply before sticking her head so far through the driver’s side window, Maggie had to pull back to avoid a cranial collision.

  “Sugarplum, I know this drives you crazy. Your family’s a bundle of twigs, so what can they possibly know about you, huh?” She reached one hand through the window and laid it on Maggie’s shoulder. “Fact is, sometimes young people are dealt some pretty bad cards in the game of life, cards worse than some adults will ever sec. But I promise you, it just makes ’em better players. You can win this game, Mag Pie.” She squeezed her shoulder.

  “I don’t want to play.” Maggie sighed, slumped even farther down in
the seat, and closed her eyes. She pictured herself sneaking into the pizza place, ducking into an oversize booth, and hiding behind a steaming pepperoni pie and a dozen garlic knots.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, grumpy pants!” Aunt Violetta finally sang, opening the passenger-side door so that Maggie had to drop her hand to the pavement to keep from falling out completely. “You might even have a tiny bit of fun if you just get over yourself! Let’s go!”

  “Cakes we like, cookies we love, and candy we adore, but cute clothes, feeling good, and being alive mean more!”

  As if the club song weren’t ridiculous enough, these nine women and one man stood in a circle, holding hands and swinging their arms above their heads, like the Whos in How the Grinch Stole Christmas! They stood around a tall scale, just like the one at Maggie’s doctor’s office—except for the fuchsia paint, silver cutouts of carrots, broccoli, and tomatoes, and streamers dangling from the balancing arm. Maggie hated scales—just the sight of them made her feel guilty about her last meal—but this one made her laugh behind her hands. Of course she hadn’t yet been asked to step on it, and she had no intention of doing so if she was.

  Aunt Violetta turned her head slightly during the humming portion of the song and nodded to Maggie to join the group, but Maggie stayed by the refreshment table of celery sticks, apple slices, and Dixie cups of water. She would’ve preferred hiding under the refreshment table, but feared that with her luck her rear end accidentally hitting the table would send snacks flying and foil her desired disappearing act.

  “So get up off your butt, say so long to your gut, and get out of that flabby rut … FOREVER!”

  The chubby circle squatted down and up out of imaginary chairs, waving plump fingers at their bellies before clapping and hugging one another. They all seemed as suspiciously happy as Aunt Violetta. Maggie picked up a celery stick and a water cup and sniffed each for a clue as to what sort of Pound Patrollers magical dietary supplement had sunk all of these people into weirdly cheerful states. Judging by their sizes, these were the ones who needed to pay for two airline seats or ask for seat belt extensions if they ever flew, who had to avoid the cramped booths at restaurants, and who couldn’t help hogging both armrests at the movie theater. Without some sort of chemical assistance, how on earth could they be so happy?

  “Whew! Well, okay then, let’s all take our seats, shall we?” The leader of the group was a short, round redhead in a lime green velour tracksuit. She rolled the pink scale out of the way as the circle sat in oversize metal folding chairs. Maggie squinted at the woman’s name tag: ELECTRA.

  Electra took a seat, clapped her hands together, and let out a small squeal. “So who’d like to start?”

  Maggie’s chin dropped when all nine members raised their arms. The only man in the group looked like he was in need of a bathroom break, the way he hopped and danced in his chair.

  “Okay, Samuel, tell us about last week’s goals.” Electra nodded.

  Samuel was suddenly still and inhaled so deeply that Maggie eventually peeked at her watch to time him. When he finally exhaled, the words came bouncing out of his mouth as though they’d all been jammed up, just waiting to be freed.

  “Okay,” he started, sitting up straight and patting his hands on his knees, “we all know about the new Krispy Kreme up on Grove and Market—”

  Groans and head shaking took over the circle. Maggie knew the store exactly, and had been there for the grand opening of the hottest, sweetest donuts ever created.

  “—and when we met last week I’d said how I was having a really hard time not stopping in before work and picking up a half dozen for the office and eating every single one myself before the midmorning meeting. I couldn’t resist the glowing red light telling me they were fresh out of the oven and still hot!” He paused and waved one hand in front of his face, needing to cool down after such a thought.

  The women in the circle nodded in unison, completely understanding Samuel’s predicament.

  “Well, I decided that my goal for last week would be to start small and allow just one donut each morning, so long as I didn’t lie to myself or anyone else about whom the treat was really for. That way I wasn’t quitting cold turkey, because let’s face it, that wasn’t going to happen, but I was eliminating about one thousand five hundred unnecessary sugar calories!”

  Samuel hesitated and looked around at the women, who eagerly looked back, awaiting his story’s finale.

