I stash the mirror back in the far corner of my desk drawer and go to my super-secret box under my bed where I keep my diary, every birthday card I’ve gotten since I was a baby, and now, Auntie Fi’s letter. I scan the letter, trying to figure out what Frank wants me to remember from it. What exactly am I supposed to decide?
I read: “Trust me when I tell you that things aren’t always the way they seem.” Well, that certainly turned out to be true. I mean, the life of a rock star sure isn’t what I thought it would be. But what does that have to do with me, now, today?
And then I read: “You get to decide how big you want your life to be from now on.”
How big I want my life to be? I hadn’t really noticed that part of the letter before. What does that mean, anyway? Not helpful, Frank. What good is having your own genie if he disappears right when you need him the most?
I brush my teeth and figure it’s time to do battle with my unruly ringlets. But instead, I decide to just wet my hands, scrunch my curls, and let a few fall toward my face, the way Chaz did when I was Becca, which is exactly what Auntie Fi does, now that I think about it. These curls aren’t so bad, really—I think maybe I just need to stop getting in fights with them.
I grab my lunch bag and smear some butter on an already toasted English muffin. My mom has everything laid out for me—even OJ in my favorite tiny, blue juice glass. I look at the clock on the microwave and realize that my mini-Frank conference has almost made me late.
I yell into my mom’s steamy bathroom where she’s showering, “Bye, mom, I love you!”
“Love you more!” she calls back. “Have a great day!”
“I will!” I say, because that’s what I always say. But I have a sinking feeling my day is going to be about as great as trick-or-treating in the rain. On crutches. With your dentist.
Stella and I figured out that if we meet at exactly 7:36 a.m. on the corner of Spruce and Maple, we have enough time to ride together for three blocks before she turns left toward Sacred Heart and I hang a right for Stinkerton. We brake on the corner before heading off in our different directions.
“Good luck at Stink Town,” Stella says with a half-smile and a thumbs-up.
“Hey, Stella, I was thinking,” I say, a little hesitantly, scarfing the last of my muffin and washing it down with some fairly fresh water from my squirt bottle.
“Yeah?” she answers, adjusting her bike helmet.
“Since I’m going to be going to Stinkerton, like, probably forever, maybe we should start calling it Pinkerton,” I say. “I don’t know, I just think it might help.”
“Totally,” Stella agrees. “It can’t hurt.” Then she gives me a big, goofy overbite grin.
“Do I have poppy seeds in my teeth?” she asks. “My mom ran out of cinnamon raisin bagels and gave us the poppy seed ones. Am I good?”
“All good!” I confirm. “See you this afternoon!” And we wheel off in our different directions.
It’s kind of crazy how Pinkerton is almost exactly as close to my house as Sacred Heart. I’m glad I don’t have to cross a major four-lane or anything—not that my mom would let me do that on my bike. I pull up in front of the school and slide into the spot on the end. I like the end spot the best. It gives you a little elbow room, unlike my locker. As I’m twisting my lock, I notice a girl who’s probably in my same grade locking her bike up on the opposite end. She looks up at me but quickly turns away. I figure I’ve got three minutes to get into my locker and to class so I skedaddle as fast as I can.
I make my way through the crowd to my locker and duck down, holding one hand over my head for protection, just in case. I keep my lunch bag in the other hand, which makes it a little hard to unlock my locker. But you really can’t be too careful around this place. When I stand up, I’m nose to nose with a blond-haired, blue-eyed girl—the same one who stomped my sandwich on Friday.
“Excuse me,” I say, trying to step around her.
“No prob,” she says, moving out of my way. She actually smiles when she says it, but I’m sure it’s really one of those nasty “I’ll get you later” sort of smiles. I tuck my chin to my chest and rush off, making a mental note to stay as far away from her as I can.
I have a great morning, in the sense that I’m not late to a single class, nothing falls on me and slices any body parts open, and I don’t trip and crack my front tooth or anything. It’s pretty sad that this is what having a great morning means to me now, but it is what it is. I’m trying to ignore the growling in my stomach, because I’d rather not think about the lonely lunch hour that starts in one minute.
Man, that minute went fast. The bell rings, and the entire school rushes toward the cafeteria. I grab my sandwich from my locker and dart into the bathroom. I decided earlier that I was going to eat in a bathroom stall. It’s totally gross, I know, but at least it’s warm in here.
I listen as girls come in and out, giggling and chatting. They don’t sound so horrible from in here, but I’m sure that’s just because I can’t see them ignoring me. Finally there’s a quiet spell, so I wrap up my lunch trash and tiptoe out of my stall. When I round the bend toward the sinks, I catch a glimpse of the mirror and let out a scream.
“How’s it going, kid?” says Frank. Frank-the-genie is here, at Stinkerton, in the girls’ bathroom mirror. As my mom would say, jumping Jehoshaphat! I have no idea what that means, but I like the sound of it.
“What are you doing here, Frank?” I hissper. I made that word up. It’s like a hiss and a whisper combined. I bend down to see if there are any feet in any stalls.
“It sort of seemed like you could use a little help,” Frank says.
“I’m doing fine,” I tell him, pointing at my head. “Look? See? No blood!”
“Did you reread your aunt’s letter?” he asks.
“Of course I did,” I tell him, a little bit insulted. I’m about to tell him that he doesn’t know a thing about me if he even has to ask me that, but right then two girls walk into the bathroom and make a beeline for the two sinks next to me.
My heart is pounding in my ears just like it did when I was onstage as Becca Starr. I lock eyes with Frank in the mirror and send him a silent message: HELP ME, FRANK. HELP ME NOW!
“Relax, Malone,” Frank says. “They can’t see me. Or hear me. But if you talk to me, they’ll hear that, so try to be cool.”
Try to be cool, he says. That Frank is hilarious.
“Hey, did you finish your pig dissection diagram?” one girl asks the other.
“Ugh, I did,” her friend answers. “Thank goodness that’s over! Can you say dis-gus-ting?”
I’m trying to look very busy washing my hands when I hear Frank’s voice.
“You know you can chime in there any time, right?” Frank says. I glance up at him but say nothing. “Oh, I get it. You’re waiting for them to talk to you! Well, that’s a great plan…if you want things to stay exactly the way they are. When your aunt said that part about deciding how big you want your life to be, she wasn’t talking about whose shoes you were going to step into next. She was talking about you. Think about it. How big do you want your life to be, Maggie?”
I just don’t know what to do. I open my mouth to say something just as the girls finish up at the sinks and bustle out of the bathroom.
“Maybe next time,” Frank says. His face fades just as the end-of-lunch bell rings.
I shuffle into the freezing-cold biology lab. There’s a table in the back where nobody is sitting yet, and I start to make a beeline for it. Then I hear Frank’s voice in my head. (At least I think it’s in my head. It could be coming through the loudspeakers, for all I know. I’m not sure about a lot of things these days.)
When your aunt said that part about deciding how big you want your life to be, she wasn’t talking about whose shoes you were going to step into next. She was talking about you.
&nbs
p; I really, super-want my life to be good. I want to make new friends. I want to like it here at Stink—Pinkerton. I want to not be invisible anymore. What would Becca Starr do? I ask myself. Piece of cake: she’d sit wherever she darn well pleased. Why shouldn’t she? And why shouldn’t I?
“Is this seat taken?” I ask a girl who’s sitting by herself, writing something in a spiral notebook.
“Nope, it’s all yours,” she answers, hardly looking up.
“Thanks,” I say, sliding into the seat next to her. She goes right on writing.
Well, this is going well. People here at Pinkerton just must not be very friendly. I mean, why doesn’t she…
Just then, the sandwich-stepping girl breezes in and sits down right across from me. She’s got that same little smile on her face, the one that makes me want to run right back to my bathroom stall. But I can’t do that. I won’t do that. I’m not exactly sure how big I want my life to be, but I’m pretty positive I want it to be bigger than a bathroom stall.
You’ve been on a stage singing for thousands of total strangers, I remind myself. You have your own genie. You’re funny and intelligent and kind and, don’t forget, you’ve lived the life of an actual rock star. Start acting like it.
“I’m Maggie,” I announce, just like that, my voice shaking a tiny bit. “I’m new.”
“Alicia,” the sandwich-stepper says, holding out her hand to introduce herself. I shake it, and it’s actually a nice, solid handshake. My dad always says you have to watch out for limp-fish handshakers. If we’re going on handshakes alone, Alicia might just be okay. Maybe that’s even a genuine smile after all. “Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to see you too,” I say, because my mom says it’s smarter to say nice to “see you” instead of “meet you” in case you met that person before and don’t remember. It’s a cover-your-behind move. Thankfully, Alicia doesn’t remember the reindeer-rocking, mummy girl from last week. I decide to just go with it.
“That’s Crystal,” she says, pointing to the girl next to me. “She’s cool and the smartest girl in the sixth grade. Maybe the whole school. You must be pretty smart yourself to snag a seat next to her!”
Crystal looks up and smiles, then goes back to her notebook.
Alicia slides her biology book to the side. Underneath it is a folder with a picture of Becca Starr on the front.
“Hey, you like Becca Starr?” I ask.
“Are you kidding me?” Alicia laughs. “Who doesn’t like Becca Starr? She’s totally amazing. Have you ever been to one of her shows?”
“Yeah, well, no, well, actually—” I stutter. I’m trying to figure out how I can possibly answer this question honestly when a pretty girl with honey-colored hair slides up behind Alicia and clears her throat. I do a double take. She’s not wearing the same T-shirt, but I’d know that DRAMA QUEEN face anywhere. It’s the girl who apparently owned the seat I was sitting in that first day in Spanish class. Looks like she owns the one Alicia is in now too, even though the one right next to it is wide open.
“What’s up, Lucy?” Alicia says, all cool-like.
“That’s my seat,” Lucy huffs.
Alicia pretends to look around her.
“I don’t see a name tag or anything, and I’m sitting in it now, so I guess you’ll have to find somewhere else to park it,” Alicia says with a shrug. For a minute, I think Lucy might push her out of the chair or start stomping her feet like a buffalo, but finally she lets out a big, noisy arrrgh and storms off in a huff.
“That’s Lucy St. Claire,” Alicia leans in toward me and whispers. “Otherwise known as Lucifer. She’s the worst—thinks she owns the school just because her grandfather bought new bleachers back in like nineteen-something. Anyway, don’t let her push you around, okay?”
I nod and smile.
“Anyway, Becca is coming to town next month, and I’m going to the show with some friends,” Alicia goes on. “Do you want to come with us?”
“Can you teach a rock to stay?” I answer before I can stop myself. That’s a Maggie-and-Stella joke, and for a second, I wish I could take it back, in case Alicia thinks I’m a big dork now.
Alicia laughs. “Good one! Okay, I’ll email you all of the details. Here, write down your email address.” She pushes her Becca Starr folder toward me and I jot it down.
“Um, there’s just one thing,” I say, sliding the folder back toward Alicia. “My best friend from my old school? She’s like the biggest Becca Starr fan on the planet. Maybe in the universe. Would it be okay if she came too?”
I hold my breath. As much as I want to make new friends, Stella comes first. She’d be crushed if we didn’t go to that show together, and besides, I’d never throw her under the bus like that or just ditch her for some new friends. We have history—and you can’t jeopardize that.
“The more the merrier,” Alicia whispers as Mrs. Shankshaw shuffles in the door.
“Today we are going to be comparing and contrasting plant and animal cells,” Mrs. Shankshaw says. She opens a cabinet door and starts plopping microscopes randomly on tables. “You know the process. Grab a partner and find an open microscope.”
“Want to be partners?” Alicia asks.
I nod, and we stand up to make our way to a nearby open microscope. As we do, I notice a girl just standing in the doorway. I realize she’s the girl from the bike rack this morning.
“Um, excuse me—” she says, holding a late slip out to Mrs. Shankshaw as she walks by. Mrs. Shankshaw promptly ignores her—probably because she doesn’t even see her.
“Hang on a second,” I say to Alicia, walking over to the girl, who I notice has a Band-Aid across her nose. I have a feeling I know what’s going on.
“Are you new here?” I ask her.
She nods her head. The poor thing looks as if she’s about to break down bawling. I’ve sure been in those shoes.
“Bottom locker?” I ask, pointing at her nose.
She nods again.
“I’m Maggie,” I tell her. “Maggie Malone. What’s your name?”
“Elizabeth O’Connor,” she says in a mouse voice.
“Well, welcome to Randolph J. Pinkerton Middle School, Elizabeth O’Connor,” I tell her, linking my arm through hers.
“Is it as bad here as everyone says?” she whispers as we make our way through the room.
“Not if you don’t want it to be,” I tell her.
I give her my biggest smile, and her face lights up. When it does, I realize I don’t just want my life to be big. I want it to be huge.
Just like I love to try out new lives, I also love to try out new words! Here’s a list of some sort-of-fancy words I used in this book that you might not have known before. I included a synonym for each, but you could probably figure out what they mean from the way I used them in the story. Now that you know these words, don’t be afraid to use them. Being smart is totally cool.
1.absurd: crazy
2.advantage: benefit
3.alternative: possible choice
4.ancient: old
5.appreciate: enjoy
6.approach: draw near
7.attempt: try
8.aware: conscious
9.bland: tasteless
10.bombarded: attacked
11.brittle: weak
12.budge: move
13.buffet: food bar
14.casual: offhand
15.challenge: test
16.character: role
17.comprehend: understand
18.confirm: insist
19.conniption: fit
20.consume: eat
21.crew: team
22.crumple: scrunch
23.declare: announce
24.desperate: urgent
25.distant: faraway
26.drab: boring
27.effect: impact
28.emerge: come out
29.excessive: exaggerated
30.exquisite: beautiful
31.extend: offer
32.fantastic: delicious
33.fret: worry
34.gale: windstorm
35.gash: cut
36.genuine: real
37.gigantic: huge
38.haul: loot
39.insist: demand
40.instant: on-the-spot
41.introduce: acquaint
42.incision: cut
43.incurable: fatal
44.jeopardize: risk losing
45.jostle: shake up
46.limp: hobble
47.lofty: tall
48.mane: hair
49.merit: excellence
50.minus: without
51.motionless: still
52.navigate: steer
53.oblivious: unaware
54.option: alternative
55.optimal: best
56.pathetic: pitiful
57.pause: stop
58.peculiar: odd
59.process: procedure
60.professionals: experts
61.puny: small
62.ravenous: starving
63.recover: bounce back
64.request: inquiry
65.resist: combat
66.rodent: rat
67.scorching: burning
68.skepticism: disbelief
69.sole: bottom of a shoe
70.solitary: alone
71.stall: delay
72.stench: bad smell
73.superb: best
74.surround: enclose
75.survive: continue to live
76.swivel: spin
77.task: assignment
78.temporary: not permanent
79.umbilicus: navel
80.unruly: wild
Every day is Freaky Friday for Maggie Malone and her Mostly Magical Boots. Whenever she slips on the MMBs, Maggie gets to be whoever she wants for a whole day. And whose life could be more fun to try on than the glamorous Princess Wilhelmina of Wincastle’s? Even better—Wilhelmina is a bridesmaid in the Royal Wedding of the Century!
Maggie Malone and the Mostly Magical Boots Page 9