Maggie Bean Stays Afloat

by Tricia Rayburn

  The invitation raised a lot of questions (how she’d get to Polly’s, what she’d wear, who she’d talk to once there), but she was certain of two things: This never would’ve happened a year ago, and she couldn’t wait to tell Aimee.

  12.

  “Is this another one of Wilma’s sneaky sales tactics?” Maggie asked, standing between her mother and a flat tractor tire that had apparently been too heavy to throw out, so was just left in the middle of the patchy front lawn and filled with gray rocks. “So we get desperate and love whatever she shows us next, no matter the price tag?”

  “I’m afraid not.” Her mother opened a manila folder and flipped through a stack of printed papers. “I searched the online listings myself and told her which ones we wanted to look at.”

  “Did you like this one because we wouldn’t have to buy as much furniture to fill it?” Summer stepped carefully on a tall stack of yellowing newspapers and took a picture of the small, sagging, carnation-pink house.

  “Didn’t anyone ever teach you girls not to judge a book by its cover?” Aimee asked from the edge of the yard, where she surveyed the front of the house from top to bottom.

  “Yes,” Maggie said automatically.

  “You’d be amazed at what a fresh coat of paint and some simple landscaping can do to a shabby exterior. And who knows what’s on the other side of that front door?”

  “A big black hole, from the looks of it,” Maggie’s mother quipped.

  “Or,” Aimee said, crossing the lawn, “rustic hardwood floors, charming wainscoting, and quaint nooks and crannies.”

  “Or a big black hole,” Summer said, peering around Aimee after she’d marched up the crumbling stoop and flung open the front door.

  “Watch your step!” Wilma yelled from somewhere inside.

  “Wow.” Maggie stood behind Aimee and eyed the broken floor. It looked like someone had dropped a bowling ball through the worn wooden planks.

  “I’m so sorry,” Wilma said, running into the living room. “The owner promised to get that fixed weeks ago.”

  “No biggie.” Aimee gripped the edges of the door frame with both hands before stretching one leg, then the other, across the gaping hole.

  “We appreciate your optimism, sweetie, but don’t want it to land anyone in the hospital,” Mom said, pulling Summer back by one hand just as she was about to leap through the doorway.

  “The back door’s perfectly safe,” Wilma promised. “Just walk around the side, crawl under the fence, and you’re right there.”

  Maggie looked at her mother as Wilma and Aimee headed toward the back of the house inside and Summer disappeared around the corner of the house outside. “‘Crawl under the fence’?”

  “Hurry after your sister, please.”

  For better or worse, the gap in the chain-link metal fence was so big, they were able to duck under it as though they played an early round of limbo rather than crawl. Not that that made the house’s peeling pink paint, scraggly, litter-strewn lawn, or waterless concrete bird fountain any more appealing, or Maggie any more eager to pick out her bedroom inside.

  “I’ve conducted a thorough inspection,” Aimee said firmly, pulling Maggie into the kitchen once inside.

  “In five minutes?”

  “My parents have dragged me through dozens of houses. I know what to look for.”

  “Which is why we dragged you with us,” Maggie reminded her playfully. In addition to having regular careers, Aimee’s parents bought, renovated, and resold houses without ever living in them, just for fun and some extra money. Maggie had wanted to invite Aimee along because they hadn’t really hung out in a while, but because her mother’s stress levels might not have handled extra company well, she’d played up Aimee’s previous real estate experience.

  “Oh, well, this is interesting.” Her mother stood frozen in the back doorway, staring at a random pile of dirt and sticks in the middle of the living room.

  And they needed all the help they could get.

  “It’s a handyman’s special,” Aimee concluded.

  Maggie raised her eyebrows. “You’ll need to clarify the ‘special’ part.”

  “A handyman’s special is a cheap house that needs work—in this case, a lot of work.”

  “So it’s sort of like a skirt that’s been discounted because it’s missing buttons? You save money up front but then have to go through all the work of finding the right kind of buttons and sewing them on so the skirt doesn’t fall off?”

