She tried to imagine herself getting dressed up to go anywhere. The last time she’d come close was when her family had gone to dinner at Nora’s. She wouldn’t even know where to begin. And even if she managed to find something to wear that still fit, she’d then have to inevitably converse with strangers, and she hadn’t felt much like chatting with anyone in recent weeks, besides Arnie.
“You don’t even have to sit through the concert if you don’t want.” He said this softer, as though he didn’t really expect that she’d want to go to the concert—just like he didn’t expect his parents to go.
She looked up and saw that he looked down as he waited for her answer. How could she say no? Especially when he seemed to need her support in the same way she’d relied on his only weeks before?
“Will you play a solo and dedicate it to me?” she asked before she could change her mind.
His head snapped up.
“And provide vocal accompaniment?”
He grabbed a celery stick from the ice cream melting on the snack table and held it in one fist. “I’ll start right now, if you want.”
She paused, scratched her chin, and pretended to think about it. “It would be for the long-term good of our business, of course.”
“Of course.” He grinned.
She met his eyes and smiled. Wardrobe concerns and social shyness would have to wait.
“Arnie, I wouldn’t miss it.”
34.
“You’re here!” Aimee dropped the sneakers she’d just pulled from her gym locker.
Maggie shrugged out of her backpack. “I figured kickboxing was one unit I could really get something out of.” She unzipped the backpack and sifted through notebooks and papers.
“Are you okay? Have you been getting my messages?” Now that Maggie stood in front of her, evidence that she was indeed alive, Aimee’s initial excitement quickly faded.
Maggie knew her unexplained disappearance would require major damage control. Having to start somewhere, she triumphantly pulled a small box from her backpack and held it out to Aimee with a nervous smile.
“What’s this?”
“It’s to go with my belated congratulations and apology.”
“Mags, I would’ve been happy with a phone call.”
“I know.” She took a deep breath. “And I’m so sorry for disappearing. I sunk into a funk after tryouts, but that’s no excuse for not talking to you. I’ll call you three times a day from here on out to make up for it.”
“Well, thanks, but I totally—”
“And, ” Maggie continued with what she thought was the most important part of her apology, “congratulations on making the team. No one deserved it more, and I’m very happy for you.”
“There’s so much you don’t know about that,” Aimee said, lowering her voice as Anabel’s and Julia’s unmistakable giggles floated over from the next aisle. “But first, I’ve been dying to tell you about Peter and Julia. She was totally stalking him! He never liked her, and when I saw them at Krispy Kreme he was trying to tell her as nicely as possible so she didn’t totally freak like stalkers are known to—”
“Bean.”
Maggie turned around to see Ms. Pinkerton standing at the end of their aisle.
“My office. Now.” She spun on one heel and disappeared.
“Just open it really quick,” she encouraged Aimee, patting the present in her lap. While she was pleased to hear the truth about Peter and Julia, the news barely registered in her excitement of hearing Aimee sound like Aimee. At this point the possibility of their friendship returning to normal was more important than keeping Ms. Pinkerton at bay.
As Aimee sat on the bench and unwrapped the present, Maggie went through her mental checklist of things to do. Her conversation with Arnie had motivated her to slowly crawl out of the bottomless bag of candy in which she’d hidden, and she’d arrived at school that morning prepared to talk to her teachers, get all of her missed assignments, explain things to Aimee, and say hello to Peter Applewood at their lockers. If her destiny was to be an overweight bookworm, then so be it. At least she’d be an overweight bookworm with good grades and friends.
“Maggie, these are great.” Aimee held up the glittery purple swimming cap and matching goggles. “But that’s one of the things we have to talk about. I don’t know if I can use them.”
“Why not?” Maggie asked, her face falling. “Is it your parents? Your grades? Because I’ll go to your house right now and tell them I’m so officially your academic advisor—”
“Bean!” the megaphone blasted down the aisle.
“We’ll talk later,” Aimee assured with a small smile.
Maggie hugged her quickly before following Ms. Pinkerton.
“Sit.”
Maggie sat in Ms. Pinkerton’s office and peeked to her right to see if the filing cabinet of treats was open. It wasn’t. A quick glance at the desk between them showed that it had been cleaned since Maggie’s last visit.
“It’s nice of you to join us.”
Maggie nodded. “Sorry, I had some things to take care of.”
“Would these things involve the results of the Water Wings tryouts?”
“Yup.” There was no reason to deny it. A few weeks ago she would’ve stumbled over her words and worried about the best thing to say to keep Ms. Pinkerton happy, but not anymore.
“Have you talked to Ms. McDougall recently?”
Maggie met Ms. Pinkerton’s gaze. “Actually, not really. Why?”
“Because she approached me the day after the results were announced, claiming that she wanted to decline her acceptance.”
Maggie’s mouth dropped open. “But that’s crazy. She worked so hard. Why—”
“She overheard the Water Wings cocaptains discussing the results, and apparently Ms. Zimmerman’s shouldn’t have been the third name called.”
Maggie nodded, waiting for more.
“Yours should’ve been.”
Maggie’s mouth fell open again.
