Molly McGinty Has a Really Good Day

by Gary Paulsen

  “That's exactly what I said to her this morning!” Irene gloated as Molly stared wide-eyed at her reflection.

  “You'd be a great client,” Brenda/Benet said, smiling at Molly. “You never even noticed me while you were taking your test. Plus, I thought doing this to your hair would make you look more like your grandma. I noticed right off when you walked in together that she's got a real zippy look going for her.”

  “How'd you learn how to do hair like that, Benet?” Irene asked.

  “I taught myself after I couldn't find anyone to do my hair the way I like it.”

  “Oh, honey, I know. Trying to find a good hairdresser is as annoying as that television commercial about feminine itch—”

  “That's not really the point, Irene,” Molly interrupted as she continued to gaze doubtfully at the mirror.

  “So,” Irene continued, “you girls sit next to each other in math class and you don't even know each other? That's a shame. School is all about making friends, you know. I can honestly say that no one has asked me what the capital of Rhode Island is since I was in second grade. And learning long division was a total waste of time, seeing as calculators do all that borrowing and carrying and whatnot so effectively.”

  “Binder Girl up there doesn't seem to notice anything that's not in that notebook of hers,” Brenda/Benet commented, a bit acidly, Molly felt. “I figured that I needed a unique way to introduce myself to her. You've got to take the initiative, my dad says, when you're the new girl.”

  “I don't know how she could have missed you, Benet. Is that a safety pin in your ear?”

  “Kilt pin.”

  “I do love a girl with a strong sense of personal style. Especially since you have to wear these drab school uniforms. Navy blue is not,” Irene confided, “a color that does anyone a favor, if you know what I mean.”

  “That's why I wear lingerie that I buy at Herb's House of the Second Time Around Clothing Store.”

  Despite herself, Molly found that she was becoming interested in the conversation.

  “How kicky!” Irene cooed.

  “Wanna see?” Brenda/Benet took a furtive look toward the door to make sure Sister Catherine was not about to reenter the room. Then she lifted her skirt a few inches to show the hem of a pair of lime green tap pants over her striped tights. Molly noticed a number of male heads turning quickly. It was amazing—they must have heard the sound of fabric sliding. Like bats hearing flies’ wings.

  ‘Tm not really into school.” Brenda/Benet dropped her skirt. “But I love fashion. I'm going to be a stylist when I grow up.”

  “A girl after my own heart.”

  “Would you like to see my portfolio?” Brenda/Benet dug a three-ring binder out of her backpack. Molly whimpered softly at the sight of the binder. Despite her lack of interest in fashion, she was drawn to anyone who organized their life in a binder.

  Brenda/Benet dropped the portfolio on her desk with a thunk. Molly nearly salivated at the sight of the table of contents.

  “See, I've broken it down into different topics. I've even redesigned some baseball teams’ uniforms.”

  “Baseball?” Irene's face lit up at the mention of one of her obsessions.

  “Different topics?” Molly repeated, beaming.

  “Yup. See, most people think stylists just help supermodels pick out boots and bikinis. But I have bigger plans. I want to completely reshape the face of style and design in America. I have ideas on everything. Baby clothes, armchairs,

  airport restrooms, the Pentagon—IVe got plans to make everything more visually appealing.”

  Molly and Irene flipped through the portfolio, Irene complimenting Brenda/Benet on her bold use of leopard skin and chintz throw pillows in taxis and Molly grinding her teeth at the sight of a notebook that surpassed her own in terms of subfiles.

  “Do you really like my work?” Brenda/Benet chewed briefly on a fingernail before pulling her hand away from her mouth. “I shouldn't bite my nails when I get nervous. It's a bad habit.”

  “There's nothing wrong with bad habits,” Irene told her. “Where would we be without our bad habits? They're what separates us from the dreary souls amongst us.”

  “I thought you said the ability to accessorize was what separated us from the dreary souls amongst us,” Mary Pat said.

  Molly looked up, startled. She saw that the entire class had gathered around their desks. Most of the girls were poring over Brenda/Benet's portfolio, most of the boys were gawking at Brenda/Benet, and Chipper Lopez was admiring Molly's new hairdo.