  “Exactly.”

  “But you wouldn’t want to buy said skirt unless it was a fun color, or had pretty ruffles. Its potential would have to be worth the extra work.”

  “Right.”

  “So, does the house have potential?”

  “Every house that has floors, walls, and a roof has potential.”

  “Mom, come quick!” Summer shrieked.

  Maggie dashed from the kitchen and followed her mother up the dusty narrow staircase, Aimee on her heels. Summer could’ve been trapped under a collapsed wooden beam, for all she knew, but as she ran, Maggie couldn’t help but notice the chipped, discolored paint, stained carpeting, and curious lack of doors throughout the house.

  “You can see the sky,” Summer said excitedly when they finally found her in a bedroom that was so tiny, Maggie doubted it could even function as a closet and house her relatively small collection of skinny clothes.

  Maggie’s chin dropped when her eyes finally made it to the ceiling. You could indeed see the sky—right through a boulder-size, open-air, accidental skylight.

  “I’ve seen enough.”

  “It’s not so bad, Mrs. Bean. You just have to use your imagination.”

  Maggie shook her head slightly at Aimee. She knew she was just trying to be helpful, but her mother wasn’t in the mood. She hadn’t carried Summer in years, but lifted her now as though she were a toddler, and headed for the door.

  “Girls, walk in front of me so I can see you, please.”

  When they reached the first floor, her mother put Summer down gently and faced Wilma, who stood near a pile of bricks that had once been a fireplace mantel.

  “So what do we think?” Wilma asked bravely. “It’s a bit of a fixer-upper, but just think of the possibilities you’d have in basically starting from scratch and making it your own.”

  “This house is a death trap.”

  Wilma laughed nervously, apparently not getting that their mother wasn’t kidding.

  “You knew I’d have my girls with me, and you had us come here, anyway.”

  “I’m sorry.” Wilma’s smile faded. “The owner said he’d fix the bigger problems.”

  “Perhaps you should’ve made sure that happened.”

  “Perhaps,” Wilma said, her voice firmer. “But let me remind you that you’re working with a very narrow budget, and your options will be limited.”

  Maggie resisted the urge to crawl into the bowling-ball hole in the floor by the front door when her mother’s mouth fell open and she stared at Wilma, stunned. “We’ll be outside,” Maggie said, taking Summer’s hand and catching Aimee’s eye.

  “In the car, please, where nothing will fall on you and you won’t fall through anything,” Maggie’s mother called after them.

  “Mom seemed pretty mad,” Summer said once they were safely inside the car.

  “I don’t think this is her dream house.”

  “So?” Summer shrugged. “There are millions of others. This one’s just not for us.”

  Maggie slid down the passenger seat and looked out the window. She wanted to believe it was as simple as that—that their perfect house was out there just waiting to be found—but she was worried. What if it wasn’t? What if this was the best they could afford?

  “Mags,” Aimee said, either not sharing Maggie’s concern or sensing the need for a subject change as she grinned and popped her head between the two front seats. “Can we please discuss Ben Parker’s cuteness quotient for a minute?”

&nbs
p; Maggie widened her eyes and nodded toward the backseat. She could argue later that there really wasn’t anything to discuss since addressing Ben’s cuteness quotient would be admitting she actually found him cute, which would go against the “no boys” rule. Whatever her feelings on the matter, it definitely wasn’t a conversation to be had in front of Summer.

  “Don’t worry, she’s in another world.”

  Turning slightly, Maggie looked in the side-view mirror and found Summer writing in her notebook and bobbing her head in time to the music on her iPod.

  “Sounds like Black Eyed Peas,” Aimee guessed.

  “In that case, you can discuss Ben Parker’s cuteness quotient all you want.” Maggie turned back to face Aimee. “But I have nothing to say on the matter.”

