The Very Principled Maggie Mayfield

by Kathy Cooperman

  Danny asked, “So, tell me, which landed first? The pennies or the feather?” These two were getting on famously now.

  Maggie put a hand to her temple. “I fail to see . . .”

  Lucy said, “The pennies landed first ’cause—”

  Maggie cut in, “Only they didn’t land on the floor, did they? They landed on Mr. Zelinsky’s head.” Maggie felt Lucy and Danny were not striking the proper tone.

  Chastened, Lucy told Danny, “I’m sorry, Mr. Zelinsky.”

  Danny shrugged. “No problem. Anything for science.”

  Maggie shot Danny a withering “what-the-hell-are-you-doing” look. Danny mimicked Lucy’s contrite stance, putting his hands behind his back and looking somewhat sheepishly at the floor. He did not bother to hide his grin.

  Maggie said to Lucy, “I appreciate that you were trying to learn, but you can’t go around dropping things down stairwells. You could have hurt somebody, somebody a lot less forgiving than Mr. Zelinsky. Do you understand?”

  Lucy said, “Yes, Mrs. Mayfield.”

  Maggie pressed, “Now, please promise me you won’t do it again.”

  Staring at the floor, Lucy said solemnly, “I promise. I promise I won’t drop things ever again . . . in the stairwell.”

  Maggie squinted at the child. She sensed a loophole being punched in the fabric of her authority. “Or off the jungle gym.”

  Lucy looked up sharply, disappointment writ large on her face. “Or off the jungle gym.”

  Laying a hand on Lucy’s shoulder, Maggie said, “Now, scoot back to class. Lunch is almost over.”

  Lucy stammered, “But what about . . .”

  “Your punishment?”

  Lucy shook her head. “No, what about my pennies?”

  Maggie frowned. “I think it’s best that I hold on to them for now. I’ll put them in the June Box.” Everybody at Carmel Knolls Elementary knew about Maggie’s June Box. All year long, she confiscated any items used in the commission of an offense and held on to them until the end of the school year in her June Box. School-yard legend had it that the June Box was the size of a steam trunk, overflowing with tools for making mischief. Diane called it “the devil’s footlocker.”

  Lucy bit her lower lip. “Are you going to call my mom?”

  Maggie folded her arms against her chest and gravely studied Lucy for a moment. Maggie liked and respected Mrs. Wong. But Maggie was not ready to unleash that woman’s high-pitched fury on Lucy for what was, essentially, an accident. That would be too much—like swatting a fly with a sledgehammer. After a pause—unlike Danny, Maggie could be steely—she said, “No, not this time. But if I catch you at this again . . .” Sometimes, it was best to let children’s feverish imaginations fill in the blanks.

  Lucy nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. Mayfield.”

  “Now, scoot,” said Maggie. Lucy turned and ran back up the stairs to class.

  As the second-floor door slammed shut, Maggie turned back to Danny. “How’s your head?”

  Danny put his hand to his scalp and winced. “I’ll have a helluva bump, but I’ll live.”

  “I apologize. We’ve never had anything like this happen before.”

  “Really? You’ve never had an accident at this school?”

  Maggie sensed the challenge in his tone. “Well, of course, we have accidents. Who doesn’t? But we’ve never had a student hurt an adult.” Maggie had to qualify this, “I mean, yes, staff members get hurt once in a great while. Parents too, and relatives and . . .”

  “Random people within a ten-mile radius?” Danny snarked.

  Maggie grimaced. “Anyway, I’m very sorry.”

  “Thank you. I’m sure my lawyer will take that into account.”

  “Your lawyer?” Maggie startled as if she’d been goosed. Lawsuits were a curse upon the land—or at least upon the school district. Even the frivolous cases siphoned thousands from the district’s meager coffers.

  Danny’s expression was grave for a moment. Then he grinned. “Nah, I’m playing.”

  Maggie said icily, “I’m afraid I don’t enjoy that game.”

  “Let me make it up to you.”

  “How?”

  “By taking you out this weekend,” said Danny.

  The effort killed Maggie, but she managed to say the words: “I’m sorry. I can’t go on a date with you. It wouldn’t be appropriate.”

  “Who said anything about a date?”

  “What?” Maggie was officially lost.

  Danny said matter-of-factly, “This would not be a date. It’d be strictly business.”

