Molly McGinty Has a Really Good Day

by Gary Paulsen

  “Sure, Mary Bridget. I've only got my grandmother and her big black bag to deal with today. What's a cello? But you owe me. So don't encourage Irene today. You three just egg her on. Remember my birthday party at the skating rink? You convinced her that she could flip and land that triple-jump thingie, never mind that she'd never skated before. And what happened? A broken elbow and six months of skating lessons, that's what.”

  “But it wasn't a compound fracture and you regained full range of motion in that arm, Mol. And your grandma only took the lessons because she felt so bad for crashing into you that way,” Mary Margaret reminded her.

  “Plus, I really enjoyed watching her compete that year. And I agree wholeheartedly with Mrs. Flynn: the judges were prejudiced against her because of her age. They should have let her advance to the regional finals because, after all, it wasn't her fault that her competitors were all only twelve years old.”

  The warning bell for homeroom rang before Molly could reply, and they joined the rush to be seated before the tardy bell rang two minutes later.

  Because she could only see out of one eye and was handicapped by Irene's bag, which she pulled along the floor behind her, Molly careened into one person after another.

  “Sorry… oops, excuse me … I apologize … my fault… I beg your pardon.”

  She finally arrived, breathless and a little bruised, in homeroom and collapsed gratefully at her desk.

  She felt a surge of optimism. The worst, she thought, was probably over. She'd made it to school in, more or less, one piece. Granted, she didn't have her notebook, she did have Irene, and she now had a black eye and a heavy bag and, later in the day, a cello, too, but things were certain to quiet down.

  “Attention!” The morning announcements began to boom through the school's public-address system. “Good morning, students of Our Lady of Mercy.”

  Molly sat attentively, listening to Monsignor Murphy, the principal.

  “I'm delighted to share the news with you that we have a new student joining us today.”

  The hair on the back of Molly's neck slowly rose. She glanced around nervously and tried to shake the creepy feeling off.

  “Our new student, as she prefers to be called”— Molly offered up a quick prayer to St. Jude, patron saint of lost causes—“and the sole guest of this year's Our Lady of Mercy Middle School Senior Citizens’ Day, is Mrs. Irene Flynn, grandmother to our own Molly McGinty of the sixth grade.”

  The Marys let out whoops at Irene's and Molly's names. Molly slid down in her seat, willing herself to disappear. Her feeling of horror only intensified when she heard Jake Dempsey, the Jake Dempsey, wonder aloud, “Is that the lady in the purple pants?”

  Molly stole a glance at the Marys. The mere sound of Jake's voice was enough to make them fall silent, if only temporarily. It was widely agreed upon by the girls of the sixth-grade class, more than a few seventh graders and a couple of eighth graders that Jake Dempsey was the best-looking boy they'd ever seen.

  His name had been surreptitiously scribbled in many girls’ notebooks—I iß Jake—since his family had moved into the neighborhood earlier that year.

  The Marys diligently reported to Molly each and every encounter they had with Jake, as well as sharing information they'd gleaned about him. Jake was allergic to lemons, he loved gross-out comedy movies and in all likelihood he was going to be elected captain of the junior varsity football team next year.

  Although she wouldn't admit it, even to the Marys, Molly also had a crush on him, but she was too shy to even speak to him.

  Another reason to find her notebook quickly. What if Jake somehow discovered that she had opened a subfile on him? Nothing all that specific— for instance, she did not know his blood type yet, so the subfile was only half a page long and the information was, naturally, in code, so it wasn't likely that anyone would know what they were looking at should the notebook fall into the wrong hands, but Molly blushed to the roots of her hair at the thought of her Dempsey dossier.

  Still, it wasn't as if she stalked him or anything.

  Whenever they were in the same general vicinity, she dropped her gaze and stared fixedly at her notebook. Which was not to say that she didn't follow his every move when she was convinced he wouldn't notice her.

  She was in agony whenever he sat next to Elaine Puckett at lunch and she'd silently cheered when he'd wound up in her homeroom, study period and shop class.

  Molly waited patiently for the right time to speak with him. After all, she wanted to make the right impression. Or at least some impression. Right now he didn't really know she was alive. Yet admitting to the fact that the senior citizen with the questionable taste in clothes was her grandmother wasn't the sort of impression she'd had in mind.

