The Meaning of Maggie (11 page)

“First things first. Atticus Finch was a man of great integrity. He wasn't afraid to do something he believed in even if it meant putting everything on the line. Not only did he have integrity, he believed that every man should. That's why he defended Tom Robinson.”

“This is great, Maggie,” Layla said without looking up from her notebook. “Keep going.”

“He wasn't a showman or a showboater or a show—anything else. He was a quiet hero. Which you don't come across often, you know? Heroes are always these big deal guys with muscles who love talking about themselves. But not Atticus. He was above all that.”

She nodded. “Cool, I just need one more.”

“Hmmm, well, I guess if there was one more thing to say about him it would be that he taught by example. Jem and Scout learned that he always had honest intentions even if he wasn't always honest with them. He was just the most stand-up guy ever.”

“I can see that.” She nodded. “He seemed like a really cool dad. But don't tell Dad I said that. He always says he's the coolest.”

I shook my head with certainty. “Our dad has
nothing
on Atticus Finch.”

“Yeah, I don't think Atticus Finch ever got arrested for stage diving.” She laughed.

“Even if he did, he would never have told his kids about it!”

“Dad's all about the TMI.”

“TMI?” I asked.

“Too much information.”

“That's great. Yeah, Dad is all about the TMI.”

“But come on, you have to admit. He's pretty brave.”

I shrugged. “I guess.”

But she didn't let it go. “Maggie, you're too scared to get your ears pierced. Look what's happening to him. It's way scarier. Just think about it.”

No one had ever really told me to think. Because, well, I was always thinking. Telling me to think was like telling me to breathe. It was like telling my hair
to grow, my heart to beat, my bones to get bonier. But I took a moment and I thought long and hard about what she said. And my thoughts led me to the truth. I had been so preoccupied with what had happened to ME. How I had been lied to, betrayed, and backstabbed by my own family. It consumed me so much that I hadn't, not even once, thought about what was happening to DAD.

I considered all the brave people throughout history and literature. What did Dad have in common with them? Abraham Lincoln and Dad both had unruly heads of hair but the comparison stopped there. Dad and Franklin Roosevelt were both in wheelchairs but Dad didn't end a world war from his. The closest he ever got to revolution was demanding that Mom stop trying to switch him to decaf.

But when I thought about it some more, Dad did have something in common with all of these bravest of brave people. Abraham Lincoln, Franklin Roosevelt, Anne Frank, Dr. King, Rosa Parks, Amelia Earhart, Atticus Finch, and my dad, Dan Mayfield: They never, ever gave up.

I thought about things. A LOT. And maybe it was time for me to let it all go. Maybe it was time to forgive my family. Yes, Dad had lied to me and that was a huge deal, but he had apologized. Mom had too. I just wasn't ready to hear it. And I couldn't be mad at Layla, because she
was just an innocent bystander. But I could be mad at Tiffany because, well, I was always mad at Tiffany.

Layla stood up to leave. “Thanks so much, really. You saved my life.”

“Anytime.”

I wrapped my scarf around my neck and followed her out of my room and into the living room where Dad was on the phone. He sounded better than ever.

“Yeah doc, I'm feeling good. I don't think I'll win any bodybuilding competitions. But I definitely feel stronger.”

I gave him a smile, my first one in four days, and he smiled back. Then I headed for the kitchen where Mom was making dinner.

“Hey, Mom.” I made my peace. “What's up?”

She looked surprised. “She finally speaks.”

I half-smiled. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

I meant in life. But she thought I meant for dinner. “Yeah, you can set the table. Dinner's almost ready.”

I reached for the plates and Mom helped me carry all five of them down to the counter with one hand. I always forgot how strong she was. I gathered the forks and knives and for the first time in days I didn't want to throw them at anybody. I wasn't so angry anymore, but there was something I needed to know.

“Hey, Mom. The other day at the museum . . .” I hesitated. Suddenly I felt like I was asking too much. But
I really needed to know. “What did you wish for at the wishing well?”

Her eyes told me everything.

I knew she had wished for the medicine to work.

