The Melting of Maggie Bean

by Tricia Rayburn

  Despite her annoyance, Maggie couldn’t help but envy the way Summer jogged in place and waved her arms over her head. Richard Simmons said that if she could hold a conversation while exercising, she was working at a good pace, and while there was never anyone to converse with, she practiced by answering Richard whenever he asked a question. If he asked if she felt the burn, the best she could muster was “uh-huh,” even though she thought, Yes, like a midsummer lightning storm!

  Her sister could’ve talked about the burn, how she didn’t feel it, and the contents of her Texan pen pal’s latest letter.

  As her sister bounced around the room, Maggie halfheartedly reached for her laptop. She clicked on the Master Multitasker and the “Water Wings” tab.

  177.

  She sighed. It hadn’t been updated in two days. Despite hardly eating and doubling her workouts, she hadn’t lost a single pound since.

  Summer came to an abrupt stop and flopped next to Maggie. “That is fun. Is it for school? A gym project or something?” She spoke clearly, her breathing normal.

  Maggie tried to smile. “Or something.” Her heart still throbbed in her chest and perspiration rolled down her cheeks.

  “Okay, well, Mom said five minutes till dinner.”

  Maggie waited until the door clicked shut before standing and tossing the pillow back on the bed. Were nine lost pounds really not that noticeable? She knew not to expect great observational skills from a ten-year-old, but did Summer really think she sweat like a pig for fun?

  “Sweetie, Aimee’s on the phone again,” her mother called. “She said it’s important.”

  Maggie cracked the door just enough to take the phone from her mother.

  “I said I’d call you back.” She didn’t mean to sound so huffy. It wasn’t Aimee’s fault she hadn’t lost another pound. But weren’t best friends supposed to have magical mood sensors that detected, among other things, the difference between good and bad talk times?

  “Sorry, I know you can’t really talk—”

  Oh.

  “—but I couldn’t wait and you haven’t been so quick to call me back lately.”

  Ignoring the phone neglect jab (mostly because it was true), Maggie sat on the bed. “No problem. What’s up?”

  “Well, after volleyball today a few girls and I went to Krispy Kreme.”

  “Uh-huh,” Maggie said patiently. Aimee didn’t know about Pound Patrollers or Maggie’s diet. She didn’t know not to inspire thoughts of frosted donuts.

  “And when we walk in, Julia Swanson’s sitting at a table by herself. By the time we get our food and sit down, she’s still alone. As in, Anabel’s missing.”

  “Missing?”

  “Well, not there. You know bathroom breaks don’t even split those two. Anyway, I’m getting very curious when in walks Peter.”

  Maggie was just about to reach for her laptop when her stomach lurched. “Peter Applewood?”

  “So, I’m waiting for the rest of the baseball team to follow,” Aimee continued without answering, because they both knew no other Peter was worth discussing, “but he’s totally alone. And then”—she paused dramatically—“he sits across from Julia, like, in the same booth.”

  As Aimee paused to let the news sink in, Maggie’s head swirled with explanations. “Maybe they were studying? Or working on a project? I heard the Spanish class has to do major presentations, so maybe they’re both—”

  “No books. They just sat and talked.”

  “Oh.” Looking down and noticing her belly sticking out of her shorts, Maggie covered it with a nearby sweatshirt. “Do you know what they said?”

  “No, but they seemed pretty serious.”

  Pretty serious? What could Peter possibly be discussing seriously with Julia Swanson?

  “Anyway,” Aimee continued when Maggie didn’t immediately respond, “I know you have to go and I have to go pretend to read Macbeth in front of Mom, but I just wanted to give you the scoop.”

  “Okay,” Maggie said, picking at small hole in the sweatshirt on her lap.

  “Call me later?”

  “Okay,” Maggie said again. If Aimee had been reporting on someone else, someone she didn’t fall asleep thinking about at night, this news would’ve prompted a barrage of questions. How long did they stay? Did they share a glazed donut? Did they lean toward each other while talking? Was there any touching above (hands) or below (feet) the table? Did they seem together, or just hanging out? But because it was Peter, she could only think of one. “Aim? Do you think he likes her?”

