The Melting of Maggie Bean

by Tricia Rayburn

  She laughed and sat up from her full body stretch. “Kind of like peanut butter on celery sticks. You really can’t disguise it as anything better than it is.”

  “Anyway!” he exclaimed, clapping his hands together. “Only a few days to go. Are the butterflies fluttering?”

  She dangled her legs over the side of the dock as she thought about the state of her nerves. It was hard to tell if the recent, regular gnawing in her stomach was from butterflies or hunger.

  “Not yet, I don’t think. Practicing here has actually been surprisingly relaxing—like being on vacation, except for the whole arctic temperature thing.”

  “Do you have the routines memorized? Wanna do a run-through in front of your own live studio audience?” He sat up straight and folded his hands in his lap to demonstrate his attentiveness. “You don’t even have to give me anything.”

  “I will if you will.” She raised her eyebrows.

  He turned his head slightly. “Intriguing.” He resumed his slump forward and shoved his hands back into his sweatshirt pockets. “But I don’t know any of the moves. Sorry.”

  “No!” She laughed. “I’ll show you the routine if you play your flute for me.” She suggested this without thinking twice. He didn’t even like admitting that he owned such a “girly” instrument, so there was no way he’d voluntarily perform.

  “Sitting through an entire hour of feminine product updates is more appealing than that.”

  “Fine,” she said smugly.

  “But!” He jumped up, brushed dried leaves off his pants. “If we’re going to be future business partners, it’s important that we each know who we’re really dealing with, don’t you think?”

  Her mouth fell open as she watched him hurry down the dock, up the backyard, and across the deck to the house.

  “Please tell me that’s a portable lie detector test,” she said when he returned with a small black box. Any other way of getting to know each other had to be better than her offer. She’d love to hear him play, but only if her applause was enough of an exchange.

  He sat down next to her and gently placed the box on his lap. She hardly noticed, but Arnie was a big guy, and the case against his legs looked as small as the husband’s briefcase in Summer’s dollhouse.

  “The commercial break’s over, by the way. You see how important I find our future business.”

  She bit back the grin that teased her lips. She never thought of Arnie the way she thought about Peter Applewood, but she was still thrilled by his strictly platonic and potentially profit-driven interest.

  “It’s very pretty,” she offered after he’d gingerly unfastened the silver clasps and opened the case.

  He shot her a look. “This is a very serious instrument. Without it, the greatest musical masterpieces would never be heard. The fact that it’s shiny, silver, and pretty is completely irrelevant.”

  She rolled her eyes. “So play already, maestro.”

  Arnie cleared his throat, raised the flute, and inhaled deeply.

  Maggie’s eyes widened. He hadn’t been kidding. Five years of private lessons had taught him well, because the music that followed was clear, crisp, and flawless, even outside, where the greatest acoustics came from the pine tree branches overhead.

  She watched his fingers for a few minutes before leaning back on her elbows and closing her eyes. She momentarily forgot her original reason for wanting to come to Mud Puddle Lake and thought instead of how she grew more relaxed with each afternoon spent with Arnie. If nothing else came from Pound Patrollers besides their introduction, not another pound lost or smaller size worn, she might still forgive her father for signing her up.

  “So?”

  Her eyes snapped open.

  “No applause, pats on the back, roses at my feet?”

  She looked up as he put the flute back in its case.

  “I reached my grand finale two minutes ago and you’re over there, sleeping.”

  She laughed. “That was really, really good.” She sat up and playfully punched his shoulder. “You really can play the girly flute. I’m impressed!”

  He shrugged and reddened slightly. His fingers fumbled with the silver clasps.

  “Your turn!” he exclaimed in relief as he snapped the case shut.

  She covered her face with both hands and shook her head.

  “C’mon! I just busted out the thin lip for you!”

  She crossed her arms over her chest and racked her brain for some way to get out of it. Headache, sort throat, sudden case of the sniffles. Or, better still, cramps, to complement his commercial viewing. But she knew he would never seriously make her, and he would never be seriously annoyed if she chose not to, even despite his own performance.

  She uncovered her face. Looked at the lake, Arnie, and back at the lake. Inhaling deeply, she stood up, straightened her sweats, and wished it were somehow possible to swim fully clothed.

  “You know you don’t have to,” he offered, his voice suddenly serious.

  She met his eyes, which were more visible than usual underneath his red knit cap. She nodded, smiled slightly and wondered if he could see her heart pounding through her chest.

  “Could you just—” She motioned to his head. “I mean, until I’m like—” She gestured to the water.

  Without question or hesitation, he pulled on the red fabric of his hat until his eyes were completely covered and turned his head away from her.

  She took three deep breaths before unzipping and removing her sweatshirt, tugging off her sweatpants, and facing the lake in her skirted bathing suit.

  Facing the lake in her skirted bathing suit, two feet from a boy.

  She closed her eyes, pretended Arnie was an abandoned inner tube, pictured the routine, and, before her brain could get the best of her, jumped.

  25.

