The Melting of Maggie Bean

by Tricia Rayburn

  She sighed and watched the beige bra drop to the floor.

  She was naked except for her underwear and debated stepping onto the scale with them on (because how much could boring, frill-free cotton possibly weigh?), before deciding it was no time to take chances.

  She hooked her thumbs on the waistband of her boring beige cotton briefs (as in grandma-style, not bikini, hip hugger, low rider, or, heaven forbid, thong) and gently tugged them over her stomach and thighs. She briefly wondered if the lingerie gods smiled down at her for at least wearing a matching set, but then decided that the cotton lumps probably didn’t even qualify as lingerie. They were undergarments. “Panties” was too delicate a term. Even “underwear” seemed too risqué. “Undergarments” was just about boring enough.

  So, there she was, naked—in her birthday suit, without anyone giving her presents or feeding her cake to make the experience worthwhile. Naked, in her bedroom on a random Tuesday night. She looked down and just barely saw her toenails peeking out from the shadow of her stomach.

  Her heart pounded so loudly that she was sure her dad heard it over Alex Trebek and Jeopardy!, and her palms were so moist that she had to keep patting them on her bedspread. She brushed her hair away from her face, closed her eyes, and slowly stepped one foot onto the scale, then the other, wincing when the metal gave slightly. She inhaled for five one-one thousands, and exhaled for ten. When it seemed her lungs might turn inside out, she finally opened her eyes.

  And almost fell off the scale.

  186.

  She peered over her belly, squinted to make sure she read the numbers correctly. She leaned to one side, then the other. Tilted forward, then backward. The skinny black dial quivered but stuck to its initial estimate.

  Her heart booming in her ears, she backed off and away from the scale until she felt the cool doorknob against her bare skin.

  Maggie inched back toward the metal box and hoped that when she looked down again the scale would read twenty or thirty, instead of zero. Such an inaccuracy was the only way her reading was possible. When her toes were an inch away from the scale’s edge, she held her breath and leaned over.

  Zero. The skinny black dial couldn’t have been more exact.

  She was already up 5 pounds from her school physical the month before and now only 4 pounds from 190, and 14 pounds from the unthinkable 200. Two hundred! Had she really eaten that many Snickers in one month?

  As her head began to spin and her knees tremble, she shoved the scale under her bed. She bent over, snatched her clothes from the floor, and tugged on her underwear and sweatpants. She shrugged one arm into her sweatshirt and frantically reached behind her for the other sleeve. She twisted and turned, unable to grab the material. She spun in a circle and craned her neck over her shoulder to see where exactly the sleeve was.

  What she saw instead stopped her midspin.

  Maggie hated mirrors. She avoided them at all costs, just as she did windows, clean appliances, shiny floors, and anything else in which she might catch her reflection. She hadn’t really seen herself in months. But now she stood, completely paralyzed by her reflection in the dresser mirror.

  There were the rolls around her middle, the anticipated zigzagging of boob and belly stretch marks, and the way everything jiggled when she moved even the slightest bit. These were the typical overweight symptoms that could be found in any doctor’s office or encyclopedia. But the worst part, the thing that made her heart drop to her knees, was her face.

  Her flushed cheeks were like mini water balloons, ready to burst. Her dark eyes were squinty, as though the sun shone directly from the bedroom ceiling. And at last check, she’d had only one chin; now another half crept toward her neck.

  If this was what people saw when they looked at her, then they had no idea who she was. She was an excellent student. A good daughter and sister. A loyal friend. (And she’d be the best girlfriend ever once Peter Applewood came around.) She loved books, movies, and talking on the phone. She wanted to go to college and find an enjoyable yet high-paying job. She wanted to get married, own a home, and have three happy, healthy children. She was a regular kid with regular-kid hopes and goals.

  But she was still smart enough to know that no one her age looked at her and saw themselves.

  She forced her arm into the other sweatshirt sleeve, jumped into bed, and reached for the Butterfingers under the mattress. When she grabbed a handful and flopped back, her head hit the pillow like it was made of wood and not feathers.

