Maggie Bean Stays Afloat

by Tricia Rayburn

  Their parents smiled expectantly as they waited for a response. Summer opened her mouth, presumably ready to squeal in excitement, but stayed quiet when Maggie didn’t immediately react. Maggie knew Summer would wait for her to respond first, but she didn’t quite know how she felt about the news. Her parents were the adults and should therefore know best, but her dad had just rejoined the workforce a few months ago after a very long hiatus and significant financial stress. It wasn’t that long ago that they were eating boxed mashed potatoes for dinner because they were on sale and cheaper than real potatoes. She shoved a forkful of tofu, broccoli, and rice in her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “We can do that?” she asked finally.

  “It might take a little while. We have to find a house, first. And save a bit more for a down payment. But you know I worked as much overtime as I could during the past few months as the company grew and expanded to new locations, and the extra income allowed your mother and me to pay off some bills and put money aside every week. And this promotion came with a significant salary increase as well as a sizable bonus—summer is a pool company’s craziest time, of course, so they wanted to make sure I felt good about things before the season got underway.” He took a deep breath. “So, yes, we can. It won’t be easy, but it’s time.”

  A house. Their house. That they owned themselves, and could paint and decorate and call home. They’d always rented, and the one time they’d come close to buying, her dad had been laid off. That was right before they’d been forced to move into their current house—by far the cheapest, smallest, and least maintained of all she’d known—and her dad had wakened every day to watch daytime talk shows rather than find another job. Visions of lilac paint and frilly curtains swirled in her head, and she was about to give in to the excitement turning in her belly when another thought shattered her brief Martha Stewart moment. “Will we have to change schools?”

  “Well—”

  “No,” Maggie interrupted before her mother could say anything she couldn’t bear to hear. “No way.”

  “Mag Pie,” her dad said gently. “We would love to keep you and Summer in your schools, and will do our very best to make that happen. But Lakeview Heights is a very expensive town. It’s one thing to rent, and definitely another to buy.”

  “Then we just won’t buy. At least not until Summer and I go to college. Then you can move to Alaska, if you want.”

  “Maggie, please try to understand. Buying a house is a very big investment and commitment, and while location is important, there are many, many other factors to consider.”

  “The surrounding towns are lovely, with very good schools,” her dad added cheerily, oblivious to the fact that her mom had bit her lip and was watching him as he spoke, obviously nervous that he’d say too much. “And they’re so close! You could still see Aimee after school, if you wanted.”

  After school? What about before first period, when they caught up on everything that had happened since their last phone call the night before? Or in gym, when they talked about which movie to see that weekend while pretending to shoot hoops? Or at lunch, when they observed their classmates for new couples, breakups, and everyone on the verge of either? And what about high school? There was no way she’d survive four years of college preparation and inevitable social drama without her best friend.

  “Nothing’s set in stone,” her dad reassured Maggie when she slumped in her chair and stared glumly at the small mound of tofu and broccoli. “And who knows what we’ll find once we start looking? But we just wanted you to know that we’ll be exploring all options so we do what’s best for the entire family.”

  “Can my room be green?”

  Maggie watched her mother kiss the top of Summer’s head gratefully.

  “Your room can be green, pink, blue, orange, yellow, or any other color of the rainbow.” She looked at Maggie. “Wherever it is, your room will be your room, and we won’t stop shopping and decorating until it feels that way.”

  Maggie quickly shoved tofu cubes and broccoli spears in her mouth. Suddenly consumed by the need to leave the table, she chewed and swallowed without breathing. “Homework,” she said around a wad of brown rice when her plate was clean.

  Ignoring her parents’ concerned looks, she deposited her dishes in the kitchen and hurried to her room. She closed the door, grabbed her iPod from her desk, and dropped to the floor. As her favorite techno workout mix pulsated in her ears, she lay on her back and shimmied across the rug until she felt the metal frame of her bed against her shins. Placing her hands behind her head, she lifted and lowered her torso, doing crunches in time to the thumping bass.