  “Well, that, too,” Irene told her. “The only exceptions to those rules are animals. Animals,” Irene added, nodding, “are the perfect people.”

  “That's what I think too,” Brenda/Benet said. “The only thing wrong with them is that, except for the simian family and cats, they don't self-groom.”

  Molly looked up with approving eyes from Brenda/Benet's impressively configured portfolio. Well, she thought, she may be as flaky as Irene, but at least she appreciates the importance of structure.

  Molly and Mary Margaret huddled together at a table in the corner of the library during their study period. Molly had ditched Irene after math, sending her, with a sigh of relief, to the teachers’ lounge.

  Third period was the highlight of both Mary Margaret's and Molly's day. Mary Margaret looked forward to an entire hour of gazing at Jake, and Molly spent the hour sprucing up her notebook. Although she stole peeks at Jake, she prided herself on the discipline she showed in refraining from watching him except during those brief peek breaks every seven minutes.

  Since Molly now feared that her notebook was lost forever, she was concentrating on cobbling together a replacement. She felt better immediately once she had a to-do list in front of her again.

  “Oh, look.” Mary Margaret poked Molly's arm. Outside.”

  Molly looked through the window and saw Irene holding the hands of two small kindergarteners from the school next door, who were leading her along the sidewalk with the rest of their class. Irene waved merrily and pointed out Molly and Mary Margaret to her new friends. Thirty tiny faces turned to face them and, at a sign from Irene, thirty kindergarteners made a perfectly synchronized bow in Molly's direction.

  Molly cringed and buried her head in her notebook.

  “Nuts,” she whispered to Mary Margaret. “Irene will probably bring home a plaster of Paris handprint or a papier-mâché globe.”

  “I don't know why you're so hard on Mrs. Flynn, MoUy. She's a hoot.”

  “You wouldn't think she was so great, Mags, if she was your grandmother.”

  “Yes, I would. One of my grandmothers keeps calling me Jeffrey. She gets me confused with my brother. And my other grandmother makes me call her Mrs. Blake—she says being called Grandmother will ruin her golf game. I love Mrs. Flynn—she's the most fun ever.”

  “You only think she's so wonderful because she won that bet with your dad and made him raise your allowance. I feel sorry for him—who knew she could arm wrestle like that?”

  “What's so awful about having a fun grandma?”

  “She's … well, she's impossible to live with, that's what. For instance, she talks to everyone— do you know who came to dinner last Sunday? Father James, State Representative Wolfe and some guy who makes dirty movies. Nobody ate a thing. Everyone screamed and hollered about morality, the First Amendment and profit margins all night.”

  “Dirty movies? Really? How'd she meet him?” Mary Margaret's eyes were huge with awe.

  “She says she meets lots of interesting people in her business. And that's another thing, that crazy job of hers. Do you know what she did last week? Called all around town trying to find an animal psychiatrist. And do you know why? Because Clover the racing turtle was depressed.”

  “Oh, that's too bad. How's he feeling now?”

  “Mary Margaret, it's a turtle. Turtles don't get depressed. They don't race, either.”

  “Mrs. Flynn must have had a good reaso
n for thinking Clover was sad.”

  “Yeah, something about losing his competitive edge. Irene claims she could tell that Clover deliberately threw his last race at the county fair two weeks ago.”

  “Well, she would know, Mol. I mean, she is a professional. She told me she's got the largest agency in this part of the country.”

  “That's because no one in their right mind is a talent representative for animals.”

  “They're more than animals, Molly, they're clients.”

  “What's the difference?”

  “A fifteen-percent commission.”

  “Geez, Mags, you're even starting to sound like her.”

  “Thanks. Mrs. Flynn is the most interesting person I've ever known.”

  “She told me once that she used to be afraid that nothing interesting would ever happen to her,” Molly said. “I'm afraid interesting things will never stop happening to her.” She paused, looking miserable. “I just want things to be quiet and normal and organized. Do you remember when she insisted that we eat organic vegetarian food, when we were being friends of the environment? And then she didn't have time to get to the health-food store? All we had to eat for a week was free-range soy or whatever that lumpy white stuff was, and the squash your mother sent over from her garden.”