  Molly was saved from having to confess her relationship to Irene by the Marys.

  “Mrs. Flynn is the greatest!” Mary Pat burbled to Jake.

  “We're Molly's best friends in the whole world,” Mary Bridget said, throwing an arm around Molly's shoulder and jerking her close.

  “And we practically live at their house,” Mary Margaret chimed in.

  The other Marys nodded and jockeyed to get closer to Molly so that they could bask more directly in the reflected glory of Irene's appearance at school. Molly stood, wishing she could think of something, anything, to say to Jake.

  Oh.” He nodded and turned toward Molly. “That's cool that your grandmother came to school with you today, especially since no one else's grandparents ever come.” He hesitated, peering at her. “You look different today.”

  Molly's mind scrambled between joy that Jake was finally talking to her and terror that he'd noticed her at all. She opened her mouth to speak.

  “It's her black eye,” Mary Bridget explained.

  “She doesn't usually have one,” Mary Pat pointed out.

  “She fell down,” Mary Margaret finished.

  Jake continued to study Molly. “No, that's not it. I know! You don't have that binder you're always looking at.”

  Molly's heart, already racing just from the conversation, nearly burst. He noticed my notebook, she thought proudly. Any boy who appreciates the importance of a really well-organized notebook is even more perfect than I'd suspected.

  “She lost it,” Mary Margaret started.

  “Yesterday,” Mary Bridget continued.

  “And it's a real tragedy, you know, because shekeepseverythinginthatnotebook,” Mary Pat blurted out as she raced to finish her sentence before one of the other Marys interrupted her.

  “Bummer.” Jake looked as if he might say more, but the bell rang and he turned to grab his backpack.

  Molly stood frozen as the surging Marys swept Jake from the room on a wave of chatter.

  Well, that went well, Molly thought bitterly as she shuffled out of the room toward first period, dragging Irene's big black bag on the ground. It looked like roadkill.

  “Where is she? I specifically told her not to be late to this class.” Molly glanced nervously from the door to her watch. Her first-period French class was about to start. “I warned her that Sister Gloria hands out demerits for tardiness.”

  Molly and Mary Pat were sitting at their desks, motionless, with their eyes fixed straight ahead. They knew they risked being struck by a piece of chalk if Sister Gloria Gustavus caught them talking.

  The girls had perfected an all but silent whisper and, as Mary Pat pointed out, Sister's aim wasn't what it used to be.

  “Mrs. Flynn will show up, Molly,” Mary Pat murmured. “The second bell hasn't rung yet.”

  “I don't know, Pats.” Molly's lips barely moved. “I don't think Irene took me seriously when I told her how strict Sister Gloria is.”

  “You kind of have to experience Gloria Gustavus to believe her.” Mary Pat spoke from behind a book she pretended to read. “My parents didn't believe she would give Chuckie Webber detention just because he had the hiccups.”

  “I've gotten perfect scores on all my tests in this c
lass and I'm getting a C because I keep asking how to pronounce words,” Molly said. “She thinks I'm challenging her authority when I ask questions.”

  Sister Gloria Gustavus spun around from the blackboard, where she had been writing conjugated verbs, and peered at her students over the tops of her glasses, ready to begin class the instant the second bell rang.

  Irene floated through the door just as the bell sounded. Molly gestured frantically at the empty seat between her and Mary Pat.

  Instead, Irene took one look at Sister Gloria Gustavus and shrieked, “Gigi, my girl! How the hell are you?”

  There was a moment of stunned silence. Sister Gloria gaped at Irene, who stood grinning in front of her.

  “Don't just stand there—say something. It's been a long time since we were in a classroom together. What do you think of my new pants? Snazzy, huh? I'm here with my granddaughter. Bonjour, chouchou” She blew a kiss at Molly, explaining to the class, “That's French for little cabbage.’”

  Molly smiled weakly, wondering if she would fit under the desk, as Irene threw her arm around a still paralyzed Sister Gloria and glanced down at the teacher's desk. Irene picked up a book and paged through it.

  “What are you teaching these poor souls?” she said with a snort.