  She dropped the candy and pulled the photo album out from under her pillow. She kept it there for when her mother realized its absence, but it remained unclaimed. She leaned against the wall and slowly flipped through the pages. When she came upon her school picture from the year before, she gently pulled it from its plastic slot and closed the album.

  Just twelve months before, she’d looked like someone else—someone with actual cheekbones, dimples, and wide eyes. What happened?

  She rested the picture against her nightstand lamp, brushed the Butterfingers from her bed, and pulled the covers over her head.

  One hundred eighty-six unrecognizable pounds. The truth was hard to swallow.

  14.

  “Water stick?”

  Maggie stopped braiding the frayed strings on the knee of her jeans and sat up straight.

  “They can hide it under peanut butter, cottage cheese, or a gallon of mint chocolate chip. It’ll still just be water in disguise.”

  Maggie shifted in the metal folding chair, crossed one ankle over the other, and cleared her throat, careful not to distract the Pound Patrollers gathered in the middle of the room. By all counts, it was her turn to speak. She was still behind from last week, since they hadn’t talked again after Arnie had joined the circle.

  “Chocolate chip cookie dough.” It was the first thing that came to mind. She closed her eyes and shook her head. Those unaware of her academic record would find it hard to believe.

  She tried again.

  “On the celery, I mean. That’s what it would take, for me.”

  Arnie’s eyes widened and he nodded in approval. “Good one.”

  Maggie forced her eyes to meet his. She tried to smile, but it was next to impossible as she fought the urge to crawl under her chair, run to the car, or hide behind one of the other Pound Patrollers. They might’ve been there for similar reasons, but even though she had no idea who he was, where he was from, or if she’d ever see him outside of the meetings, she was still uncomfortable that someone her age knew how she spent her Wednesday nights.

  “Hey, I think we’re onto something. Mothers across America want their kids to eat vegetables without whining, right? We could so market this! Instead of Ben and Jerry’s and tie-dyed T-shirts, we could be Arnie and—”

  “Maggie.” At this rate, she could kiss her secret identity good-bye.

  “Maggie.” He smiled. “Arnie and Maggie, right, and we could wear, I don’t know, togas or something.”

  She laughed. “Togas?”

  “Piggy bank’s depleted at the moment and togas we can make out of Mom’s linen closet.”

  “What about ice cream fixings? And vegetables?”

  “Believe me, our kitchen’s stocked. We’ll cut Mom in somehow, make her director of freezing or head mixer or something.”

  “Oh, Mag Pie!” Aunt Violetta sang across the room and waved. “There’s a seat right here, next to me!”

  Maggie sighed.

  “Your mom?”

  “Worse. Aunt. So I can’t totally ignore her now and count on forgiveness later.”

  Maggie waved back and shook her head.

  “It’s not so bad up there. They’re pretty funny, actually.”

  She shrugged. “Just not my thing.”

  “Mine either. Which is why I convinced my parents to let me come to this location, forty-five minutes away from my town and anyone I could possibly know.”

  “Maggie, sweetie, c’mon! How’ll you know what I’m sayi
ng about you if you don’t get over here?” Aunt Violetta winked.

  “She’s pretty cool, your aunt. Very nice.” Arnie waved back as though he and Aunt Violetta were old friends.

  “Yes, so nice that she’s even volunteered to assist with the lookout of my own good.”

  “Ah, your own good.” Arnie sighed and nodded. “Similar, I’m sure, to my best interest, which is supposedly what my mother has in mind.”

  He stood up, shook one leg and then the other until his cargo pants fell into place, tugged at the hem of his sweat-shirt, and shoved his hands in his pockets.

  “You joining the circle of truth this week?” he asked, peering down at her from underneath his red knit cap. “If you get bored, you can always help crack the mysterious case of the petty pizza thief,” he offered, as though she might jump at the chance.

  “The what?”

  He leaned toward her and lowered his voice. “I know someone chows down next door before meetings. That circle’s small and garlic’s potent!”

  “Okay, folks, let’s get started, shall we?” Electra practically shouted over the excited din of Pound Patrollers.