  “Come on, Mags. Not only do his height, dark curly hair, and pretty blue eyes basically define the term, but his personality multiplies it by, like, a million. He’s so nice. Erica Davis got stung by some bug or fish the other day—which, as reigning Queen of the Day, was just what she needed after her parents told her they were going to Paris and leaving her with a babysitter for the rest of the summer—and he picked her up so she wouldn’t have to walk on her hurt foot, carried her to shore, and bandaged the wound.”

  “That’s kind of his job,” Maggie said, trying to sound unimpressed even though she’d seen the gentlemanly act herself and thought Ben could teach average guys everywhere a thing or two.

  “All the Figure Eights want to marry him. And you, lucky girl, get to be with him all day every day.”

  “Not with him, just near him,” Maggie corrected. “And I might be near him at night, too.”

  Aimee leaned farther between the two front seats. “Details, please.”

  Maggie peeked over the back of the seat to make sure Summer was still occupied, and then turned back to Aimee. “I was invited to a party.”

  Aimee leaned so far forward, she practically sat on the middle console. “He invited you to a party?”

  “Well, no. Polly technically invited me, but he was right there and definitely agreed that I should come.” Sensing a smile forming, she added, “Not that that matters. Because I have absolutely—”

  “Sworn off boys, I know.” Aimee shook her head quickly, as though trying to settle a million swirling questions. “So, when’s the party? Where? Who’ll be there?”

  “Saturday night, Polly’s house, all the instructors and counselors.”

  “Mags …” Aimee’s mouth stayed open, as though she forgot what she was going to say, before snapping shut. She glanced through the driver’s side window when a cyclist whizzed by, and turned back to Maggie only when the cyclist reached the end of the road and turned. When she spoke again, her voice lacked its usual range of high-pitched enthusiasm. “A real high school party. Wow. Are you going?”

  Maggie paused. The truth was, she hadn’t decided. Anytime she thought she had, she immediately came up with a hundred reasons why that was the wrong decision, and changed her mind. When she decided that, yes, she most definitely couldn’t pass up this amazing opportunity, the likes of which may never happen again if she turned it down now, she pictured herself standing against a wall in Polly’s crowded living room, not talking to anyone because she didn’t know anyone besides the other swim instructors who were all busy with their real friends. So then when she decided that no, she most definitely couldn’t bear hours of awkward loneliness, the likes of which she’d never have to know if she simply stayed home and read, she pictured herself attempting to abandon her wallflower post in Polly’s living room, joining the American Idol karaoke audience and cheering on Ben and Jason. “I’m not sure,” she finally admitted.

  Aimee disappeared from her uncomfortable position between the two front seats, got out of the car, and slid in the driver’s seat. “You have to go.”

  “But—”

  “Forget about Peter. Forget about Ben and the dozens of other cute boys who’ll be there. Go because last summer, or even a few months ago, you never would’ve imagined yourself ever having to make this decision at all.”

  Recalling the countless nights she’d spent in bed with bags of Snickers and Kit Kats and dozens of books, Maggie frowned.

  “Go because Anabel Richards and Julia Swanson will fall over in jealousy when we get back to school and talk about your amazing three months with older kids, loud enough for them to overhear.”

  Temporarily forgetting that, on the chance that her family actually found a house they could afford that wouldn’t crumble to a pile of wood and nails once they stepped inside, she might be switching schools before then, Maggie smiled.

  “Just go.” Sighing, Aimee sat back against the seat and carefully traced the Toyota symbol on the steering wheel with one finger. “You should go.”

  “Come with me.”

  Aimee shook her head. “I don’t think that’s a good—”

  “Please,” Maggie said, growing excited. “We can hang out, talk, and meet new people, together.” It was the perfect solution.

  “But I wasn’t invited. And I’d be the only camper there.”

  “And I’ll be the only junior swim instructor. I’m not exactly one of them either. But everyone will be so distracted, they won’t even notice … and if they do, we’ll just tell them we’re world-renowned visiting Pilates instructors.” Maggie wasn’t entirely sure everyone would be too busy to notice two thirteen-year-olds trying to get in on their good time, but knew that she and Aimee could handle anything together.