  “I'd never eaten soy enchiladas before, much less squash pâté, and those soy-squash sloppy joes were wild,” Mary Margaret said. “But that's what makes her so neat. My great-uncle Charlie says Mrs. Flynn has moxie.”

  “I don't even know what moxie is.”

  “A plucky attitude, a good sense of humor and a great ra— Well, never mind, that's just what Great-uncle Charlie says.”

  “And that's all well and good, but everything about Irene is always so … disorganized. I hate that, Mary Margaret. I really do. Irene is so dramatic and unpredictable.”

  At that very instant, the other Marys burst into the library and in one voice screeched, “Molly, your grandmother just got busted for smoking in the girls’ bathroom!”

  “Lamb, what happened to you?” Irene looked up from the bench outside the principal's office to see Molly standing in the doorway, seething and dripping ink on the floor.

  “Michael Parady was so excited to hear that you'd gotten in trouble that he accidentally dumped a bottle of ink on me. I warned him about that silly fountain pen, but oh, no, he had to bring it to the library.”

  “He's a sweet boy. But why are you here? Don't you have class?”

  “Irene.” Molly looked around. The Trouble Bench, as it was popularly known, was actually two benches full of students waiting to be talked to by Monsignor Murphy, and Irene was sitting contentedly, surrounded by what Molly had always regarded as the dregs of the entire school. “The Marys told me—actually, they told the entire library and most of the third floor—that you had been sent to the principal's office for smoking. What were you thinking?”

  “The kindergarteners had snack time, and since I don't like graham crackers, I wandered over to the teachers’ lounge. But I got very bored there— everyone was so quiet and the coffee was terrible. So then I went for a walk and ran into Carly here.” Irene draped a chummy arm around the girl sitting next to her, who glared sullenly at Molly.

  “She was on her way to the ladies’ room,” Irene continued, “so I thought I'd go with her and powder my nose. Erica and Chloe”—she nodded toward two terrifying-looking girls who were picking black polish off their fingernails—“were smoking in one of the stalls when we arrived.”

  “Fine. So why are you and, uh, Carly here if you were just powdering your nose?”

  “As much as I personally disapprove of smoking, I didn't understand why that hall monitor creature had to be so nasty to the girls. She walked in, caught them and proceeded to give them de-whatsit.”

  “Detention.”

  “Yes, detention. Well, I don't know what that is, but it sounded bad, dear. I wouldn't have been so upset had I not, with my very eyes, seen that—what did you call her, Erica? hall Nazi?—smoking in the teachers’ lounge just moments before. It was the hypocrisy more than the punishment against which I had to take a stand.”

  “Yeah. Freaking authority figures think they can boss us around,” Chloe snarled. Erica raised a clenched fist in a gesture of solidarity as Irene and Carly high-fived.

  “So then what happened? How did you wind up here?”

  “Mrs. Flynn was awesome.” Erica jumped to her feet. “She tried to get us off the hook, but the hall monster told her to mind her own business.”

  “Yeah, and then the hall witch grabbed our arms and started to pull us into the hall with her,” Chloe added.

  “Then Mrs. Flynn told the hall hag to remove her hands from them,” Carly explained, “and I thought she wanted me to take a swing at the old bat, so I did.”

  “You hit the hall monitor?” Molly turned to Irene. “You didn't want her to hit the hall monitor, did you?”

  “No, of course not. Violence is never the solution. But”—Irene turned and hastened to reassure Carly—“I can see where you might have gotten that idea. My voice was very firm.” She turned back to Molly. “And, to be fair, Carly didn't actually strike her.”

  “So now what happens?” Molly asked.

  “I'm sure we'll get things cleared up with the monsignor—just as soon as he's able to see us. There's quite a line today.” Irene didn't look at all disappointed by the idea of spending an entire class period visiting with the Detention Squad.

  “Take a seat, pussycat. You're dripping ink all over the floor,” Irene said offhandedly to Molly. Her attention had been captured by a covert poker game that had started in the corner of the room.