  “We’ll swap notes, Sherlock!” Arnie called over his shoulder as he shuffled toward the circle, hands still deep in his sweatshirt pockets.

  “So, who’d like to tell the group about this week’s goal achievement?” Electra asked as everyone quieted and took to their metal folding chairs.

  Samuel the Krispy Kreme addict waved his hand furiously.

  “Yes, Samuel, thank you for starting us off,” Electra said, taking her own seat and removing the pencil from behind her ear.

  “Well,” Samuel began, looking around at all the ladies to make sure he had everyone’s attention, “as discussed last week, I had managed to eliminate one thousand five hundred extra calories a day by limiting my intake of those irresistibly scrumptious, fried, glazed, circular concoctions.” Samuel licked his lips and winked at the woman sitting next to him.

  As he paused and turned his eyes skyward for dramatic emphasis, the ladies nodded intently, seemingly captivated by the simple recap.

  By the snack table in the back of the room, Maggie picked at her fingernails and pretended not to listen. She knew no one paid attention, but she rested her elbows on her knees and tilted her head toward the circle casually, just in case someone happened to notice her attempt to hear better.

  “Well,” he exhaled, “the plan was to kick off a new schedule of Krispy Kreme Mondays and Fridays, so that only two days out of the entire seven day week would involve the tremendous treats, making the other five days particularly trying to get through.”

  The women eagerly nodded and leaned in closer.

  “But”—Samuel paused again, briefly closed his eyes—“there was a change of plans.”

  Maggie looked up as the room erupted in gasps, raised eyebrows, and head shaking. Aunt Violetta even brought one hand up to her chest, as though the news was simply too much to bear.

  Samuel held up his palms till the group once again grew silent.

  “I have to admit, I didn’t think I could do it. I thought about it and thought about it, struggled with my goal, and honestly just didn’t think I was strong enough to give in to such temptation twice a week and not be tortured every other day. I feared falling off the bakery wagon!”

  More head shaking and a handful of gasps. Maggie rolled her eyes. They were just donuts, for heavens’ sake. What was the big deal? But she leaned even closer to the group, anyway.

  “So yes, the plan changed. And instead”—he paused again, causing anxious titters throughout the room—“I went the entire week without one single bite of Krispy Kreme wonder!”

  The group exploded in applause, hugs, and high fives, as though they all had something to do with his accomplishment.

  “Another amazing week, Samuel. Whew!” Electra exclaimed, tapping on her clipboard to regain the group’s attention. “You went above and beyond there, saving yourself another three thousand calories for the week! Marvelous, just marvelous!”

  As Electra made notes, Samuel announced the following week’s goal of cutting back on the chocolate chip pancakes he’d been eating to wean himself off the Krispy Kremes.

  “Who’s next? Arnold? Care to share?”

  “No problemo.” Arnie shifted in his seat. “Well, my goal for this week was to look for any problematic patterns in my eating habits by keeping a food diary.”

  “And how’d that go?” Electra asked. “Did you notice anything?”

  “Did I ever!”

  The group chuckled as Arnie whipped a folded packet of notebook paper from the side pocket of his cargo pants.

  In the back of the room, Maggie practically fell out of her chair. He was going to actually share what he ate? What business was it of theirs? The only person who knew what she consumed on any given day was herself, and even she wasn’t always certain.

  “I took notes day and night, and don’t think I’ve ever written so much in my entire life.” Arnie held the wrinkled papers to his leg and smoothed them with one hand. “Okay!” He raised the papers in front of his face. “Day one. Breakfast with the parental units. Scrambled eggs, oatmeal, OJ. Lunch with Jackson and Drew. Turkey and mustard on whole wheat, low fat milk. Dinner with Rosalie—”

  “Rosalie?” Samuel interrupted with a grin. “Might someone have a little girlfriend?”

  Maggie silently thanked Samuel for his nosy teasing. If Arnie had a girlfriend, they had much less in common than she’d originally predicted.

  “No, someone might have a little housekeeper.” Arnie’s cheeks turned pink as he cleared his throat again. “Dinner. Baked halibut, steamed asparagus, brown rice.”