  She knew buying a house was a big deal. She knew that simply being able to buy a house was big deal, and a huge accomplishment for her family. She knew both her parents had been working like crazy—especially her dad, who, whether he was trying to make up for lost time, prove to them that though he might’ve gotten sidetracked, he really did want to be a good husband and father, or a combination of both, had asked for and accepted any available extra work from his company to get to this point. She knew that she should be happy about all of it. And if her parents had sprung this on her at the beginning of the school year, when the highlight of every week had been stocking up on economy-size bags of Snickers and M&Ms that she devoured in her room at night, she probably would’ve been.

  But this wasn’t the beginning of the school year. This was the end. And a lot had happened in the months in between.

  She did fifty crunches, restarted the “Sweat It Out” playlist and kept going, ignoring the burning in her abs. She lifted and lowered, and thought about when she and Aimee had tried out for the Water Wings on a whim last October. She thought about how she’d secretly dieted, exercised, and practiced for weeks beforehand, only to be shut out by the team’s discriminating cocaptains for not fitting the perfect Barbie-body mold. She thought about how she’d cried in her Reese’s Pieces for weeks afterward, packing back on every pound she’d lost, and losing any self-esteem she’d gained. She thought about how, when she finally emerged from her empty bag of candy, she’d found the cocaptains had been called out for their unfair judging and their wrongs righted in the form of invitations to join the Water Wings or the regular swim team. She thought about how she eventually chose the swim team over Water Wings so she could officially start over, and leave the drama of tryouts and turndowns behind. She thought about how amazing it felt to wear the swim team’s sleek, black, racerback one-piece for the first time, and how, after spending hours in the pool every single day, perfecting her form and slashing seconds from her time, it came to feel like a second skin.

  And she thought about the very first race she won. Not just finished—won. She thought about how she hadn’t thought at all about winning while she was swimming, how she’d just focused on her form and breathing, how when she realized her fingers were the first fingers to touch the edge of the pool, she had to glance behind her to make sure she wasn’t in the pool by herself. (She wasn’t, and the eight other swimmers followed closely behind.) In a matter of a few months, and after a lot of hard work, she’d gone from eating candy under her covers, to doing Richard Simmons exercise tapes in the privacy of her bedroom, to competing in and winning an actual athletic event.

  She lifted and lowered her torso until it felt like it’d rip in two if she lifted it once more, and then flopped on her back. When the pain in her midsection dulled to a mild throbbing, she gently rolled onto her stomach and pushed herself up from the floor. She shuffled to her bed, pushed her piles of textbooks and notes aside, and sunk to the mattress.

  Looking around her room, she realized that she’d never thought much about it before. Sure, it had been a suitable haven whenever she’d needed to escape—from her parents, or from life, in general—but couldn’t any room with four fairly soundproof walls and a door that locked serve the same purpose? It wasn’t even like it was that nice to look at; it was barely big enough for her twin bed, dresser, and desk, and paint
ed a shade of yellow that her mother called “warm as sunshine” and “sweet as freshly squeezed lemonade on a hot summer day,” but which more closely resembled honey mustard, or ginger ale. They couldn’t change the color because they didn’t own the house, so they’d brightened it up as best they could with white eyelet curtains, a fluffy white bedspread, and framed photos of tulips and daisies. Unfortunately, whatever good their minor decorative touches did was muted by the unidentifiable, preexisting, permanent stain in one corner of the beige carpet, the shelf-less closet, and the ancient heater baseboard that squealed on cooler days. And all of that might’ve been more bearable if not for the room’s very worst feature: its one window, which actually allowed late-afternoon sunlight but which was so warped with age, it no longer opened. She didn’t want to have to change schools, but fresh air would be nice.

  But, still. For better or worse, despite its many faults, this was her room. This was where she did her homework and studied for tests. This was where she talked to Aimee and Arnie on the phone. This was where she hung her (dried) swimteam bathing suit and goggles from the corner of her desk chair, and looked at the uniform in awe every night. This was where she planned her future. A lot had happened in this room in the past year, and she wasn’t ready to leave it.