  Maggie frowned. What did “strictly business” mean? Was he asking her to play Pretty Woman to his Richard Gere? Because she was not up for that—maybe in her fantasies, but never in real life. “What do you mean, Daniel?”

  He sighed theatrically. “I love the way you say my name. It’s like . . . like you’re about to send me to the principal’s office.”

  Maggie cut her eyes at him, reflecting on how God makes all the wrong people handsome.

  Danny said, “C’mon, don’t look at me like that. All I’m asking is that you come to a soiree my investors are holding this weekend. Not as my date, but as a satisfied user.”

  “I doubt you have many satisfied users.” There, Maggie could do innuendo too.

  Danny clarified, “A satisfied user of the MathPal.”

  “But I don’t use the MathPal.”

  “No, of course you don’t. But your school does. You can tell them you think the MathPal’s wonderful.”

  Maggie thought no such thing. But saying so now seemed neither politic nor particularly Christian. She hedged. “I don’t know how wonderful it is. I don’t have the testing data. You do.”

  Danny said airily, “All right, so no testing results. But I’m sure you can sing the MathPal’s praises in some other way. After all, the kids love working on it, don’t they?”

  Maggie couldn’t deny it. “It’s popular. But that doesn’t mean . . .”

  “Tell me, how many other math programs can you think of that kids’ll work on every day without whining?”

  Maggie sighed. “I see your point.”

  Danny rubbed his hands together. “Right. So it’s settled. I’ll pick you up at seven sharp on Saturday.”

  “I didn’t say I wanted to go.”

  “Of course, you want to go,” said Danny.

  Maggie laughed. “Give me one reason why I should.”

  “I’ll give you three reasons.” He ticked off his fingers as he went. “One, because you owe me a favor since I was such a good sport about this little incident. Two, because your school benefits if Edutek’s stock goes up. And three, because you are simply dying to spend time with me.” Danny fluttered his eyes at her with mock coquettishness.

  Embarrassed and titillated at the same time, Maggie quipped, “You really are insufferable.”

  Danny leaned down toward her, and Maggie panicked. If he kissed her, she had no idea what she’d do. Instead, he asked, “Are you going to put that on my report card?” He wiggled his eyebrows. Was this man ever serious? Maggie frowned, and he said quickly, “Sorry, that was cheesy.”

  Maggie took a step back. “I don’t have time for this. I have to get back to work.”

  “So that’s a yes?” asked Danny.

  Maggie said nothing. She turned and walked to the door. Then she turned back, saying, “All right, I’ll go. But, like you said, it’s strictly business. This is a professional courtesy, that’s all.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Danny executed a surprisingly snappy salute.

  Maggie rushed out of the stairwell. She hoped she might catch up with her dignity somewhere down the hall.

  20

  LIFESTYLES OF THE RICH AND BOOZY

  Maggie realized her mistake as soon as she settled into Danny’s pricey black Tesla ($140,000!—she’d googled it). As she swiveled to reach for her seat belt, her dress strained menacingly against her midriff. She felt a stab of bright panic as she p
ictured her side zipper parting like the Red Sea to reveal her Spanx-encased rump in all its glory.

  This was Diane’s fault! She’d goaded Maggie. “This is a swanky La Jolla party, not some lame PTA fund-raiser. It’ll be packed with billionaires and rich-bitch trophy wives. You can’t wear some bargain from Burlington Coat Factory. You got to bring your A game.”

  Then, with steely-eyed solemnity, Diane said, “Maggie, it’s time . . . time for the red dress.” When Maggie shook her head, Diane pressed, “You can’t keep that dress hanging in plastic forever. And don’t give me that ‘I’ll-be-daring-when-I-lose-five-pounds’ crap. You’ve got to be daring now. Our bodies aren’t getting any better. Someday, our tits’ll be on the floor. So flaunt ’em while you got ’em.”

