Molly McGinty Has a Really Good Day (4 page)

Molly looked up from her math test. Her eyes were burning and her neck was stiff. She'd been so engrossed in the math problems that she hadn't moved for the first thirty minutes of class. But she had answered all the questions and she felt good about her solutions, although she wasn't as confident as she would have been if she'd had her own notes to study from the night before.

She glanced around the room, trying to gauge the progress of her classmates. She was relieved to see Renee Potter scratching her elbow and Ryan
Deck tugging on his left earlobe. She knew then that the two top students in class were struggling too.

Irene had taught Molly how to play poker one rainy weekend, and although Molly didn't care for card games, she had been fascinated by Irene's explanation of what she called tells, nervous habits that gave you away when you were trying to bluff and appear calm. Molly had made a list of nervous habits in her now missing notebook.

Irene.

Molly's stomach clenched. Her grandmother had been entirely too quiet during the test, and a quiet Irene was a dangerous Irene.

Molly leaned over to whisper to Irene in the next row but was jerked backward in her seat by a sharp tug on her hair.

“Sit
still”
a voice hissed from behind, “I'm almost done.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Molly tried to catch a glimpse of the person who was holding her hair, but when she moved her head even slightly her hair was quickly and viciously yanked. She sat, silent and still, trying to figure out what was happening to
her head, and who was doing it. She saw Sister Catherine leave the room with the attendance sheet in hand.

“That's a cute look,” Irene said as soon as the door closed behind Sister. “Did you ever think about adding some beads?”

“I'm a little short on supplies at the moment,” a husky voice answered from behind Molly. “All IVe got to work with are these tiny rubber bands from my braces.”

“Very resourceful of you. How long does a hairdo like that last?” Molly sat stupefied, listening to her grandmother and her unseen, self-appointed hairdresser getting to know each other.

“Oh, weeks if you do a tight enough braid. My brother leaves his in for ages.”

“I'm Irene. Could you do that to my hair during lunch? Here.” Irene leaned into Molly's limited range of vision as she reached for an object on the floor near Molly's feet. “You dropped one.”

“Thanks. These suckers boing all over if you're not careful, and my orthodontist has started charging me for replacement packets, so I've only
got access to a limited supply each month. There.” The owner of the voice poked Molly in the shoulder. “You can move now.”

Molly turned to see a girl with rhinestone-trimmed cat-eye glasses and a small hot pink and orange boa tied around her neck, cracking her knuckles contentedly. This girl had transferred to Our Lady of Mercy from the public middle school on the other side of town the week before.

“What did you do to me?” Molly demanded. She reached up and felt a scattering of little braids on the left side of the back of her head.

The rogue hairdresser ignored her question and turned to Irene.

“Nice to meet you, Irene. My name is Brenda, but I wish it was Benet because that sounds more glamorous, and I can do your hair at lunch if you eat during fifth period.”

“Do we, pumpkin?” Irene asked Molly, who was lightly fingering the tiny, tight braids covering the back of her head, a horrified look on her face.

“Why,” Molly wailed, “did you Rasta-braid my hair?”

“They're not Rasta braids, sweetheart,” Irene explained. “Because then your hair would just kind of hang in clumpy bits. These are more like cornrows, because they're tiny, but very distinct, braids.”

“Uh-huh,” Molly responded to her grandmother in a cold, flat tone before turning to Brenda/Benet. “Regardless of what they
are,
why did you
do
them to me? I don't even know you.”

“Doing your hair seemed like a good way to break the ice, since we've never actually spoken before now and I didn't have to take the test because I just moved here. Besides, you looked like you needed to have some fun with your look,” Brenda/Benet answered, handing Molly a mirrored compact.

“That's
exactly
what I said to her this morning!” Irene gloated as Molly stared wide-eyed at her reflection.

“You'd be a great client,” Brenda/Benet said, smiling at Molly. “You never even noticed me while you were taking your test. Plus, I thought doing this to your hair would make you look more like your grandma. I noticed right off when you walked in together that she's got a real zippy look going for her.”

“How'd you learn how to do hair like that, Benet?” Irene asked.

“I taught myself after I couldn't find anyone to do my hair the way I like it.”

“Oh, honey, I
know.
Trying to find a good hairdresser is as annoying as that television commercial about feminine itch—”

“That's not really the point, Irene,” Molly interrupted as she continued to gaze doubtfully at the mirror.

“So,” Irene continued, “you girls sit next to each other in math class and you don't even know each other? That's a shame. School is all about making friends, you know. I can honestly say that no one has asked me what the capital of Rhode Island is since I was in second grade. And learning long division was a total waste of time, seeing as calculators do all that borrowing and carrying and whatnot so effectively.”

“Binder Girl up there doesn't seem to notice anything that's not in that notebook of hers,” Brenda/Benet commented, a bit acidly, Molly felt. “I figured that I needed a unique way to introduce
myself to her. You've got to take the initiative, my dad says, when you're the new girl.”