  Sighing, she rolled onto her side and stretched one arm to the floor for her laptop. She lifted it to the bed, opened it, and waited for Maggie’s Master MultiTasker to fill the screen. She’d become so busy in recent months, she no longer updated the spreadsheet of grades and long-term and short-term goals as often as she once did, but she still found it comforting to look at and refer to every now and then. She clicked through a dozen different tabs at the bottom of the page and skimmed her countless straight A’s, various exercise plans, weekly weight-loss amounts, and potential tactics to attract Peter Applewood’s attention. When she reached her last update—the one she’d filled in quickly a few weeks ago, as though its recorded existence would ensure actual follow-through—her heart jumped to her throat.

  TELL PETER APPLEWOOD THE TRUTH.

  She closed the laptop and stared at the side of her nightstand. She’d added one more decorative touch in recent weeks, and though Martha Stewart would never have approved of Scotch-taped photocopies, she thought they made for the brightest spot in the whole room.

  Maggie knew she could take Peter Applewood’s year-book pictures (his sixth- and seventh-grade solo shots, plus an assortment with the baseball team) anywhere and tape them to any wall of any room in any house, but she also knew there was no way he had her picture taped to his bedroom wall. So, if they moved, and if she didn’t see him in school every day, he’d probably forget she ever existed. And if Peter Applewood forgot she existed, what good would fresh air be then?

  4.

  “I think I’m going to pass out.”

  “You’re not going to pass out.” Aimee took a small bottle of perfume from the pile of makeup cluttering the bathroom counter and fired three quick shots into the air. “Walk.”

  “Walk?” Maggie said meekly. She sat on the edge of the bathtub, elbows on her knees and head in her hands.

  “Through the cloud.” Aimee waved one arm through the air, as though stirring it to keep it fresh. “Quick, before it fades.”

  “Shouldn’t I spray my wrists? Or my neck?”

  “Only if you want to seduce yourself with the luscious, irresistible, aromatic effects of vanilla orchid.”

  “This is a bad idea.” Maggie stood quickly and ignored the wobbling in her knees as she closed her eyes and walked dutifully through the sweetened air. “This is perhaps the very worst idea I’ve ever had.”

  “What about Scooby Doo?”

  Reaching the corner, Maggie opened her eyes just in time to see Aimee coming at her with a lip gloss wand. “Scooby who?”

  “Third grade. Halloween. You were Scooby, I was Scrappy, and everyone teased us about trick-or-treating for Scooby snacks for months.” Aimee filled in Maggie’s lips carefully, then handed her a tissue.

  “That wasn’t my idea,” Maggie said, blotting her lips obligingly.

  “Yes, it was. I wanted to be a beautiful, magical, glittery unicorn that granted wishes and turned all I touched to diamonds, and you convinced me that being a small, orange talking dog was more original.”

  “Oh. Well, I was right.” Maggie grinned as Aimee brushed her cheeks with blush. “Nobody would’ve teased you for being a beautiful, magical, glittery unicorn.”

  Stepping back, Aimee surveyed her work. “It was a bad idea.”

  “Maybe,” Maggie relented. “But worse than this?”

  Aimee gently tucked a stray lock of hair behind Maggie’s ear and leaned against the counter. “You don’t have to do it.”

  “I know.”

  “Things can just stay exactly as they are, with you thinking about him every waking and sleeping hour and wondering if he’s thinking about you the same way.”

  “Or at all, which would be great.”

  “Or, you can take a risk, put yourself out there, and find out.”

  “But, he’s Peter Applewood.”

  Aimee raised one eyebrow.

  “He’s cute, and popular, and a baseball player. He could be with any girl he wanted. And I’m...” Maggie paused, searching for the most accurate self-description. “I’m me. Boring, ordinary Maggie Bean. Straight-A student and recovering chocoholic.”

  “Peter’s cute, popular, and a baseball player. And he’s also your friend. He cares about you.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And you,” Aimee said, opening a powder compact and leaning toward her, “are Maggie Bean. Funny, smart, beautiful Maggie Bean.”

