The Meaning of Maggie

For my freckled mother, my hot sisters, and my father who always wanted to be famous
.

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

My dad won't stop beeping.

And it's impossible to concentrate while my dad is beeping. He's been beeping for almost a whole day now. And it's not the friendly beep of the ice cream truck backing up after you chased it halfway down the block either. It's a slow beep that makes me really sleepy. But it's impossible to sleep because the chair in this hospital room is harder than the hardest substance on earth, which I know is diamond because it was on my science final two months ago, which I got a 100 on, but whatever.

It's just Dad and me in the hospital room right now. My sisters and my mom are downstairs in the cafeteria. Mom put me in charge of Dad until she gets back, which makes sense because I am way more responsible than
my sisters even though they're in high school and I'm in middle school, but you know, hot girls take longer to mature.

And since I'm so responsible, I know that I'm not supposed to push or touch ANYTHING even if it looks like it'd be really fun to push or touch. And I'm keeping an extra close eye on Dad. He just fell back asleep. But I'm kind of hoping he'll wake up soon so we can split this Little Debbie. Normally I'd just eat the whole thing myself, but I figure he could use a little pick-me-up.

I'm not worried. Dad is going to be a-okay. Even Mom said so. And even though she works full time and takes care of Dad full time and fixes dinner full time and raises the three of us to be ladies full time, she's always right full time too. She's a very busy lady but even at her busiest, she's still at her best.

Like yesterday, she remembered to bring my birthday present to the hospital even though she shouldn't have because big deal things were happening. But of course she remembered and of course it was the most perfect gift ever. She gave me the most beautiful leather-bound journal and I have to use it to write something really important. And I've decided that important thing will be my memoir.

If you don't know, a memoir is a piece of autobiographical writing that examines the meaning of the author's life during a specific moment in time. I'm
writing about my eleventh year on this earth because it was the most important year of my WHOLE life.

Because last year was the year that changed everything. It was one of those years you learn about in history class and the teacher says, “This was a year that changed EVERYTHING” and you roll your eyes and think, “Yeah right, you said that last chapter.” But by the time you reach the end of the chapter, you realize you've highlighted every single word because every single word was really important. That's how last year felt for me. Like the entire thing was highlighted.

And that's why I'm writing this memoir. Because just like any other future president of the United States of America, I have a story worth telling. So maybe I didn't cut down a cherry tree and maybe I don't have wooden teeth and I wasn't born in a log cabin with a dirt floor and nine thousand brothers and sisters. I still have something to say. And that's why I'm writing this for prosperity or posterity or propensity, all of which I will look up once we get home.
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And well, I'm writing this because when visiting hours are over, I'll be back in the waiting room with nothing to do but stare at the vending machine full of M&M's that Mom says I've had enough of.

Mom would want me to start this whole thing by being brave and pulling up my bootstraps. Whenever big deal
stuff happens in our family (and a lot of big deal things happen), Mom tells us to “pull up our bootstraps” even though we live in Georgia and most of the time it's too hot to wear boots, but pulling up your shoelaces just sounds weird.

So I'm going to do just that. And it turns out, I'm more prepared to write this memoir than I even realized. I've been doing research pretty much all year without even knowing it. There were all the times I hid behind the couch while my sister Tiffany got in trouble. And all the times I listened in on my other sister Layla's phone calls. And all of the glasses I put up to my parents' door to decode their secret mumbles. I wouldn't need the glass at all but my ears aren't top notch. I blame it on all the loud rock 'n' roll music my parents listened to while I was both in and outside of the womb.

Up until last year Dad worked and Mom did mom things and my sisters did big sister things like totally ignore me. But then Dad's legs fell all the way asleep.

His legs had been in and out of sleep for a few years. Sometimes they would wake up and he would walk with a cane. But his cane has been in the closet for a while now and I don't think it's coming out. It's like his legs are in the deepest sleep ever. It's like they've been hypnotized by David Copperfield
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and no amount of snapping or clapping will wake them up. And now on top of
sleeping legs, he's also really sick and that's why we're here with the beeping. The unfriendly non-ice-cream-truck really scary beeping.

I'm feeling about a million things at this moment. And I guess the only thing I'm not feeling now is hungry because I just ate that entire Little Debbie even though I double swore to myself that I'd wait until Dad woke up to share it. But I couldn't help it. I'm tired. I slept on a floor last night. In a hospital waiting room. Next to my sister who kicked the dickens out of me with her perfect legs all night long.