  Maggie cut off Richard Simmons’s farewell air kiss, muted the television, and patted her face, arms, and legs with a towel. She tugged off her damp shorts and sports bra, pulled on her bathrobe, and checked her appearance in the mirror to see if she could pass for having just finished a tough homework assignment and not forty-five minutes of cardio. Satisfied, she listened at her door to make sure the hallway was clear before throwing it open and dashing to the bathroom.

  She locked the door behind her, turned on the shower, and leaned against the counter, chest heaving. She’d stretched for ten minutes after completing the workout, but her heart still raced as though she were running in place. She closed her eyes and forced deep breaths. Ever since she’d upped her exercise time to three hours a day, her stamina had lessened considerably and she’d felt weaker instead of stronger. She knew she was pushing it, but felt she had no choice. Time was running out, and she was desperate.

  When her temples finally stopped throbbing, she slid the shower curtain open and shut without getting in so that no one questioned her bathroom activities, and dropped her robe to the floor.

  She pulled the scale away from the wall, quickly checking to make sure the dial held steady at zero. With only two days left before Water Wings, there was no time for mechanical errors. The morning reading had been disappointing, down only one pound since the day before to 170. To make up for it, she’d had only an orange at lunch and a piece of chicken at dinner, and had done Richard Simmons twice. She expected much improvement in the evening weigh-in.

  She kicked off her underwear, looked straight ahead, and gently stepped one foot, then the other onto the scale. She closed her eyes and willed whatever food particles remained in her body to fizzle into nothing. She crossed her fingers and toes, held her breath, opened one eye, and looked down.

  171.

  Her stomach jumped.

  She backed off the scale, moved the dial up, down, and back to zero. She ripped the ponytail elastic out of her hair, removed her small silver earrings, and laid them on the counter. Took a deep breath and stepped back on.

  171.

  How was she possibly up a pound? Drastic measures brought d
rastic results, and she’d assumed after eating only 500 calories the entire day and exercising for an extra 45 minutes, she’d at least be down to 169.

  Her stomach lurched again. She stepped off the scale and wrapped her robe around her shoulders.

  As the steam from the shower filled the room, Maggie closed her eyes and lowered herself to the bathtub’s edge. Her head swirled slowly as the throbbing returned to her temples. She’d vowed never to throw up as part of her weight loss efforts, but right then it was all she wanted to do. And not because she hadn’t met that day’s target, but because she thought it was the only thing that might make her head and stomach stop spinning. She leaned forward and rested her forehead on her knees.

  She must’ve sat like that for a while because—

  “Maggie, honey!”

  She opened her eyes.

  “Sweetie, are you okay? You’ve been in there a very long time.” Her mother’s voice was concerned as she knocked on the door.

  “Fine.” She cleared her throat. “I’m fine,” she said louder, lifting her head. She’d been resting on the tub’s edge so long she could barely see the bathroom door through the steam.

  Willing her body to hang in there a just little while longer, she slid off her robe, climbed into the shower, and rested her palms on the wet tiles as the water poured over her.

  Two more days. Just forty-eight short hours and it would all pay off.

  26.

  The day before tryouts, Maggie stood at the end of the dock on Mud Puddle Lake, her toes curling over its edge. It was her very last chance to practice, and she shook so much from the cold and nerves, the water below her rippled. She was thankful that Arnie had an afternoon band rehearsal so that she didn’t have to talk about how nervous she really was, or endure well-meaning pep talks that would only worsen the shaking.

  She looked straight ahead, avoiding her reflection without even thinking about it. Her stomach growled and she ignored the hollow feeling inside, the one she’d grown used to in the past week.

  She held her nose and jumped into the chilled autumn water before her goosebumps convinced her to throw her sweats back on and go home. She ran through the routine three times, focusing more each time on the fluidity of her movements and pretending that she was already a graceful, confident team member. She practiced until the sky turned gold, then gray, and her stomach felt like it was starting to gnaw away at itself.

  She hurried out of the water to her towel, shivering in the cold, sunless air. She was sure she resembled a Jell-O jiggler, she trembled so much, and was once again grateful to have the lake to herself.

  She patted her arms and legs as quickly as she could, leaned over and squeezed the extra water out of her hair. As she lifted her head back up, it began to spin and her legs gave slightly. She closed her eyes and stood still, waiting for the dizziness to pass. Red, blue, and green flashed behind her eyelids, and she clutched her churning stomach with two hands, willing it to stop moving.

  Before Maggie knew what was happening, before she could reach her hands in front of her to break her landing or lower herself to the ground, her knees shook once more before giving up, and she was only slightly aware that she was falling down.

  When she awoke, Maggie was so warm and comfortable she snuggled deeper into her comforter without opening her eyes. She rolled over and was still for a few minutes, enjoying the peace and quiet and the faint smell of cinnamon. The house was silent. She couldn’t even hear the dull murmur of the television through her door. The pain in her stomach reminded her that she was still hungry, so she instinctively and dazedly reached underneath her mattress, hoping her fingers would find Peanut M&M’s first.

  When she brought a fuzzy green sock to her mouth, her eyes popped open and she sat straight up.