  “And?” Electra finally prompted.

  “And”—Samuel clapped his hands together one time—“I did it! Thursday, Friday, Monday, and Tuesday mornings, I had only one glazed donut each, and this morning, I was running late and decided to forego the trip, and forgot all about what I thought I’d freak out about missing!”

  The women erupted in applause and cheers, and Maggie half expected them to leap out of their seats and bombard him with hugs and pats on the back.

  “Just wonderful,” Electra said as the clapping quieted, shaking her head as she marveled at Samuel’s achievement.

  The group nodded their heads approvingly. From where she stood, Maggie could see Samuel mouthing silent thank-yous to the circle of women.

  “Now, why did Samuel have such success with his goal this week?”

  “He cut himself back, instead of cutting himself off,” an older woman with a long silvery braid offered.

  Electra slapped one knee. “Exactly! Like we’ve talked about before, eating better doesn’t mean you have to give up everything you love about food, it just means you have to think about what you’re doing and try to make better decisions.”

  As the group members quietly discussed Samuel’s progress among themselves and Electra made notes on a plastic blue clipboard, Maggie observed them from her safe position in the back of the room, noting with satisfaction that no one there was like her. Nobody else was even near her age. What could they possibly have in common, besides a love of food?

  Her muscles relaxed as she noted the differences between herself and everyone else, and she leaned against the folding table, reached behind her for a cup of water, and brought it to her lips. Only forty minutes to go—she could do it.

  “What a bunch of wackos, huh?” a voice whispered next to her.

  The water she’d just sipped caught in her throat and her eyes filled with tears. She tried to keep the liquid from shooting out of her nose, looked to the ceiling, fanned her face with one hand, and finally swallowed.

  “Arnie, as in Arnold, as in Schwarzenegger.”

  Maggie looked down at the extended hand and up to the round face that smiled at her and nearly choked again, even though her throat was dry.

  “As in Terminator? Kindergarten Cop? Future United States President?” He raised one eyebrow when she didn’t respond.

  But what could she say? Sheਹd just calmed down upon realizing that this meeting was most definitely not where she belonged. And now here stood Arnie, in baggy cargo pants, an oversize sweatshirt, and a red knit cap.

  Arnie, another preteen Pound Patroller.

  8.

  “Well, all right, sugarplum. Next week, same time, same place, righto?” Aunt Violetta hollered out of the car window.

  Maggie waved quickly before hurrying up the front steps. She paused, listened to the television through the wall, and silently pressed her forehead against the cool wood of the door. Coming home was just never as warm and fuzzy an event as it was in the movies and on television. And she’d only been returning to this home for six months, since the first item on her father’s agenda after losing his job had been to move into a smaller house to save on rent.

  She closed her eyes, gently tapped her forehead against the door three times, and told herself there was no place like home, even though the biggest and brightest pair of ruby slippers couldn’t have convinced her.

  Her dad was in his usual spot, on their faded floral couch in jeans and a flannel shirt, tapping the remote control on one knee and rubbing his bare feet together as t
hough he hadn’t a care in the world.

  “Hey, kiddo.”

  She waved halfheartedly and hurried past him before he could ask questions she didn’t feel like answering.

  The one person she did want to talk to was her mother, but she wasn’t in any of her usual places, on the phone or reading in the kitchen or her bedroom.

  She flung open her door without looking up and kicked off her sneakers. She was rummaging through her dresser drawers for an oversize nightshirt when she noticed something move in the mirror above her head. Yelping when the drawer accidentally closed on her thumbs, she grabbed a hairbrush in self-defense and spun around.

  “Mom?” Maggie asked, confused. She might’ve scolded her mother for the invasion of privacy, but she looked so small lying on Maggie’s bed, cradling a stuffed moose with her eyes closed.

  Maggie let the hairbrush fall to her side and forgot the throbbing in her thumbs.

  Her mother was curled up on one side, the stuffed moose in her arms and Maggie’s purple comforter draped loosely across her legs. She wore jeans and a white sweater, her long, dark brown hair up in a messy ponytail, a usual postwork ensemble. But her face looked darker, sadder, and Maggie realized her mother wasn’t wearing her signature red lipstick, the same kind she applied before kissing napkins for Summer’s lunchboxes or notes left on the kitchen counter. The lipstick she wore because “You never know who you’re going to meet!”

  “Mom?” Maggie asked again.

  Finally her mother’s eyes snapped open. Seeing Maggie standing beside her, she sat straight up and threw the comforter off of her legs.

  “Sweetie, hi, how was the meeting?” She tightened her ponytail and straightened her sweater as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened.