Leaving Paradise (6 page)

twelve

Maggie

I borrowed a Frommer’s book about Spain at the library today. Looking in the mailbox after school, I say a little prayer, hoping the information packet arrived.

There’s a letter from the program, not a packet. I rip the envelope open, getting a paper cut as I slide my finger between the folds. I don’t care. This is my ticket out, my chance to get away from Caleb and Paradise. Time to forget the accident and get psyched about independence and anonymity.

I unfold the letter quickly, as if it’s the Golden Ticket in
Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory
. I have a huge smile on my face as I read the letter.

To: Miss Margaret Armstrong

From: International Exchange Student (IES) Program

Dear Miss Armstrong:

It has come to the attention of our IES committee that the scholarship for which you originally applied was an athletic scholarship. Since your records indicate you have not been active on a high school athletic team for the past twelve months, I’m sorry to inform you that your scholarship has been revoked. We are under legal limitations to distribute the athletic scholarships solely to current high school athletes.

You are still welcome to participate in the IES program provided you arrange your own transportation and pay tuition costs which include discounted room and board on the University of Barcelona campus. The cost of tuition for one semester of high school in the IES program is $4,625.

Please remit payment by December 15th to the IES office in order to hold your place in the program. If you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to contact me.

Sincerely,

Helena Cortez, President

International Exchange Student program,
University of Barcelona, Spain

When my brain comprehends the words
scholarship revoked
, my smile instantly fades.

“I can’t go,” I whisper. Mom had to work overtime just to get me a Juicy Couture outfit that cost a hundred dollars. There’s no way we can afford over four thousand dollars. I squeeze my eyes shut.
This isn’t happening
. Not now. My hands start to shake again. I feel them shivering as I cover my eyes with my palms.

When my mom gets home from work in the evening, I hold the letter out to her.

“Okay, don’t panic,” she says after reading it. “There must be some way we can manage.”

“Mom, it’s useless to even think about. We don’t have that kind of money.”

“My boss might let me work enough overtime. Let’s see . . .” She grabs a piece of paper and starts scribbling numbers down.

“Mom, forget it.”

“Wait. Sixty hours a week minimum, sometimes seventy . . . and if I work on Thanksgiving and add in my Christmas bonus—”

“Mom!”

She stops writing and looks up at me. “What?”

“Stop writing, stop compensating . . . just stop.”

I’m depressed enough as it is without watching her attempt to kill herself to make me happy. I’ll figure this out. But it’s my problem, not hers.

The phone rings. It’s Mr. Reynolds telling my mom she forgot her paycheck at work. Now she’s got to go back and get it. “Come with me, Maggie.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Oh, come on. I saw Irina baking some new pies this afternoon. Pie always cheers you up.”

Irina is one of the chefs at the diner. She likes having me try her new pie creations before she offers them on the menu. Irina’s pies are one of the reasons I’ve gained weight this past year.

At the mention of pie, I give in. If there was any time I need pie to cheer me up, this is it.

“The place is crowded tonight,” Mom says to Mr. Reynolds when he hands her the forgotten paycheck.

Mr. Reynolds, usually so calm and in control, seems panicked. “It’s the men’s bowling league,” he explains. “They just came in and Yolanda went home sick ten minutes ago.”

There’s about thirty hungry men milling around the tables, and I only see Tony, a new waiter, looking more frazzled than Mr. Reynolds.

Mom taps her boss on the shoulder. “If you need help, I’m sure Maggie won’t mind if I stay for a bit.”

Mr. Reynolds smiles. “Really? That would be great.”

“No problem.”

“You’re the best, Linda. I owe you one.”

My mom rolls her eyes playfully as she heads behind the counter to wrap an apron around her waist. “You owe me more than one, Lou, but we can discuss it later.”

“You got it,” he says, then rushes to greet new customers who’ve just walked in the door.

Mom scurries to the group to help Tony take orders while I follow behind her with a pitcher, filling water glasses.

After I pour the water, Mom tells me to sit down at a booth. I pull out the Frommer’s book on Spain from my purse and stare at it longingly. If only we were as rich as Kendra’s parents, I’d be able to go to Spain. Even if we were as rich as Caleb and Leah’s parents, we’d probably be able to afford it without thinking twice. Their dad is an oral surgeon and has just about every southwest Illinois resident as a patient.

It’s times like these I wish my dad and mom never got divorced. I can pretend to forget about the fights, the screaming, the anger lurking around every corner of the house. Mom said they just grew apart while he traveled for work and she stayed home. When he came home on weekends, he wanted to relax while my mom wanted to go out. Eventually Dad stopped coming home on weekends. And Mom stopped caring if he was home.

I’m not sure where Judy (his new wife) fits into the divorce equation. I miss my dad, but he never asks me to come to Texas and visit. I don’t want to ask him why he doesn’t invite me because, to be completely honest, I don’t want to hear he doesn’t want me as a part of his new life.

As I’m waiting for my mom, Irina comes out of the kitchen. “Moggie, Moggie!” she says excitedly in her heavy Russian accent, “I hove a new pie for you.”

“Is it with carrots?” I ask, worried. The last time Irina made a carrot pie using an old family recipe of hers, there were chunks of carrots in the middle. I’m happy to say it didn’t end up on the menu.

“I promise no weggies. It’s a vhite pie viz chocolate cheeps and graham cracker crumbs laced viz caramel. Sounds delicious, no?”

My stomach growls, ready for the rush of sugar. “Bring it out. I need something to cheer me up,” I say. “There’s a problem with my trip to Spain.”

Irina gasps. “Oy, vat hoppened?”

I shrug. “It’s a long story.”

“I come bring pie right now, da?” Irina says before disappearing into the kitchen. She comes back a few minutes later with a huge slab of pie. I can tell before I taste it this is going to be a best-selling dessert at Auntie Mae’s Diner next week.

Before I take the first bite, I say “You’re the best, Irina,” and dig my fork into the white moistness speckled with graham cracker, caramel, and chocolate chips. She always waits next to me until I swallow the first bite and give her my analysis.

“It’s awesome,” I say, savoring the moistness of the creamy part and the soft crunch of the chips blended with the smooth caramel and crumbly texture of the graham crackers. “One of your best.”

Irina whisks herself back into the kitchen with a flutter.

“I see Irina found you,” Mom says as she holds a tray full of double-decker platters. “By the time you finish the pie, I’ll be done here and we can go home.”

I watch as my mom places the platters expertly in front of the hungry bowlers.

When I take my second forkful, another customer walks in. It’s an old lady with grey hair, white pants, and a turquoise jacket. Mr. Reynolds greets her with a kiss on her cheek. “Mom, why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” he asks the lady. “Wait, where’s Gladys?”

“I fired her yesterday,” the lady says. “She was a pain in the you-know-what. Besides, I don’t need a caretaker. I made it here without one, didn’t I?”

Mr. Reynolds looks worried. “Mom, why can’t you get along with anyone I hire to help you? I swear you just fire them to spite me.”

The old lady stands up straight with her chin in the air like a three-year-old. “I don’t need any help.”

“You have a heart condition,” Mr. Reynolds says.

She waves her hand in the air, dismissing his concern. “Who says?”

“Your doctor.”

“What do doctors know, anyway? They call it practicing medicine because that’s all they ever do. Practice. If you’d visit me once in a while, you’d know I’m doing fine.”

“I just saw you on Saturday.” He huffs, then says, “Are you hungry?”

“What do you have on special this week?”

“Irina will make you anything you want, Mom. Name it.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “Corn and a big, juicy steak.”

Mr. Reynolds shakes his head and chuckles. “Mom, you have diverticulosis and a heart condition. Try again.”

“You’re no fun, Lou.”

“And you’re a barrel of laughs. Just sit down at a table. Wait . . . follow me and you can meet Linda’s daughter. You’ve never met her before.”

I look down at the pie, trying not to give away the fact I’ve been eavesdropping on their conversation.

“Maggie, this is my mother,” Mr. Reynolds announces. “Mom, this is Linda’s daughter Margaret. Everyone calls her Maggie.”

I smile and hold out my hand. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Reynolds. Are you
the
Auntie Mae?”

The old lady takes my hand and shakes it. “Dearie, Mae was the name of my son’s first dog.”

No way! I look to Mr. Reynolds for confirmation. He’s smiling sheepishly.

“It’s true,” he whispers. “Shh, it’s a secret. If the town finds out I named my restaurant after a dog, this place will be deserted within a week.”

I highly doubt that. Auntie Mae’s is crowded almost every night. Besides, there’s not another diner within a ten-mile radius.

“I didn’t know Linda had a daughter. How old are you, Margaret?” she asks, ignoring the fact that her son told her everyone calls me Maggie.

“Seventeen.”

“She just started her senior year of high school, Mom,” Mr. Reynolds announces loudly, as if his mother is hard of hearing. “And she’s going to Spain in January for school. Why don’t you sit with her while she tells you all about it. I’ll go in the back and have Irina fix you something to eat.”

“Tell her not to make it too healthy,” Mrs. Reynolds orders before sitting down on the opposite bench from me. She eyes my plate. “Lou, tell Irina to cut me a generous slice of that pie, too.”

I don’t think Mr. Reynolds was listening to her last request, or maybe he wanted to let her
think
he wasn’t listening.

The old woman places her purse beside her in the booth, then looks at me. She doesn’t smile, she doesn’t frown. She tilts her head, as if trying to figure out what’s inside my thoughts. “Why do you want to leave Paradise so badly?” she asks, almost as if she really can read my mind.

“I just do,” I say, hoping she’ll leave it at that.

She makes a tsking noise with her tongue. “If you don’t want to talk about it, just say so. No sense in beating around the bush.”

I had been busy chipping the nail polish off my fingers, but I stop and look at Mrs. Reynolds. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

The old lady claps her hands together. “Fine. If you don’t want to talk about it, we won’t talk about it.”

The only thing standing between me and this woman is the pie I have and she wants. And awkward silence. It’s not that I’m trying to be rude, I just don’t want to put into words how my life has become one disappointment after another. It’s almost as if misery is following me and I’ve been cursed. If I only knew how to break that curse . . .

“I’m sure you have your reasons for not wanting to talk about it. I can’t imagine what those reasons are, but you’re probably better off being silent and brooding about it rather than talking it out with someone who has nothing better to do than listen.”

I shove another forkful of pie in my mouth and focus on the salt shaker at the end of the table.

“You want the salt?” Mrs. Reynolds asks, knowing full well I don’t have salt on my mind.

“They revoked my scholarship,” I blurt out, then look at the old lady sitting across from me.

She doesn’t have a look of pity on her face like I expected. She looks kind of . . . well, angry. “Well, why would they go and do a thing like that?”

I take my time chewing and swallowing, then look up. Mrs. Reynolds has her little hands folded on the top of the table and she’s looking intently at me, waiting for my answer.

“I applied for an athletic scholarship, but I’m not on a team anymore so it’s been revoked. I can go, but now I’ll have to pay tuition we can’t afford.”

She nods her head, lets out a long breath, then leans back in the booth. “I see. Well, dearie, maybe one day your luck will change.”

Yeah, right. All I need is a little magic dust and a fairy godmother. I’m not holding my breath for either of those.