“Now,” Ms. Pinkerton brusquely continued, “teenage gossip interests me about as much as skinny dipping in February, but I decided to investigate, because there’s nothing I hate more than the rich getting richer while the poor get poorer.”
Maggie squinted. “Huh?”
“Ms. Bean.” Ms. Pinkerton leaned across her desk and lowered her voice. “Everyone had the potential to receive three votes. One from the girls’ regular swim coach, one from the guys’ swim coach, and one combined from the team cocaptains.”
Maggie’s stomach turned. Just thinking about tryouts made her nerves tremble.
“You were awarded two out of three of those votes.”
Maggie’s eyes widened.
“And the cocaptains went to extreme measures, mostly involving temper tantrums and parental involvement, to sway the others.” Ms. Pinkerton paused. “In a fair and just world, Bean, you’d be a Water Wing.”
Maggie flopped against the back of her chair.
“Here’s the deal.” Ms. Pinkerton leaned back and crossed her arms over her chest. “I’ve taken it up with the powers that be and you have two options—well, three, if you don’t find either of the first two appealing.”
Maggie shook her head to try to clear it. None of this had been on her list of things to make right that day.
“One, you can join Water Wings.”
Her heart raced in her chest and she crossed her arms over her stomach, which she now regretted letting grow since tryouts.
“Two, you can join the regular swim team.”
She brought one hand to her forehead. Was this really happening?
“Three, you can give the entire athletic department the well-deserved finger and go about your business.”
Maggie laughed and then quickly covered her mouth. She’d never seen anyone laugh in front of Ms. Pinkerton before.
“Personally, I’d be tempted by the third.” She shrugged and looked at Maggie. “But I understand what this must mean to you. A
nd I strongly recommend considering one of the other two.”
“Wow.” Maggie looked down and then back at Ms. Pinkerton. “Did Aimee definitely decline her acceptance?”
Ms. Pinkerton shook her head. “I encouraged her to stick with it, at least for now.”
Maggie nodded.
“Bean, there’s always going to be that person, or those people, who insist on making life difficult. But you can’t let them stop you.” She leaned across the desk toward Maggie. “You just can’t.”
35.
Maggie stood in front of her closet, hands on her hips. She’d put it off for days, but it was time to make a decision. No amount of well-intentioned support would matter if she showed up to Arnie’s concert in the blue bath towel currently tucked around her torso.
And it didn’t help that her closet was a disaster area worthy of yards of yellow caution tape. After wrecking her room in search of that forgotten piece of chocolate, she’d shoved her old purses, pants, and sweaters back into any available nooks and crannies and leaned all her weight against the closet door to shut it. She’d basically lived in the same pair of sweats since then and hadn’t surveyed the damage.
She sifted through the surviving blouses, skirts, and dresses and dismissed one after the next for being too bright, too dark, too old, too new, and, most frequently, too small. She’d thrown out her most recent candy stash after meeting with Ms. Pinkerton and had been careful about what she’d eaten since then, but still feared the consequences of her posttraumatic binge. Sighing, she pulled out a gray wool skirt and white sweater and laid them across her bed.
She stepped back to inspect. Definitely boring, but her mother had bought the outfit for her at one of her highest weights, so any appeal was enhanced by its fitting potential.
“Maggie!”
She grabbed her robe. “Yes?”
Her father opened the door and stepped one foot inside before realizing her half-naked state, ducking back out, and shutting the door behind him.
“Oops! Sorry about that! Just let me know when you’re done!”
She tied the robe around her waist, opened the door, and flopped on the bed.
“Hi.” He stood in the doorway and crossed and uncrossed his arms. He leaned to one side, then the other.
“What’s wrong?” She watched his nervousness.
“Wrong?” He shrugged, then shoved his hands in his pockets, took them out, and lowered them to his sides. “Nothing.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“Is that what you’re wearing tonight?” He took one step and leaned over to look at the outfit displayed behind her.
“Maybe.”
“It’s nice. You look nice in those colors.”
She turned her head to make sure the skirt and sweater were still gray and white, and then looked at him, puzzled.
“So”—he clapped his hands together—“your mother told me about the swim team. That’s great.”
“Dad, do you want to tell me something?” She’d decided the day after her conversation with Ms. Pinkerton to accept the second option of joining the regular swim team instead of Water Wings. She agreed the news was great, but it was also two weeks old and no reason for him to be nervous.
He nodded, took a batch of rolled-up papers from his back pocket, and handed them to her.
“What’s this?”
“Open it. Section C.”
Maggie unfolded the papers, wrinkly and worn from much use.
Her father sat gently on the bed next to her.
“See”—he pointed as he spoke—“the black circles are jobs I’ve applied to. The red checks are those I’ve heard from. The green exclamation points are those I will interview for or have interviewed for.” He squinted and pointed again. “And that brown dot is either coffee or mustard.”
“Are these—”
“From your spreadsheet, yes. I printed them out and have been adding on.”
“Wow.” She was impressed.
“And this”—he reached into the pocket of his shirt and pulled out a sheet of gold stars—“is for when I get offered a job.” He pulled out two more sheets. “Or jobs.” He smiled.