“Go get your sisters, okay? It's time to eat.”

I knocked on Layla's door and she actually answered. “Hey Maggie, come in.”

This had never happened. In my whole life. Layla had never let me into her room. I walked through the door and the smell of hairspray and perfume almost knocked me out. There were magazines all over the place and torn-out pictures of rock stars taped all over the walls. The rock stars were wearing just as much makeup as Tiffany did. Weird. Clothes were EVERYWHERE and I mean EVERYWHERE. I tiptoed away from a bra that was freaking me out.

“It's time for dinner.”

She fixed a rogue hair in the mirror. “I'll be right there.”

“Hey, um . . .” I knew what I wanted to say but I had a hard time figuring out how to say it. “You didn't really need my help with your homework, did you?”

She turned and wrapped my scarf in a fancy bow around my neck. “Of course I did. You're the smartest girl alive, right?”

“Well . . .” I stared at my feet and spoke under my breath. “Maybe not all the time.”

All five of us dined on dinner and all five of us spoke, even me. It was nice, but it wasn't like the good old days. And I was starting to think it never would be again.

I looked over at Dad and saw that most purple of purple bruises finally beginning to fade away. It reminded me that I wasn't any closer to fixing Dad. I knew eventually the bruises would disappear completely but the memory of it wouldn't. I would always remember that purple.

But I wasn't going to lose hope. I wasn't going to give up. Because brave people never, ever give up.

But boy, did I wish I could give up February. I HATED February. It was always gloomy and cold and all anybody talked about was love and smooching and blah blah blah. I hated it. Sure, I got a giant yellow Whitman's Sampler from Dad. Sure, Layla and Tiffany would let me have theirs. Sure, there was candy at school every day. But there were also Flower-Grams and I HATED Flower-Grams.

Never heard of a Flower-Gram? I hadn't either before middle school. But turns out they're a form of torture where boys pay a dollar to have the Booster Club deliver a flower to the girl of their dreams during homeroom. And so what, I probably wasn't going to get one. I probably wasn't ever going to get smallpox either and I considered myself lucky. And so what, maybe I thought Clyde might send me one after we totally had a moment
over Neil Young. Even though we hadn't really talked since. So it was totally fine that he didn't. He probably thought they were stupid. Of course he did.
⁴²

The big delivery day was Valentine's Day. And I made sure not to wear pink or red because I knew every girl in school would be wearing pink or red. So I wore Dad's Bruce Springsteen shirt instead. I didn't need love. I had America.

When I got to my locker, Mary Winter
⁴³
was holding a bouquet of Flower-Grams like they were a Nobel Peace Prize or something. She fixed her hair in her full-length locker mirror and proceeded to ruin my life.

“Happy Valentine's Day Maggie! How many Flower-Grams did you get?”

“I don't believe in flower murder,” I said.

“Oh well, I have a bunch if you change your mind. You can have one of mine.”

She tried to give me a carnation but I shooed it away. “No, thanks.”

She insisted. “Come on, take this one. It's so pretty.” She read the tag, which was amazing because I didn't think she could read. “It's from some boy named Clyde? Do you know him?”

HOLY.

WHAT.

I slammed my locker door and ran down the hall with a knife in my heart.

The rest of the day was a blur of one devastation after the next. First the flower and then the cafeteria ran out of chocolate milk and then I got a 94 on my French test instead of my anticipated 98 and then the hand dryer in the bathroom was broken and I had to dry my hands on my pants which left behind an embarrassing wet spot that I didn't want to talk about and then TO TOP IT ALL OFF at the end of the day, that stupid flower was stuck in my locker with a note from Mary that read, “From me to you, Happy Valentine's Day Girl!”
Girl
?! Don't call me
girl
, GIRL. I am a woman. A future world leader. You would never call Margaret Thatcher
GIRL
, would you? Certainly not to her face? ON THE WORST DAY OF HER LIFE?!

