The Very Principled Maggie Mayfield

by Kathy Cooperman

  Diane winced. “Hard to tell. Jeannie’s kind. My dad’s right about her being a windbag, but she’s a caring windbag. And she likes you.”

  “She does not,” said Maggie.

  “No, she does. Just because she doesn’t sit the first time you yank the leash doesn’t mean she’s not a fan. She may not like Danny, but . . .”

  “Why doesn’t she like him?”

  Diane shrugged. “Dunno. He’s too slippery for her, I guess. But she likes you. And I don’t think she’ll want to see you squirm. On the other hand . . .” Diane trailed off.

  “What other hand?”

  Diane sighed. “Even if you like your boss, it’s pretty danged hard to resist gossiping to coworkers when you catch her gussied up in a Pilgrim suit and getting rammed by the only fuckable dude on campus.”

  Deflated, Maggie fell back against her pillows, sigh-saying, “Shhhhhhhhhit.” After a long silence, she asked in a small voice, “Can I have a chocolate, please?” Diane handed her two, and Maggie scarfed them down. Fortified, Maggie said, “At least I won’t have to worry anymore about Richard. I mean, about how to tell him about me and Daniel.”

  “Yup. Richard has been briefed.”

  Maggie grabbed another chocolate, then winced again. “And Lars. I can’t believe Lars saw me like that.”

  “Oh, don’t worry. He didn’t see much, just your black boots sticking out. Danny was the real star.”

  Maggie gave a rueful chuckle. Then she looked at Diane. “And you? Do you think less of me?”

  “Hell no. The only thing I thought when I saw you up there was: ‘Damn, I got to get out more.’”

  27

  THE RECKONING

  After Thanksgiving, Maggie avoided Jeannie for days. But now Maggie was cornered. The veteran teacher had snuck up on her. They’d have to have “the talk” about Daniel.

  Maggie was alone in the cafeteria, inspecting Diane’s decorations for Winterfest—the school’s Christmas/Hanukkah/all-things-December celebration. She felt a tap on her shoulder—Jeannie. “Maggie, we need to talk.”

  Maggie stalled. “That’s right. We do need to talk. I’ve been meaning to track you down. But Diane’s going to kill me if I don’t get back to her on these decorations.”

  Jeannie began, “I know we’ve had our differences, but . . .”

  Maggie reached for a distraction. “Too true. And I have to say, I appreciate how much room you gave me with Connor.”

  “Connor?”

  “Uh-huh. A lot of teachers would have been impatient with that situation, but not you. You gave Mr. Baran the time he needed to figure out Connor’s needs, and now things are . . . Things are good, right?” Maggie spoke too fast, like an overcaffeinated auctioneer.

  Jeannie conceded, “Uh, yeah. I got to hand it to you. Now that Connor’s doing those superhero workouts, he’s a delight to have in class.”

  Maggie arched an eyebrow at this last line. “A ‘delight’? You’ve been writing report cards, haven’t you?”

  Jeannie shrugged. “Professional hazard. Write twenty report cards in a row, and it creeps into your language. You can get in trouble. One time, my ex-husband asked me how he was doing in bed, and I blurted out, ‘Needs improvement.’” Jeannie and Maggie grinned at the anecdote, then fell silent. Jeannie’s mention of sex had summoned the specter of the Great Garage Door Incident. Jeannie tried again. “So, anyways, I was hoping we could—”

  Maggie interrupted, “These decorations are really something, aren’t they? Diane spent all day making them.”

  “Wonderful, yes. But . . .”

  Maggie tap-danced. “I told her to make sure we represented all the religious traditions. Christianity tends to hog the spotlight this time of year, doesn’t it?”

  “True.”

  Maggie hastened to add, “People from other faiths get so mad if you don’t say anything about them.”

  Jeannie nodded. “Yes, saying nothing is almost as bad as actually saying something.”

  Maggie blundered on, “Yes, but we have to try. It’s our job to educate.” Maggie said this emphatically, as if daring Jeannie to contradict her. “We’re trying to be ecumenical. So, we’ve got the usual candy canes, Christmas trees, snowflakes. Plus, menorahs and dreidels for the Hanukkah crowd.” Maggie pointed to the decorations as she ticked them off. “But then I thought, What about the Buddhists? Where’s their namaste?”

  Jeannie frowned. “Do we have any Buddhist students?”

  “I’m not sure. But we do have lots of Asians. Some of them might be Buddhist. I’ve been curious, but it feels racist to presume anything.”

  “Listen, Maggie, I wanted to . . .”