She nodded. The papers were so marked up she could hardly read them, but it was easy to see almost as many green exclamation points as black circles.
“Dad, this is great.” She nodded and smiled at him. “Really.”
He shrugged. “I just wanted to show you. Hopefully we’ll get some good news soon.”
She rolled up the papers and handed them back.
“I think we already did.”
He looked down and fiddled with the papers as though there was something more he wanted to say. He stood up, tucked the chair back underneath her desk, and headed toward the door.
She stood up and reached for her skirt and sweater.
“Maggie,” he added, turning back around. “I was just in a rut, you know? They’re hard to get out of sometimes.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “I know.” Because she did.
“I mean it. I know things haven’t been easy. I know I haven’t been easy.”
She held the skirt and sweater to her chest. She didn’t know what to say.
“I don’t know what to say.”
He looked up, surprised. “Nothing.” He shook his head. “You don’t have to say anything.” He took one step toward her, leaned forward, and patted her arm. “I just want you to know we’ll be okay.”
She looked down at the skirt and sweater she still clutched, then walked toward him without raising her eyes. When she felt his arms awkwardly wrap around her, she dropped her clothes and squeezed him tightly, without worrying for even a second that she might crush him. She hadn’t hugged someone like that in months.
After he’d left the room, Maggie checked her watch. She hadn’t budgeted in a surprise guest appearance and didn’t have time for mental replays, because she was now down to thirty-five minutes.
She took one last look at the outfit, untied her robe, and let it fall to her feet.
She closed her eyes, inhaled deeply and held her breath, just in case the skirt needed extra room to maneuver as she pulled it on. She put one leg through, then the other, grabbed the waistband with both hands and yanked up.
And almost fell on the bed.
She’d tugged as hard as she could so that the skirt could make it over her middle, but it had flown right up. She dropped the waistband. The skirt fell to her hips. Before the magical power disappeared, she threw on the sweater, turned to look in the mirror, and laughed. The white wool drooped around her.
She dashed to her closet and reached her arms as far back as they’d go. She pulled out the black velvet pants and blue cashmere sweater with the tags still on them that she’d received as Christmas gifts the year before. They hadn’t fit then or since, but she’d kept them in the back of her closet, just in case.
Her heart pounding, she pulled the sweater over her head. She smiled to herself when it brushed against but didn’t cling to her skin. She dropped to the bed, prepared to lie on her back and break her fingernails to get the pants on. She slid in one leg, then the other, her heart racing as the material slid up her calves. She stood up slightly to shimmy the pants over her thighs. They resisted only slightly before moving up and over her stomach and Maggie’s mouth dropped as her fingers pushed the silver button in place without any fancy acrobatics.
She looked down at her stomach. It wasn’t exactly flat, but it was definitely the closest thing to it she’d come in months. And her pink toenails were visible without her torso having to form a ninety-degree angle with her legs.
She had to look completely ridiculous. The outfit couldn’t really fit and look halfway decent. She debated leaving the house without checking, in hopes that what she didn’t know really couldn’t hurt her. But deciding it could still hurt Arnie, she crossed the room and stood in front of the mirror.
She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and thought of the swim team, Arnie, Aim
ee, Peter Applewood, and her father’s job pursuit—every good thing she could imagine. She tried to convince herself that it didn’t really matter what she saw when she opened her eyes.
And when she finally did open them, she almost fell on the bed again.
Because for the first time in as long as she could remember, Maggie looked in the mirror and liked what she saw.
36.
“I’ve gotta say, this is the best boring country club party I’ve ever been to.” Arnie raised a champagne glass in the air.
“I don’t know what you were whining about. This is my first boring country club party, and I already can’t wait for the next!” Maggie leaned over to clink his glass with hers.
“More Diet Sprite?” Peter asked, coming into the living room with a new bottle.
“Your parents really won’t worry when they realize you’re not there?” Aimee asked, flopping on the couch next to Maggie.
“They won’t realize, trust me.” Arnie held up one hand in oath. “Coming here was a brilliant idea.”
“Well,” Peter said, raising his glass, “here’s to a band concert unlike any before, and to a flute solo that rocked the house.”
“Was that what that was?”
“Did the stars in your eyes cloud the standing ovation?” Maggie teased. “Which, by the way, I was very prepared to initiate had the rest of the audience not beat me to it.”
Arnie winked at her from his seat near the fire.
“And here, also, to the best pitcher ever to return to the game,” Arnie said proudly, raising his glass toward Peter.
Maggie’s mouth fell open. “You’re back on the team?”
Peter shrugged, his face turning red. “I missed it. My parents aside, I realized I hated not being out on the field.”
“I know many girls who’ll be happy to hear that!” Aimee said.
“And to Madame DuMonde’s pop quiz queen and the newest Water Wing!” Maggie quickly interjected, before Aimee could say anything else that made Maggie blush even more. “Both very deserved accomplishments.” She smiled and tapped Aimee’s glass with her own.
“May you bring order and normalcy to the team,” Peter added.
The Melting of Maggie Bean Page 15