  Molly sighed in resignation before she squeezed onto a bench—the kids on it seemed quite willing to give her room once they saw her eye, the dead bag she was dragging and the trail of ink she was leaving behind—and gingerly opened her science book, careful not to leave inky fingerprints.

  She'd get notes from Mary Pat later. If she read the next chapter on her own, she wouldn't fall behind just because she had to miss class to help Irene plead for the elimination of hypocrisy in middle school disciplinary policies. Molly was quickly lost in a history of germ theory, tuning out the commotion surrounding her.

  “Uh, excuse me, but you seem to be on fire.”

  Molly's head jerked up and she looked into the face of Tommy Adams, the scariest boy at Our Lady of Mercy Middle School. Molly had been warned by the Marys to steer clear of Tommy and his bunch. They were responsible, it was rumored, for the mysteriously dwindling squirrel population in the neighborhood. Molly remembered jotting a reminder in her notebook to follow up on the plans she'd heard that Tommy was making to actually build the perfect mousetrap once his experiments with the local rodents were complete.

  Mary Pat's older brother, Clinton, was in Tommy's Screaming Madness rock band. After they practiced in Tommy's father's garage, Clinton was left temporarily deafened and walked around screaming “What did you say?” for several hours.

  Tommy reached over and brushed at Molly's shoulder.

  “There. You weren't actually on fire. Just slightly singed from a couple of pieces of burning paper that landed on you. Must have been those guys.” He jerked his head at three boys who were giggling maniacally and tossing lit matches at each other now that the drama of Molly in flames had ended without serious casualties.

  Molly frantically twisted around on the bench, trying in vain to look at her own back and reassure herself that she wasn't still smoldering.

  She finally found her voice and stammered a trembling “Th-thanks.”

  “Hey, great shiner. YouVe gotta be pretty tough if you can take a smack like that,” Tommy told her with an admiring glance.

  Molly reached up to touch her face, caught sight of her blue-black hands and tucked them quickly under the now jagged hem of her skirt. “Oh … uh … well.…not exactly.”

  “Who's the old lady in the wild pants?”

&nbs
p; “My grandmother.”

  “What did they get you for?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Tommy spoke slowly, as if to a dim-witted child. “Why … are … you … in … the.…principal's … office?”

  “Oh, urn, well, you see …”

  “I only asked because if your grandma had to come down to bail you out, it must have been a beaut.”

  “I got busted for smoking in the girls’ room,” Irene called out proudly. “I'm a juvenile delinquent. She's just here for support.” She beamed fondly at Molly.

  “Cool.” Tommy looked impressed.

  Molly shifted awkwardly on the hard bench, reluctant to get lost in her reading again. The firebugs might try to incinerate her once more if they noticed that her attention had wandered.

  “So.” She cleared her throat. “What did you do?”

  “I beat the snot out of Todd.”

  “I don't know any To—wait a minute, you mean Todd the fifth grader in Advanced Placement classes? You beat the snot out of that Todd?”

  “He's got a real attitude. I didn't appreciate his tone.”

  “But he's, like, well, only ten, isn't he?”

  “Ten and a half. Look, he's my cousin, okay? And I didn't really beat him up; I just stuffed him in a locker. Would have worked, too.” Tommy gazed off into the distance for a moment. “But I underestimated how loud the little booger can scream. So,” he said, abruptly changing the subject. “Why are you here to plead Granny Rebel's case, instead of your folks?”

  Molly took a shaky breath. Irene looked over sharply and opened her mouth to speak, just as Tommy sympathetically patted Molly's shoulder and Molly, studying her ink-splotched fingers, answered quietly.

  “My folks died in a car accident when I was little and Irene … well, she wanted me.” She raised her head and met Irene's eyes, which had been fixed on her during this explanation. Irene nodded and turned back to her conversation with Carly.

  “Trust me, it's almost worth it to be an orphan to live with such a great old lady,” Tommy told Molly.

  “You think so?”

  “Yeah, sure. My folks are drunks. Mean drunks, if you want the full story. They scream a lot.”