  She tried to look away from the small mirror, but Aimee’s hand followed her face. Never wanting to acknowledge her rounded shape and the baggy sweats she tried to disguise it in, Maggie had avoided her reflection for almost an entire year before seventh grade. But just like anytime she’d inspected her appearance since joining Pound Patrollers to lose weight before Water Wings tryouts, when she looked in the mirror then, she was surprisingly pleased. Thanks to Aimee’s artistic touch, her brown eyes seemed bigger, warmer. Her skin looked flawless, her cheeks like she’d just come in from a day at the beach. And her personal favorite facial features, her dimples, were clear as day when she smiled. “You do good work,” she said appreciatively.

  “You know we have three other bathrooms!” Arnie tapped lightly on the door.

  The blush on Maggie’s cheeks disappeared as the rest of her face instantly inflamed red. Arnie and Peter had gone outside to shoot hoops while they waited for pizza to be delivered, and Maggie and Aimee had taken advantage of their temporary absence to prepare. Maggie needed this night to go as smoothly as possible, and emerging from the bathroom more dressed up than she’d arrived, with Aimee, was sure to attract unwanted attention and make her even more nervous.

  “I know you guys are close, but you really don’t have to share.”

  “Relax,” Aimee mouthed when Maggie’s eyes grew wider in panic. Grabbing a fluffy white towel from a nearby rack, she opened the bathroom door just enough to fit one arm through, and held out the towel. “Where’s this from?”

  “Um,” Arnie said, clearly confused, “the shower door? And before that, the hall linen closet? And before that, probably the laundry room, which I’d be happy to show—”

  “I meant,” Aimee interrupted, pulling the towel in and sticking her head out the door opening, “what store?”

  “Towels ‘R’ Us?”

  Maggie smiled when she heard Peter snicker.

  “So you don’t know?”

  “It’s a plain white towel,” Arnie said, his tone more serious when Aimee failed to appreciate his attempt at humor. “I’m sure you can get them anywhere.”

  “This isn’t an ordinary white towel. This happens to be one of the softest, thickest, most luxurious white towels I’ve ever encountered, and we’d like to know where it’s from because, as
you know, Maggie’s parents are house hunting, which means they’ll eventually be decorating, which means they’ll eventually need the best towels money can buy.”

  Arnie paused. “You’re in there together because you’re taking decorating notes?”

  Maggie didn’t have to see Aimee’s face to know her lips were set in a thin, tight line, and her eyes were staring at Arnie, unblinking.

  “I’ll ask my mother’s decorator.”

  Maggie giggled behind her hand as Aimee waited for Arnie and Peter to head down the hallway before closing the door and tossing the towel on the counter.

  “It’s a nice towel.” Aimee shrugged.

  “Okay,” Maggie said, facing the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. “Are we sure this is it? The outfit I will forever remember as the one I was wearing when my entire life changed?”

  “Jeans, black tank top, and silver-sequined flip-flops.” Aimee nodded. “Yes. It’s timelessly cute, and looks like you care, but not too much.”

  “Because you know I brought other pants, tops, skirts, and that strapless dress I wore to the swim team awards ceremony—”

  “It’s perfect.”

  Maggie turned sideways, then backward, and peered over her shoulder at her reflection.

  “It looks great,” Aimee whispered, knowing Maggie was inspecting her least favorite physical feature.

  “Did I tell you these are size-eight jeans?” Maggie whispered back.

  “Nope.” Aimee winked. “Not even a dozen times. And check out those arms!”

  Maggie faced forward and flexed her toned biceps. “Who knew actual muscle lived underneath the jiggle?” Lowering her arms, she gave herself one more once-over before turning away from the mirror.

  “Just remember the 400-meter freestyle against Lakeland Junior High, when you were so nervous going against the district record-holder, you could barely get your goggles over your head. And the 100-meter butterfly against Glendale Middle School, when you had a cold and thought for sure you were going to come in last place. And the 200-meter backstroke, when that girl from Oakville Junior High drifted from her lane and accidentally knocked you in the head. You were so nervous every single time—”