  Maggie continued her verbal diarrhea. “We don’t really have anything for Islam. I feel bad about that. Diane wanted to do cutouts of Muhammad, but they came out all wrong—like swarthy versions of Santa, and . . .”

  “Don’t Muslims think it’s sacrilege to put up pictures of Muhammad?”

  Maggie winced. “Yes, there’s that, too.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I feel bad about leaving Muslims out. I want them to feel welcome at the school.” Maggie jutted out her chin, proclaiming, “We’re not building any walls at Carmel Knolls Elementary. I mean, we do have walls, but not ones to filter out any religious groups.” Maggie shot an apologetic look at Jeannie. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be political. I—”

  Jeannie blurted, “I don’t care about you shtupping Danny Z.”

  Maggie goggled, then stammered, “Well, uh, thank you.”

  “And I want you to know I haven’t told anyone about you two.”

  Maggie’s breath hitched. “I appreciate your discretion, Jeannie.”

  “But I worry that your relationship might be blinding you to certain problems here at the school.”

  “Problems?”

  “With the MathPal,” said Jeannie.

  This caught Maggie off guard. Maggie had not shared her negative assessment of the MathPal with her staff. At first, she hadn’t wanted to sink morale by kvetching about the MathPal since—no matter what she said—her school was stuck with it for a year. Then, once she tumbled into bed with Danny, whining about the MathPal seemed disloyal, even cruel. She didn’t need to tell Danny the MathPal was a flop. Life would tell him that. Feigning innocence, Maggie said evasively, “I was not aware of any problems with the MathPal. The kids seem to love it.”

  Jeannie bristled. “Sure, they do. It’s a video game.”

  “So what’s wrong?”

  “To start with, it’s not teaching them anything.”

  Maggie blustered, “Is that so? Well, I, uh, Edutek’s still refining it. So . . .”

  “And the advertising is outrageous. We are talking beyond.” Again, Jeannie stretched this last word out to four syllables—“bee-yaw-un-da.” Jeannie’s Brooklyn accent got more pronounced when she was indignant.

  “What advertising?” asked Maggie. “I didn’t know about any advertising.”

  “Are you kidding? The ads started after Halloween. Designer labels on the character’s shirts, name-brand candy ‘rewards,’ and—of course—the latest high-end toys. They even slipped in an ad for Birachi’s Toy Store, with the logo and everything.”

  Maggie stammered, “But, uh, we never agreed to . . . I don’t think they can do that, can they?”

  “But they are doing it.”

  Maggie felt her cheeks redden. “I didn’t know. Are they doing actual commercials?”

  “They don’t need to! They shill products by working them into the games. So, when a boy avatar needs energy, he downs a Zammo! soda and gets superspeed. When a girl completes a mission, she celebrates by putting on some Sassy Smile lipstick or going”—now, Jeannie lapsed into a singsong—“sha-sha-sha-shopping.”

  “Sha-sha-sha-shopping?” echoed Maggie.

  “It’s a jingle—stupid, but catchy.”

  Jeannie was right. Maggie’d heard some third graders singing the jingle as they sashayed past. S
he’d noticed them because girls usually save hip swishing for middle school. Maggie hadn’t noticed any of the kids wearing lipstick, but it was easy to miss that sort of thing, especially since she’d started stumbling around in a dopey, sex-sated daze. She asked, “Are the girls’ avatars heavily made up?”

  Jeannie sneered, “Like Bratz dolls.”

  Maggie winced. She shut her eyes and said, as calmly as she could, “Thank you for letting me know. I will talk to Daniel about this right away.”

  Jeannie pressed, “You think he’ll get rid of the ads?”

  “I don’t know.” Maggie didn’t know what Danny thought was appropriate for children. And she wasn’t sure he cared. When he lapsed into tech-speak, he called her students “users.” But wasn’t he the real user here?

  Jeannie crossed her arms. “Look, I know we’re stuck with the MathPal this year. But what about next year?”

  “I . . . uh . . . well.” The truth was that Maggie hadn’t thought that far ahead. Giddy happiness had robbed her of her usual zest for long-term planning. “I suppose that depends on the program’s test results. If they’re strong, we might continue. And if not . . .”

  “Then, we’ll stop?”

  Maggie hesitated a moment. She sensed a trap, but she didn’t see any alternative answer. “Of course.”

  Jeannie exhaled as if the conversation had cost her great energy. “Good. I . . . uh . . . I don’t mean to be difficult. It’s just, I worry. You know?” Jeannie held Maggie’s eyes for a long moment, and Maggie sensed the woman was trying to forge some telepathic agreement. If so, her Jedi skills were for shit.

  Maggie said neutrally, “I understand.”