  Diane’s carpe diem, live!-live!-live! speech wore Maggie down. Maggie stuffed herself into Spanx and a push-up bra that was a miracle of modern engineering. Then, for the first time in three years, she put on her red dress. It was a designer number with spaghetti straps, a close-fitting bodice, and a flaring skirt. Looking in the mirror, Maggie marveled at the glamorous stranger reflected back at her. She sucked in her cheeks, put her hands on her hips, and cocked her right leg as if she were on the red carpet. She spent the next ten minutes striking poses: aloof beauty looking off into the distance, vixen bending forward as if offering her boobs as an hors d’oeuvre, and—her favorite—sexy superspy brandishing her weapon (“The name’s Bond, Jane Bond”). The one thing she forgot to do was sit down. If she’d done that, she’d have realized that the only movie character she’d be playing would be the Incredible Hulk—as she burst out of her dress with a crazy roar and carnage ensued.

  Terrified now as she sat in Danny’s car, Maggie held her black wrap protectively against her chest while he droned on amiably about who’d be at the party. Panic sirens roared in her head so she caught only snippets of what he said: “Walter Tilmore’s place . . . major stakeholder in Edutek . . . high expectations.”

  She snapped out of her stupor when Danny asked, “Should I turn up the heat?”

  “Uh, no. Why?” asked Maggie.

  “’Cause you look like you’re freezing. You’re clutching at your shawl like a refugee.”

  Maggie laughed a bit too loudly. “Sorry, I guess I’m nervous.”

  Danny nodded. Tightening his grip on the steering wheel, he said, “Yeah, me too.” And Maggie could see that he was nervous, but it had nothing to do with her. This Walter Tilmore must be one scary guy.

  Maggie’s mouth fell open when she caught sight of Tilmore’s lair—a modernist behemoth of glass and steel looming high on a La Jolla hillside. Its huge plate-glass windows offered an unobstructed view of Tilmore’s elegant guests milling about on all three floors. It was like looking at a gorgeously lit, life-size ant farm full of rich people.

  As soon as Danny pulled up alongside the house, a valet yanked Maggie’s door open and offered his hand—which she took gratefully. She needed all the help she could get limboing her stiff, corseted body out of the Tesla. In a seamless chivalric handoff, Danny took Maggie’s arm just as the valet let go of her. He led her up the steps and over the threshold.

  Maggie quickly scanned the crowd, confirming what she’d suspected—that she’d swum way out of her financial kiddie pool and into the One Percent’s deep end. Maggie knew little about clothes. To her, Prada was like Azerbaijan—she’d heard of both, but she wouldn’t have known either one on sight. Still, she knew enough to recognize gob-smacking luxury when she saw it. The women at the party were all painfully thin and wore gorgeous dresses that hugged their gym-toned bodies. Their faces were carefully made up and had that bounce-a-quarter-off-it tightness born of surgical enhancement. In contrast, the men had allowed their faces to age and their bodies to thicken, within tasteful limits. The men’s conservatively cut clothes revealed way less skin than the women’s did, but their Rolexes and Italian shoes made it plain they’d spared no expense in tending to themselves. Maggie had to work hard to suppress a frown at the crowd’s unabashed opulence. Obsessed as she was with her school’s meager budget, she felt like a starving pauper walking past a bakery window stuffed with pricey cakes—she was both overawed and tempted to throw a rock.

  But she forgot her envy as soon as she caught sight of the sunset through the living room’s front window. The sun was melting into the sea in a riot of orange and purple hues, bookended on each side by La Jolla Cove’s famous jagged cliffs. The vista showed pelicans soaring over the waves while sea lions frolicked on the rocks. Mesmerized, Maggie murmured, “It’s beautiful.”

  “Not as beautiful as you,” said Danny.

  Maggie snapped out of her reverie. “Laying it on a bit thick, aren’t you?”

  Danny laughed good-naturedly. “I don’t believe in stingy compliments.”

  “Or accuracy?”

  “Accuracy is overrated,” said Danny.

  “Is that your personal slogan?”

  Danny smiled. “It’s on my family crest—over a painting of a magic eight ball. I—”

  Danny was cut short by a loud, booming voice from across the room. “Danny boy—how the hell are you?!”

  Danny turned and broke into a wide grin that did not reach his eyes. “Walter!”

  As Walter Tilmore strode across the floor, his guests parted for him, murmuring unreturned greetings. Tilmore cut an impressive figure. A tall, silver-haired man in his early sixties, he had an impeccable tan and a whipcord-firm physique. He wore slacks, handmade Italian loafers, and an open-throated blue button-down shirt that accentuated his piercing blue eyes. He would have been handsome, but his eyes were set too close together and his mouth had a cruel cast to it.