And not getting my usual full eight hours of REM sleep hasn't helped my exhaustion, both physical and emotional. Physical exhaustion because of the floor. I feel like I pulled an all-nighter at the factory like David Copperfield.
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And emotional exhaustion because it's so hard and weird to see Dad so sick. Yeah he's in a wheelchair, but he also eats an apple a day to keep the doctor away. But I guess something snuck past that last apple because nurses keep coming in and out of Dad's room. And they keep poking him with needles and taking his temperature and changing these big bags of medicine and listening to his heart. I bet if they listened with their ears instead of a stethoscope they'd hear it say, “I'm fine. Let me go home and stop scaring my family. Especially Maggie. Because she's
my favorite. That's right, Maggie's my favorite. Not Layla like everyone thinks.”

But everything will be okay. Dad
will
get better. That's what tough guys do. But still, I have to admit I'm worried. And it's that deep-down-in-your-guts worried that's impossible to get rid of no matter how many Mike and Ikes you eat.

I guess I'm starting to realize that being brave isn't so black and white. It isn't something you either are or aren't. It isn't an absolute. Because you can run out of bravery. Your metaphorical bravery tank can run dry. But it's up to you to fill it back up again. To muster all the courage you can. To pull up your bootstraps. And no one does this better than Dad. And he doesn't even wear boots because he doesn't need boots because his feet never touch the ground.

I never knew I would need so much bravery until everything changed a full year before yesterday. A full year before Dad started beeping. It was my eleventh birthday. And it started with another noise just as annoying as the beep. It began with a buzz.

BUZZ!

My alarm clock went off at seven
A.M
.

I hit the snooze button.

BUZZ!

I hit the snooze button again.

BUZZ!

Third time's the charm, right?

One of Tiffany's giant giraffe legs kicked me in the shin. Ouch! “Okay, okay! It's off!”

She kicked me again. “Stop setting the alarm! It's summer!”

God, she was so impossible.

So I yelled, “God, you're so impossible!”

She had no idea that if you slept in over the summer it would be twice as hard to get back to the grind once school started. I couldn't believe I shared a room with
such an underachiever. I wrote my parents, like, a million letters begging them to let me live in the garage. I didn't need heat or air. My body temperature naturally regulated. But they didn't believe me. They didn't—

BUZZ!

Ah, curse word!

I shielded myself from another kick. “I swear I turned it off!”

Tiffany gave me the evil eye. “You're SO dead.”

I glared back at her. “Be nice to me. It's my birthday.”

IT WAS MY BIRTHDAY! With all the buzzing and yelling and kicking I'd almost forgotten it was my birthday! Eleven years old. The beginning of everything! One year closer to college. One year closer to voting. One year closer to getting a tattoo, not that I wanted to get a tattoo. They're terrifying. But it was nice knowing I was closer to getting one anyway.

I pulled on my overalls, ran to the mirror, and ta-da!

Oh no.

Oh dear.

Oh gosh.

I looked the same as I did when I was ten.

Maybe Tiffany could spot a difference. “Hey Tiffany, do I look any different?”

She rolled over and gave me a look. “Yeah. You look even nerdier than you did yesterday.” She swung her other giraffe leg out from under the covers, pushed me into the hallway, and slammed the door.

In my face.

I yelled, “You're gonna be sorry!” Then I heard a loud mechanical thud against the door. Good-bye, alarm clock.

But don't worry, I wasn't going to let any of this ruin my big day. What if growing older and wiser took a day to take? Maybe my first wrinkle would surface soon. So I gave my hair a tousle and reached for the boom box because nothing says “It's my birthday!” better than a “Hail to the Chief” processional down the hallway. I pushed Play and marched into the dining room for the best part of any best day: GIFTS.

Dad saluted me but didn't stand because, well, Dad doesn't stand. I saluted him back and couldn't help but notice the gigantic envelope waiting for me on the table.

“Happy birthday, Mags. You look so much older. More distinguished.”

“Thanks, I've been working on it,” I said. I poured myself a mug of OJ. “Hey Dad, is that what I think it is?”

“If you think it's the autographed picture of Susan B. Anthony you asked for last year, then no. She still hasn't responded to my letter.”

“I'm not surprised. She's been dead for eighty-two years.”

Dad laughed. “Well, that explains a lot.” I was pretty sure he was joking. “Hopefully I was more successful this year.”

He slid the envelope across the table toward me and my hands shook.

I couldn't believe it. I had asked him to buy me stock in Coca-Cola
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for my birthday and he'd actually done it.

I pulled the paper out of the envelope, which was manila because important things come in manila envelopes. The certificate was fancy and official and said I had three whole shares of stock IN MY NAME. Coca-Cola was a blue-chip stock too, which meant it made more money than most, which meant I was going to be a millionaire.
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