  “I don’t know, Mags,” Aimee said quietly. Then, more assured, “But I don’t see how he could. She’s really not very nice. So, no, there’s no way. But if he does, it’s totally time to move on.”

  Right. There was no way Peter could like Julia because she wasn’t very nice. The truth was she wasn’t very nice to Maggie. Maybe she was actually a saint who cared for her ailing grandmother and rescued cats from the animal shelter.

  Probably not, but why else would Peter sit in her Krispy Kreme booth?

  “Well, thanks for the scoop.” She pushed the pillow to the floor, stood, and pulled the scale from underneath her bed. “Enjoy Macbeth. I’ll call you later.”

  She’d weighed herself that morning, but had only eaten a garden salad and handful of pretzels since. Surely she’d burned those calories throughout the day, plus at least five hundred more doing Richard Simmons. Suddenly desperate for reassurance, she pulled the scale out from under the bed and tugged off her shorts. After making sure the needle was set exactly at zero, she stepped on gently and looked straight ahead while the dial jumped.

  177. No change.

  Throwing a T-shirt over her head before she could catch her reflection in the mirror above her dresser, she lay back on her bed and crossed her arms over her face. Maybe the whole thing really was just one big joke. Because who was she kidding? No matter how much-weight she lost, she’d probably never be as thin as Julia or any other girl boys liked. And Water Wings tryouts were less than a week away, she’d just begun practicing at Mud Puddle Lake, and Richard Simmons wasn’t going to make one bit of difference now, no matter how many leg lifts he cheered her through. It was too late. She’d dug herself into too deep a hole. Maybe Aimee could convince her again next year. Maybe 365 more days might be enough time.

  And if that was the case, day 366 was far enough away that she could delay her transformation by ten more minutes.

  Before her brain could talk sense into her body, Maggie hopped off the bed and dropped to her knees. What harm could one little piece do? And what difference would it really make, anyway? She was tired, her entire body ached, and even though the pounds were coming off, she’d never lose forty more pounds before tryouts, if ever.

  Her heart pounded in nervous anticipation instead of physical exertion, and she lowered her head till her chin touched the floor and she could peer through the darkness under the mattress. She reached with both hands and sifted through abandoned socks and crumpled notebook paper, longing for the familiar, reassuring sensation of candy foil against her skin. She shimmied on her knees up and down the length of her bed, but she’d been frustratingly thorough in her chocolate cleansing. She sat up and crossed her arms over her stomach. Had she been able to think of anything other than the task at hand, she might’ve noticed that her crossed arms lay slightly lower, because her stomach was slightly flatter.

  She jumped up and dashed to her closet. She pulled pants off of hangers, rifled through their pockets. Dragged old purses down from the top shelf and turned them inside out. Sweaters, boxes, bags—anything with compartments, slots, or openings—she pulled apart and rummaged through until she stood knee-deep in a mountain of closet debris, her chest swelling and dropping and her heart drumming in her ears.

  She sank to her knees and her eyes brimmed with tears.

  Tears that might’ve overflowed onto her sticky cheeks, if not for a small piece of shiny silver across the room.

  Her br
eath caught in her throat as she crawled out of the pile and across the floor toward the nightstand. She thought she might cry as she grabbed the miniature Hershey bar, held it to her nose, and inhaled the sweet scent through the wrapper. It had been almost two weeks, a stretch longer than any she’d known in more than six months. She didn’t know how she’d missed this one piece, but she’d never been so grateful for such an oversight.

  Her fingers trembled as she tore open the foil and tossed it to the floor. The smooth chocolate grew slippery under her skin and she closed her eyes and brought it to her lips before it could melt completely.

  “Sweetie, aren’t you eating?” her mother called through the door.

  Maggie’s eyes snapped open and saw the clothes and bags littering her floor as though some random intruder had made the mess, and the blue screen of the forgotten television.

  She shook her head, cleared her throat.

  What had she almost done?

  “Not hungry, Mom.”

  She waited until her mother’s footsteps retreated back down the hallway before standing up, rewrapping the uneaten chocolate bar, and throwing it into the trash basket underneath her desk.