  As soon as Tilmore got close enough, he clapped Danny hard on the back. “How’s my Danny boy?!” Danny smiled, and Tilmore’s gaze floated down to Maggie. He leered. “And who’s your little friend?” Maggie tightened her already viselike grip on her shawl, preserving the mystery of her neckline.

  Danny cleared his throat, signaling Maggie’s nonbimbo status. “This is Maggie Mayfield. She’s the principal over at Carmel Knolls Elementary, our beta-testing site.”

  “Ah, the principal. Tell me, how is it having a multimillion-dollar company operating out of your little schoolhouse?” Tilmore said this in a singsongy voice, as if talking to a toddler. Maggie’d gotten this dripping-with-condescension reception from businessmen before. Moneymen often confused educators with the children they taught.

  She shot back in her best rapid-fire staccato, “Which company? We’ve had several multinationals beta test their products on our students. Of course, those companies had less access to our kids, and they were more transparent with their data.”

  Stiffening, Tilmore said only, “I see.” Maggie pigeonholed him as the sort of man who preferred women be ogled, but not heard. Tilmore turned back to Danny. “And how is the testing going, Danny boy?” In less than a minute, Maggie counted three Tilmore references to the old Irish “Danny Boy” tune. Plainly, Tilmore thought the reference was a witty one and intended to flog Danny with it.

  Danny said, “Great. The MathPal is—”

  Tilmore went on, “Let’s hope this one actually works.” Maggie suddenly became aware that two younger toadies had materialized at Tilmore’s side. They nodded as he spoke, like sound-activated bobbleheads. Tilmore continued, “Your other projects have been all fizzle, and no bang.”

  Danny countered cheerfully, “They say that whatever doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger.”

  Tilmore smirked, “Try telling that to a burn victim.”

  Danny wisely chose not to concoct any can-do metaphors about burn victims. He began, “The early results for the MathPal are terrific. I’m optimistic—”

  But Tilmore was playing to his little entourage now. “Ah yes, Danny’s always optimistic. I remember when I started backing you. What was that? Ten years ago?”

  Holding on to his smile, Danny managed, “Eight.”

  “So that ma
kes you what? Forty-five now?”

  Danny said mildly, “Forty-four.”

  Tilmore beamed. “Forty-four. Too old to play whiz kid anymore. Heh-heh.” He elbowed Danny playfully, then went on, “I remember when you first hit the scene. Everyone said you’d be the Steve Jobs of the education world, going to revolutionize the whole shebang.” Tilmore shook his head at the absurdity of the notion.

  Then, stroking his chin theatrically as if trying to dredge up some hazy memory, Tilmore said, “So, first you had the Grammar Caddie. Remember that one? Ouf, that went over like a rump roast at a vegan convention.” Tilmore laughed at his own joke. “Then you had that reading program for babies. Toddler Tomes, right?”

  Danny nodded uneasily.

  Tilmore continued, “That Toddler Tomes thing was a complete fiasco. It made babies even less articulate. Intellectually, these little buggers were trying to climb back into the womb.”

  Tilmore’s lackeys laughed obediently at this. One of them snarked, “The tagline on the ads shoulda been ‘Toddler Tomes—just think of all the money you’ll save on college!’” More laughter.

  Maggie felt her gorge rise. She spent half her day disciplining bullies. But she wasn’t wearing her principal hat here. She felt like Superman being forced to stand impotently still as he watched a bank robbery in process.

  When Tilmore finally stopped cackling, he sighed contentedly. He placed his hand on Danny’s shoulder. “And now, you’ve got the MathPal. Let’s hope this isn’t strike three.”

  Maggie said, “It won’t be.”

  Tilmore raised an eyebrow at her. “Really? And what makes you so sure?”

  Maggie blustered convincingly, “Like I said before, my students have beta tested dozens of programs over the years. But I’ve never seen them respond to anything as positively as the MathPal. They love it.”

  Tilmore raised an eyebrow. “That doesn’t mean the program is actually teaching them anything.”

  Maggie agreed with this assessment, but Tilmore’s cruelty irritated her. Channeling Danny’s words like an ersatz medium, she bluffed. “Name me any other rigorous math program on the market that kids’ll work on every day without complaint.”