  She read from the book, translating into English, “The cat sat on the chair. The dog is under the table. The monkey sits on the branch.’” Irene rolled her eyes at the class.

  “Are you kidding me? You'll never find a monkey in Paris, and none of this dog and cat stuff is going to come in handy at all.”

  The students stared at Irene adoringly—they'd wondered about the French animals too, and the knowledge that crusty Sister Gloria Gustavus was nicknamed Gigi was the most thrilling thing they'd learned in French class all year. The only one in the room not leaning forward to listen was Molly, who wondered if she had died and this was how it would be for all eternity, just constant embarrassment with Irene and no notebook and Jake wandering around thinking she was a geek. A one-eyed geek. A geek Cyclops. Quick, she thought, get control of your brain; you're going into shock.

  Irene hopped up on the edge of Sister Gloria's desk and winked at the class.

  “What you kids need is practical French. You know, phrases that you'll need to know when you go to France someday. Remember when we went to Paris, Gigi?” Irene threw back her head and laughed. Molly was shocked to see Sister Gloria blush. What had they done in Paris that would simultaneously delight Irene and embarrass Sister Gloria?

  “Gigi and I went to the same high school and we traveled to Europe together after we graduated. I bet that waiter is still talking about us.” Irene slapped her thigh. Tm sure he'd never been arrested before.”

  “You got arrested, Mrs. Flynn?” Mary Pat asked.

  “Only once. Nope, I take that back. We were also arrested in Amsterdam and, urn… oh, yes, we were brought in for questioning by the captain of the ship we sailed on to Europe.”

  Molly glanced over at Sister Gloria, who had moved her chair to the front row of desks and was watching Irene as intently as anyone else in the room.

  “So you see, mes petites amours, you'll need to know how to say to the police officers—that's les gendarmes—‘What can I do for you, Officer?’ and ‘No, I don't know who threw that bottle,’ and ‘We did not run down the Champs Elysées naked.’”

  Mary Pat finally broke the astonished silence. “Can you teach us how to swear in French?”

  “Oh, sure, but frankly, if you really want to swear in a foreign language, you just can't beat Italian for cursing. Or Spanish. Hemingway used to say that only the Spanish knew how to swear well. … I remember at a party once we were talking and he was a little bit drunk … Well, never mind that. It's just that Italian or Spanish is such a passionate way to express yourself.”

  Sister Gloria Gustavus cleared her throat softly and exchanged a glance with Irene.

  “Well,” Irene said, backpedaling, “maybe not actual swear words, and, since you are in French class, maybe we'd better concentrate on one language at a time. How about some perfectly nice French words that sound like swear words?”

  “Let's get into small groups, mes enfants” Sister Gloria Gustavus leapt to her feet, bristling with energy. “We'll have adjectives that sound like swear words over here, verbs that sound insulting over there and nouns of a dubious nature in the front of the room.”

  Twenty-five pairs of eyes looked in amazement at the stranger Sister Gloria Gustavus had become. As if on a string, all their heads pivoted toward Irene, who had crossed her legs and was swinging a foot casually, a satisfied look in her eye.

  “Chop-chop,” Sister Gloria said. “There will be a test on this material later.”

  The class jumped out of their seats and quickly formed small groups.

  “Poodle”—Irene motioned to Molly—“you take the verb group, okay? I'm sure you know tons of interesting-sounding action words.”

  As Molly slowly made her way across the room, her uniform got snagged on the broken crank of the window and as she jerked free, a big chunk of material was torn from the skirt.

  “Oh, no,” Molly sighed, trying to hold the tattered edges of her hem together.

  “Too bad miniskirts aren't allowed in school, because you have very nice legs, dumpling,” Irene commented.

  “Almost as good as yours, Irene,” Sister Gloria called out with what passed for a giggle. “Say, is that Charlie Blake still after you the way he was in high school?”

  Mary Pat nudged Molly. “I bet that's Mary Margaret's great-uncle Charlie! He's got a huge crush on Mrs. Flynn, you know.” She nodded sagely.

  Molly ignored Mary Pat as she pulled up a chair and opened her French book, searching for some interesting words that sounded bad.

  Well, Molly thought, even if it's dirty, at least Irene has us studying French. Maybe things won't go so badly after all.

  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.