  She took off her T-shirt, wiped her fingers on the damp cotton, and tossed it on the floor. She redid her ponytail and tightened her shoelaces.

  Stood with her hands on her hips and breathed deeply .Waited thirty more seconds and pressed Play.

  23.

  “Okay, gum poppers!” Ms. Pinkerton bellowed into her megaphone. “As your runny mascara and frizzy hair have probably indicated, it’s raining outside.”

  Maggie breathed a sigh of relief from her seated position in the top of the bleachers. Bad weather usually meant relaxing games of Horse around the indoor basketball hoops.

  “Yes, Ms. Snodgrass?” Ms. Pinkerton bellowed.

  Genevieve stopped waving her hand in the air, covered her ears, and winced.

  “Ms. Pinkerton, I’m right in front of you.”

  “So?” the megaphone screeched once.

  Genevieve rolled her eyes and kept her palms close to the sides of her head, in case of another sudden outburst. “What about our championship softball tournament?”

  Maggie shook her head. Her first thought upon looking out the window that morning was that the scheduled game, the last of their entire softball unit, would be canceled.

  “Rest assured, Ms. Snodgrass, the worst hurricane has yet to wash away these playing fields.” She lowered the megaphone to her side, and raised it again. “Unfortunately.”

  “So we’ll reschedule?”

  “Yes, Ms. Snodgrass.” Ms. Pinkerton cleared her throat before tilting the megaphone higher to better address the entire class. “Balls are in the closet, laps are around the perimeter of the room. Stay out of one another’s and, more importantly, my way.” She snapped off the megaphone, did an about-face, and ducked into her office.

  “Glad to see the rain hasn’t affected her mood,” Aimee joked.

  They stood up and began the slow descent down the bleachers. Following the majority of girls across the gymnasium floor to the equipment closet, they retrieved two basketballs and slowly dribbled their way to the sagging hoop.

  “So, how’s training?” Maggie asked, hoping her voice didn’t betray her nervousness. She’d been so busy with her own training that they hadn’t seen much of each other recently. And whenever they had talked, Maggie usually tried to steer conversation away from tryouts. But it hadn’t been mentioned in so long, she feared Aimee would think she’d forgotten, or else was too preoccupied to care.

  Aimee nodded and passed her basketball from one hand to the other. “Not bad. I feel like Flipper, but I think it’s really paying off. My time’s down, the routines are memorized. Now it’s just a matter of remembering to smile!”

  Maggie glanced around to make sure they were distanced enough from the rest of the group. “Just think of how good it’ll feel to show Anabel and Julia. That’d leave me smiling for days.”

  Aimee looked up and frowned slightly. “Show them what?”

  “That you’re good enough.“ Maggie bounced the ball, focused on keeping her voice level. “That you can do anything they can do.”

  “I already know that.” Aimee shrugged. “That’s not why I’m trying out.”

  “Right, of course not.” Maggie shook her head to dismiss such a silly thought. In her pursuit of proving something, she’d forgotten every other Water Wings hopeful tried out for the same reasons: to make friends, swim every day, and just have fun.

  They stopped walking and stood to the right of the basketball hoop.

  “So, how’re things with you?” Aimee bounced her ball to Maggie as Maggie bounced hers back.

  “Fine.” Maggie dropped her basketball and then Aimee’s as it returned. Aimee’s voice was too casual. She obviously-wanted to know much more than just how “things” were—like why Maggie had fallen off the planet, for starters.

  But now was not the time for explanations, so Maggie scrambled after the balls instead of elaborating. She purposely tapped one with the toe of her sneaker, sending it skittering across the floor and buying more time.

  “Do you mind?”

  Maggie glanced up to see Julia standing in the middle of the court with one hand on her hip.

  Maggie stopped one ball with her fingertips and dropped to her knees to grab the other before it rolled out of reach.

  “We’re sort of in the middle of a game.” Julia raised her eyes to the sagging hoop, under which Maggie now crouched, and back to Maggie without moving a muscle.

  “Sorry.” She felt her face burn as she brought both balls to her chest and awkwardly regained her footing.

  Aimee jogged over, took a ball from Maggie’s arms, and walked with her off the court.