“I don't know how she could have missed you, Benet. Is that a safety pin in your ear?”

“Kilt pin.”

“I do love a girl with a strong sense of personal style. Especially since you have to wear these drab school uniforms. Navy blue is not,” Irene confided, “a color that does anyone a favor, if you know what I mean.”

“That's why I wear lingerie that I buy at Herb's House of the Second Time Around Clothing Store.”

Despite herself, Molly found that she was becoming interested in the conversation.

“How kicky!” Irene cooed.

“Wanna see?” Brenda/Benet took a furtive look toward the door to make sure Sister Catherine was not about to reenter the room. Then she lifted her skirt a few inches to show the hem of a pair of lime green tap pants over her striped tights. Molly noticed a number of male heads turning quickly. It was amazing—they must have heard the sound of fabric sliding. Like bats hearing flies’ wings.

‘Tm not really into school.” Brenda/Benet dropped her skirt. “But I love fashion. I'm going to be a stylist when I grow up.”

“A girl after my own heart.”

“Would you like to see my portfolio?” Brenda/Benet dug a three-ring binder out of her backpack. Molly whimpered softly at the sight of the binder. Despite her lack of interest in fashion, she was drawn to anyone who organized their life in a binder.

Brenda/Benet dropped the portfolio on her desk with a thunk. Molly nearly salivated at the sight of the table of contents.

“See, I've broken it down into different topics. I've even redesigned some baseball teams’ uniforms.”

“Baseball?” Irene's face lit up at the mention of one of her obsessions.

“Different topics?” Molly repeated, beaming.

“Yup. See, most people think stylists just help supermodels pick out boots and bikinis. But I have bigger plans. I want to completely reshape the face of style and design in America. I have ideas on everything. Baby clothes, armchairs,

airport restrooms, the Pentagon—IVe got plans to make
everything
more visually appealing.”

Molly and Irene flipped through the portfolio, Irene complimenting Brenda/Benet on her bold use of leopard skin and chintz throw pillows in taxis and Molly grinding her teeth at the sight of a notebook that surpassed her own in terms of subfiles.

“Do you really like my work?” Brenda/Benet chewed briefly on a fingernail before pulling her hand away from her mouth. “I shouldn't bite my nails when I get nervous. It's a bad habit.”

“There's nothing wrong with bad habits,” Irene told her. “Where would we be without our bad habits? They're what separates us from the dreary souls amongst us.”

“I thought you said the ability to accessorize was what separated us from the dreary souls amongst us,” Mary Pat said.

Molly looked up, startled. She saw that the entire class had gathered around their desks. Most of the girls were poring over Brenda/Benet's portfolio, most of the boys were gawking at Brenda/Benet, and Chipper Lopez was admiring Molly's new hairdo.

“Well, that, too,” Irene told her. “The only exceptions to those rules are animals. Animals,” Irene added, nodding, “are the perfect people.”

“That's what I think too,” Brenda/Benet said. “The only thing wrong with them is that, except for the simian family and cats, they don't self-groom.”

Molly looked up with approving eyes from Brenda/Benet's impressively configured portfolio. Well, she thought, she may be as flaky as Irene, but at least she appreciates the importance of structure.

Molly and Mary Margaret huddled together at a table in the corner of the library during their study period. Molly had ditched Irene after math, sending her, with a sigh of relief, to the teachers’ lounge.

Third period was the highlight of both Mary Margaret's and Molly's day. Mary Margaret looked forward to an entire hour of gazing at Jake, and Molly spent the hour sprucing up her notebook. Although she stole peeks at Jake, she prided herself on the discipline she showed in refraining from
watching him except during those brief peek breaks every seven minutes.

Since Molly now feared that her notebook was lost forever, she was concentrating on cobbling together a replacement. She felt better immediately once she had a to-do list in front of her again.

“Oh, look.” Mary Margaret poked Molly's arm. Outside.”

Molly looked through the window and saw Irene holding the hands of two small kindergarteners from the school next door, who were leading her along the sidewalk with the rest of their class. Irene waved merrily and pointed out Molly and Mary Margaret to her new friends. Thirty tiny faces turned to face them and, at a sign from Irene, thirty kindergarteners made a perfectly synchronized bow in Molly's direction.

Molly cringed and buried her head in her notebook.

“Nuts,” she whispered to Mary Margaret. “Irene will probably bring home a plaster of Paris handprint or a papier-mâché globe.”

“I don't know why you're so hard on Mrs. Flynn, MoUy. She's a hoot.”

“You wouldn't think she was so great, Mags, if she was your grandmother.”

“Yes, I would. One of my grandmothers keeps calling me Jeffrey. She gets me confused with my brother. And my other grandmother makes me call her Mrs. Blake—she says being called Grandmother will ruin her golf game. I love Mrs. Flynn—she's the most fun ever.”

“You only think she's so wonderful because she won that bet with your dad and made him raise your allowance. I feel sorry for him—who knew she could arm wrestle like that?”