  Aimee considered this. “Well, it would be a great opportunity to really evaluate and accurately determine Ben’s cuteness quotient.”

  “It would.”

  “And the Figure Eights would definitely want me to go so they can hear all about it. They may even break tradition and make me Queen of the Day for good news instead of bad.”

  Maggie paused. Making the Figure Eights happy wasn’t exactly the reason she wanted Aimee to want to go.

  “Who wants breakfast?”

  Maggie and Aimee jumped as Maggie’s mother leaned both arms on the driver’s side door and stuck her head through the open window.

  “Pancakes, French toast, sausage, bacon.” Her mother licked her lips. “What do you say?”

  “You don’t eat that kind of stuff,” Maggie said, concerned.

  “What happened to Wilma?” Summer asked loudly, still wearing her earphones. “Aren’t we looking at more houses?”

  “Not today.”

  They waited for her to elaborate. When she didn’t, Aimee climbed over the middle console and into the backseat.

  “What’s wrong?” Maggie asked after her mother was in the car and struggled—again—to find the right key for the ignition.

  “Nothing a buttery blueberry short stack won’t fix.”

  Frowning, Maggie sat back and buckled her seat belt. She didn’t know if she’d ever used that exact line, but referring to food as an instant cure-all was certainly something she would’ve done, once upon a time. For her mother to do so was not only out of character, but especially concerning because Maggie was right there—which meant her mother was so distracted, she’d momentarily forgotten to carefully step around the sensitive issue.

  When they finally drove away from the falling-down carnation-pink house, the car filled with stressed silence and Maggie found herself thinking not about their future home and the color of her future bedroom walls, but about Saturday. The idea of spending time with people who knew absolutely nothing about her or where she came from was becoming more appealing by the second.

  13.

  Arnie gripped Maggie’s arm as they stood in the classroom doorway.

  Maggie tried to move. When that didn’t work, she tried to speak. Both were impossible.

  “It’s like some kind of freaky fruity wonderland,” Arnie finally managed.

  The best Maggie could do was nod. Gone were the cardboard cutouts of last week. This week, glittery three-dimensional apples, oranges, bananas, an
d watermelons, all ten times the size of their real counterparts, dangled from the ceiling. The blinds were drawn and the overhead light was out, leaving the room illuminated by thousands of twinkling white lights zigzagging along the walls. Boxes of crayons and coloring books—including those titled Molly Goes to the Market and Davey Does Dinner—sat on each desk, and Beach Boys music played from a CD player in the corner of the room. But the most bizarre feature, the thing that had rendered Maggie completely speechless, was the enormous strawberry-shaped disco ball that hung in the center of the room—right above a shiny silver scale.

  “I think her blood sugar’s dropped to abnormally low levels.” Arnie leaned against the door frame for support.

  “Isn’t it great?” Electra was suddenly behind them, peeking into the room over their shoulders.

  “It’s something,” Maggie marveled.

  “Why are you wearing a cape?” Arnie asked suspiciously as Electra squeezed between them.

  “Fun, right?” Electra twirled to show off her sparkling superhero outfit, complete with silver cape and enough black spandex to outfit an entire fleet of racing cyclists. “What kid wouldn’t want to hang out here with us all day?”

  Arnie looked at Maggie. She nodded once.

  “Electra, we need to talk,” Arnie said carefully.

  “You got it.” Electra spun toward the snack table. “Let’s chat while we hang these streamers and balloons.”

  “Can we chat before then?”

  She turned to them, her smile straightening at the seriousness of Arnie’s tone.

  “Electra,” he began gently, “this is all very nice. Great, even. You could probably have a very successful party-planning business serving a fun-loving, health-conscious clientele.”

  Electra looked at him, then at Maggie. “Thanks.”

  “It’s just, Arnie and I have been doing a lot of brainstorming, and we were sort of hoping we could try out some new ideas with the kids today.” The truth was, they hadn’t done anything besides discuss website templates, but Maggie wanted to put any potential awkwardness on them, not Electra. “If that’s okay with you, of course.”