  She was lying on a brown suede couch under a plaid flannel blanket. A fire burned in the stone fireplace across from where she sat. She’d gone to sleep and awakened in an L.L. Bean catalog. In the mirror above the fireplace she saw the reflection of a window, and when she turned around to look through the actual glass, she saw the dark outline of Mud Puddle Lake.

  What on earth was she doing in Arnie’s living room?

  She sprung from the couch and stood in the middle of the normally inviting room. There was firewood in a copper tray by the fireplace, a circular woven rug covering the worn hardwood floor, and fishing poles leaning against a coat rack by the front door. Everything was just as she’d come to know it, except for a brown corduroy jacket hanging from the coatrack.

  She wasn’t alone.

  Maggie closed her eyes and rapidly shook her head back and forth. Not convinced she wasn’t dreaming, she reached one hand to the top of her head and pulled a strand of hair out of her scalp. It hurt. She was definitely awake.

  She quietly folded the flannel blanket and laid it on the back of the couch. She was now alert enough to remember swimming after school and the awful sensation that had overtaken her as she dried off, and could only guess that she’d fainted.

  Being in Arnie’s living room should’ve been comforting, except that it was dark outside, he’d had afternoon band rehearsal, and the corduroy jacket hanging on the coat rack was definitely too small for him, so her pulse quickened and her palms grew moist.

  Because even if one of his parents or another relative had found her and dragged her to the house, the idea of anyone seeing her in such a state was just as terrifying as if she’d been kidnapped.

  She tiptoed over to a chair that held her sweatpants, sweatshirt, and towel, and quickly dressed before heading toward the front door. She had no idea what time it was (it could’ve been weeks since she’d gone swimming, for all she knew) or what had really happened, but she didn’t really want to know. As long as she made it out of the house, she’d make her jiggly legs move like lightning back home.

  “You’re awake, thank God!”

  Maggie stopped, one sweaty palm on the doorknob. Her heart pounded so hard that she was sure the smooth-as-glass lake had white caps by now. But it pounded not because she feared who stood behind her, but because she would’ve known that voice in a crowd of a thousand tenors, all singing the same song.

  Eyes closed, she turned slowly around, grateful for at least the small favor of time to put on her sweats.“Hi, Peter.”

  27.

  “So, cousins, huh?”

  “Our mothers are sisters.”

  “Lovely.”

  Maggie didn’t know which was worse: the fact that Arnie and Peter were related and that Peter might know about Pound Patrollers and anything else she’d opened her big mouth about, or that Peter was the one who’d found her and dragged her off the dock, up the yard, and into the house. She could only think about one or the other, because the combination was enough to send her diving back into the lake, forever.

  He handed her a cup of hot tea as he came into the living room from the kitchen and sat on the floor near the fire.

  “He didn’t mention it because he thought you’d appreciate your privacy.”

  “And he was right.”

  She sipped the tea, momentarily distracted by how nice it felt to have something warm in her stomach.

  “So.” She squinted in anticipation of what he’d say next. “Was I, like, lying on the dock?” She pictured newspaper photos of beached sea creatures, defenseless and blubbery on a crowded shore of onlookers.

  He tilted his head, and she silently begged him to stop trying to so accurately recall the scene.

  “You were sort of half on, half off.”

  She raised her eyebrows.

  “Your fingertips and hair were dangling fish bait in the water.” He looked at her and smiled shyly.

  She nodded and hid behind her hand. “I’m sure that was quite the sight.”

  “I was just relieved you weren’t dead, to be honest.”

  “At least that would’ve saved me from a fate far worse: death by embarrassment.”

  He laughed. She smiled into her cup, in s
pite of herself.

  “And how on earth did you get me up the hill and into your house?” Because beached sea creatures usually required lots of help, like dozens of strong arms to roll them across the sand and into the water, or the less time-consuming forklift.

  “You came around for a bit and were able to make the walk to the house, but you were pretty out of it. Once I led you to the couch, you were out like a light.”

  “How’d you find me? Did you just happen to look out the window when you heard the loud crash? Did you think a house had collapsed or something?”

  She couldn’t believe she was pursuing this conversation, but his smile relaxed her, and she somehow knew that he smiled not because he found the situation funny, but because he really was relieved that she was okay. That made it easier to joke.

  “I saw you practicing, actually.”

  Okay, easier, but not a piece of cake.

  “Oh.” Her voice was small. She quickly tried to recall any behavior potentially more embarrassing than her already blush-igniting aqua aerobics. She hoped her bathing suit had at least stayed put in all of the right places.

  Peter turned his head, grabbed an iron poker with one hand, and sifted the fire’s embers before turning back toward her. He seemed embarrassed.

  “It was an accident, I promise. I mean, Arnie had mentioned you guys were hanging out here in the afternoons, but since he had rehearsal today, I figured the place would be empty.”

  “Do you come here a lot?”

  He nodded. “Every day after school, since quitting the baseball team.”

  “You quit? But you’re the reason anyone goes to the games!” She quickly looked into her mug. Just when she thought she couldn’t possibly be more embarrassed.