  “That sounds wonderful,” Aunt Violetta encouraged.

  “Very health,” the lady with the silver braid seconded.

  “Doesn’t it?” Arnie agreed. “Except that squeezed in the margins and above and under each meal”—he squinted and held the papers so close to his face that they touched his nose—“are the snacks. Walk to school: two blueberry muffins. Study hall vending machine break: potato chips and Pop-Tarts. Walk home: pint of pork fried rice and an egg roll.” Arnie lowered the papers, looked to Electra, and sighed in defeat. “I think I need a bodyguard.”

  Electra smiled sympathetically. “It’s a wonderful realization, Arnold.” She made a note on her clipboard and addressed the rest of the group. “Invisible eating. Something we’ve all indulged in at one point or another. Arnie noticed that he eats normally throughout the day, even low-fat, nutritious foods for regular meals—regular meals eaten with other people, friends, family. But it’s when he’s alone that the problems start. Sweets and fattening treats he knows he really doesn’t need that other people might disapprove of.”

  Maggie pictured the Snickers and Milky Ways waiting for her underneath her mattress, the same image she’d already indulged in three times since arriving at the meeting.

  The group nodded knowingly, understanding. They’d all been there.

  “Great progress, Arnold,” Electra praised. “Have you thought about what this week’s goal might be, knowing now what you do about your habits?”

  “To keep myself surrounded twenty four/seven?”

  The group chuckled.

  “No, seriously, I’ll just be more aware. Take different routes to and from school, bring healthy snacks with me, so that next week my entire food log can fit on one piece of paper.” Arnie refolded the packet of papers and shoved his hands back into his sweatshirt pockets.

  “Fabulous place to start. Thank you for sharing. Good luck.”

  The meeting continued as each group member recounted the goal for the week, whether they’d met it, and what they planned to try for the following week. But Maggie stopped paying attention after Arnie’s story. She thought instead of the bowl of cereal and banana she’d had for breakfast that morning, the grilled chicken salad with low-fat dressing she’d eaten at lunch, the turkey burger with a side of b
roccoli for dinner, and the scoop of chocolate frozen yogurt for dessert. Breakfast with her sister, lunch with Aimee, dinner with her family.

  And then she thought of the Doritos she’d eaten after school, while watching General Hospital and before anyone else had come home. She’d eaten without thinking until her fingers glowed bright orange and her teeth were coated in a thin film of fake, powdery cheese, until her mother’s Toyota had pulled in the driveway and Maggie had dashed to the kitchen, folding the top of the bag over only once so that it didn’t appear as empty as it really was. She thought of the two chocolate cupcakes she’d hidden in her backpack “for later,” as she’d put the Doritos back in the cupboard, and of her secret candy stash in her room. While the people who paid attention might have a clue as to what she was up to (her mom did do inventory for grocery shopping, after all), she made sure that no one ever actually saw.

  Because if no one else saw, then maybe it didn’t really happen? Was that what she thought?

  After the last Pound Patroller update, Maggie waited through the concluding group song, hugs, air kisses, high fives, and the slow journey toward the apple slices and celery sticks. She moved away from the table but stayed nearby, pretending to be in search of something very important inside her purse (the contents of which consisted of her wallet, bubble gum, and strawberry lip balm), so that she didn’t have to meet anyone’s eyes or make conversation. She waited and rummaged until she was fairly certain all of the members had made it to the back of the room, and then she finally looked up.

  Because while she wouldn’t have any detective notes to swap, she was pretty sure she and Arnie could find lots to talk about.

  She saw Aunt Violetta, Electra, Samuel, the woman with the silvery braid, and the rest of the members of varying shapes and sizes, holding their miniature cups of water and standing together, talking and laughing. They were all there, present and accounted for, except one.

  Maggie looked quickly to the exit, saw the heavy glass door swinging slowly shut. She hurried over and peered through the darkened glass, and just barely saw the back of Arnie’s head duck into a shiny silver SUV that sped away, as though its distance from Pound Patrollers couldn’t widen quickly enough.