When I got home I didn't even want to catch up on current events with Dad. He usually told me all about the news of the day but I couldn't handle any more news. I had enough to deal with. So I went straight to my room and locked the door. But then I realized my Whitman's Sampler was on the table so I went back out, got it, ignored Dad's plea to share it with him, went back to my room, and locked the door again. I collapsed on my bed and cried and cried and ate the Messenger Boy chocolate and then cried some more and ate the Cashew Cluster
and then cried some more and thought I was going to throw up so I ate the Mint Crème because mint soothes your tummy.

Why hadn't Clyde sent me a Flower-Gram? Was it my hair? No way. I had perfect hair. Was it my face? Impossible. I had Dad's face and he was the best looking person ever. Was he intimidated by my intelligence? Blinded by my ambition? Maybe it was the quarter inch I had grown over Christmas? I was spiraling even farther down into a deep dark place when someone knocked on my door.

It wasn't a low knock, which meant it wasn't Dad. And it wasn't Layla or Tiffany because they were on dates. Of course they were on dates. It had to be Mom. I opened the door.

She looked excited. “Maggie, someone just called for you!”

What?! I yelled, “Was it Clyde?”

“No, it was your principal. You're student of the month!”

Great. I was student of the month for the month I hated with every fiber of my being. I turned and fell back onto my bed into a sea of chocolate wrappers.

Mom raised an eyebrow as she took in the mess. “Are you okay? Dad said he thought something was wrong. Who's Clyde? Is this about him?”

I smooshed my face into a pillow. “He's NO ONE.”

She sat on the bed without asking permission. “Do you want to talk about it?”

I smooshed my face farther into the pillow. “No. I just want to be alone. WITH MY THOUGHTS.”

“Okay, well I'm sure Tiffany won't be home for a while. So you'll have the room all to yourself.”

Great. The last thing I wanted to think about was Tiffany sucking face with some boy. I turned my head so I could breathe and watched her pick my clothes up off the floor like moms always do.

“Mr. Shoemaker said the student of the month breakfast is Friday. Remember what a great time we had last year?”

She was right. We did have a great time last year. We'd hobnobbed with two of my favorite teachers who had gone on and on about how I was their favorite student and how they were going to miss me and I'd reminded them to remember me when
60 Minutes
called to interview them during my election. It had been a banner morning. Plus, there were assorted jams. And muffins and toast and croissants, which are French for “delicious.”

I sat up. “You'll be there, right?”

“Wouldn't miss it for the world.”

After she left, I pulled up my bootstraps and reminded myself of my mantra: “Career first. Love second.” Forget Clyde. Forget Mary Winter. I would be in the Ivy League soon and they would be in some dumber league like the Weed League or the AstroTurf League.

I had to remember that being student of the month was a really big deal and never got old even though I won
it every year. One year I even won twice when the girl who was supposed to be student of the month got caught cheating on a pop quiz. Her loss was my victory. I just needed to move on and stop being so crazy. Especially since there were crazy genes lurking in my bloodstream. I didn't want to activate them. Future world leaders couldn't be crazy.

The next few days were tough but I muscled through and I avoided Mary Winter and Clyde and any thought of the two of them together. And by Friday, my focus was restored and I was ready to receive my student of the month honor with pride.

I rushed off the bus and into school and saved Mom and me the very best seats in the cafeteria. Mom had to go to work first but she swore she'd meet me in the lunchroom at nine o'clock on the dot.

The tables were covered in fancy white crepe paper and vases of flowers sat in the middle of each one. Vases of flowers that included carnations, which I hated less when they were honoring achievement, not love. I waited and waited as the other parents piled in and I got worried my backpack wasn't going to be enough to hold her place.

What was taking her so long? Was she stuck in traffic? Did she forget? No. She would never forget. Finally, just as Mr. Shoemaker was closing the door, one last person arrived. But it wasn't Mom. It was Layla.

She rushed over to the table, picked up my backpack
and took Mom's seat. My jaw dropped. And not just because I was opening it for a croissant.

She unfolded her napkin in her lap and whispered, “Did I miss anything?”

Did she miss anything? What the heck was
I
missing?

“Where's Mom?” I hissed as I pulled the jam bowl away from her.