  “So, how are classes?” Maggie continued their conversation as though nothing had happened. “Are your parents—”

  Maggie’s voice broke and the ball fell to the floor as something hard and swift knocked into her shoulder.

  “Oops!” Julia giggled. “So sorry, Maggie! It slipped right outta my hands!”

  As Aimee spun around to glare at Maggie’s antagonist, Maggie rubbed her shoulder and hurried after the ball. It rolled without slowing down right toward Ms. Pinkerton’s office, so she broke into a jog, leaned over, and reached as far as her arms would allow. The last thing she needed was an impromptu reprimand for not keeping the ball on the court. She imagined Ms. Pinkerton bursting through her office door, raising the megaphone, and announcing Maggie’s latest klutzy performance loud enough for the entire school to hear. After which, with her luck, the year book photographer would show up to timelessly capture her ball chase and later add the caption Maggie Bean: so close, yet so far.

  The ball didn’t stop until it bounced up against Ms. Pinkerton’s door, opened it slightly, and hopped into the office.

  Maggie skidded to a stop just outside the office door and moved quickly against the wall to avoid being seen. She held her breath, her heart threatening to shatter from the sudden exertion, and waited for the orange ball to come hurtling through the doorway.

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw Aimee talking to Julia and wished she could hear what was being said. Aimee could instill fear in anyone just by talking quietly and keeping a straight face. She was always so cheerful that on the rare occasion she wasn’t, everyone knew something had to be very wrong. And even despite Maggie’s recent disappearing act, Aimee still stood in her defense, arms crossed and shaking her head as Julia feverishly talked and gestured.

  Her back flat against the wall, Maggie shuffled closer until she could peek into the office. Spotting a gray filing cabinet, she wondered if Ms. Pinkerton kept extensive notes on their performances. Her gym grade was always the lowest on her report card, though the consistent B was certainly better than what she felt she deserved. Fortunately every gym teacher she’d ever had had given major points for effort, but it was Ms. Pinkerton’s first semester and r
eport cards weren’t due for another two months. Who knew what she could do to Maggie’s GPA?

  Noting that the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet stuck out, Maggie kept her back and palms against the wall and shuffled even closer, craning her neck when the contents of the drawer came into view. She tilted so far forward one foot raised off the ground.

  There were no files, manuals, or extra megaphone batteries. No first aid kits, whistles, or ice packs. Nothing that she suspected might come standard in any gym teacher’s office. Inside the bottom drawer of Ms. Pinkerton’s filing cabinet were five snack bags of Cheetos, two packs of Ring Dings, four envelopes of hot chocolate, one big bag of Twizzlers, and three packets of Otis Spunkmeyer cookies.

  “Can I help you, Ms. Bean?”

  Maggie barely heard Ms. Pinkerton but managed to quickly stand up straight in the doorway. As she did, she noticed the unoccupied megaphone handle sticking over the side of the desk.

  “No, I was just, that is, the ball rolled—”

  She stopped. She’d glanced up to meet Ms. Pinkerton’s eyes, but had become instantly distracted by the white powder framing her lips and dotting her chin. She watched as Ms. Pinkerton quickly brushed a stack of crumbs off her desk and into the palm of her hand and shifted a pile of papers over the Hostess donut box. Her mouth fell open as Ms. Pinkerton’s cheeks turned bright red and droplets of perspiration sprouted on her forehead.

  “Bean,” she said without looking up.

  Maggie shook her head. “Right, sorry.”

  Leaving the ball, Maggie gently closed Ms. Pinkerton’s office door and hurried across the gym.

  24.

  “Hey, what is this? Nap time?” Arnie playfully scolded.

  Maggie opened her eyes and held one hand to her face to block the sun’s glare.

  “Don’t you know tryouts are mere days away?”

  “I thought you were watching Oprah give away brand new houses to her entire studio audience,” she teased.

  Arnie crouched beside her feet.

  “Commercial break.” He lowered himself farmer till he was fully seated on the dock. “And by the way, Oprah’s people really need to start thinking about their male viewing population. I’m a pretty sensitive guy, and even I get tired of learning about the latest and greatest in feminine products.” He tossed a pebble into the water. “Which, by the way, doesn’t seem to be much.”