  “Good. I know you, uh, care for that man. But his program is garbage.”

  Maggie hedged. “I’ll take a look at it again. But I might not be the best judge. I taught Spanish, not math.”

  Jeannie smiled ruefully. “Yes, but I’ll bet you can hablo bullshit when you hear it, can’t you?”

  “Sí.”

  28

  MY PRETTY PROSTITUTE

  Maggie stormed into her office and powered up the MathPal. She loaded the system’s new “updates” and found that Jeannie had exaggerated nothing. It was all there and more—the plugs for flashy toys, sugary soda, and makeup. She texted Danny, asking him to come to her office as soon as he could. Then, because outrage is a dish best shared, she called Diane in and showed the program to her. Even Diane was shocked. She snarked, “This is why the terrorists hate us. Look at all that face paint. Forget Bratz dolls. That avatar looks like My Pretty Prostitute.”

  When Danny arrived, Maggie said haughtily, “Would you please excuse us, Diane? I need a moment alone with Mr. Zelinsky.” Diane nodded and marched past Danny without a glance.

  As soon as the door shut, Danny asked, “What’s this about?”

  Maggie began, “I’ve just been informed that you’re using the MathPal to shill merchandise to my students.”

  Danny grinned, then said with mock innocence, “You mean you don’t like my ads?”

  Maggie didn’t like his tone. She was looking for embarrassed contrition, not pert amusement. “I loathe them.”

  “Why?” asked Danny.

  “We do not advertise products to our students.”

  He repeated, “Why?”

  “Because it’s wrong.”

  “Why?”

  Maggie snapped, “Stop it with the whys. What are you, a toddler?”

  His smile shrank, but did not vanish. “I’m not a toddler, and I’m not being facetious. I’m being intellectually rigorous here. I’m asking you to lay out your assumptions. So tell me, why—in this time when your school is starving for cash—why is it wrong to advertise to students?”

  Maggie answered, “It’s wrong because we are supposed to be educating them, telling them the truth about the way the world works. We need those kids to believe us when we tell them the world is round and Australia’s a continent and it doesn’t get windy just because God’s blowing out birthday candles. We can’t wreck our credibility by making ham-fisted sales pitches for sugar soda and kiddie lipstick.”

  Danny didn’t flinch. “Point taken. And in a better world, you could hold to that stance. But this isn’t a better world. Education costs money. State funds are drying up. The money will have to come from somewhere. So why not advertising?”

  “Because this is a school, not a store.”

  Danny nodded. “Right. But let’s not get too lofty. It’s not like this place is above commerce. I mean, you spend huge chunks of time begging parents for cash for . . .”

  “For things their children need. Supplies, teacher salaries, the—”

  Danny cut in, “Yes, it’s all very noble. I got that. But it’s not really working, is it?”

  Maggie blustered, “We’re having some cash flow issues, but . . .” The school’s STEAM fund-raising drive was still foundering. Old fund-raising standbys weren’t working as well as they used to, and all her and Diane’s newer ideas were either outlandish or too expensive to execute. Diane’s latest and most ludicrous proposal was to have Maggie participate in a new reality show where she would “battle” other school principal contestants for fund-raising. Much as Maggie loved her school, she would not go on TV to run obstacle courses, model swimwear, or be doused in brown “Principal Poo” foam.

  As if reading Maggie’s thoughts, Danny said, “Wouldn’t it be great if you could just stop all that begging? If you could just focus on teaching kids?”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “Advertising lets you do that. Take an example. Mr. Baran’s hugely popular, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, why not monetize that?” asked Danny.

  “What?”

  “Why not cash in on Mr. Baran’s goodwill? Approach a corporate sponsor, tell them how beloved the guy is, and get them to pay his salary for a year in exchange for having him wear a T-shirt with their logo on it every day.” Danny splayed his hands as if framing a marquee. “This class, brought to you by Coca-Cola. ‘Have a Coke and a gym teacher.’” In case Maggie had never heard of Coca-Cola, Danny explained, “It’s a play on the old Coke slogan. You know, ‘Have a Coke and a smile.’ Oh, c’mon, don’t look at me like that.”

  “Like what?” asked Maggie.

  “Like I’m something nasty you found stuck to the bottom of your shoe. It hurts my feelings.”

  Maggie repeated her incantation: “We don’t advertise to our students. Don’t you get that? Aren’t there any limits for you?”

  Danny shrugged. “I said no to the vaping people.” Maggie glared at him. He raised his hands in surrender. “I’m kidding. What’s the . . .”

  “This is serious, Daniel. Get rid of the ads.”

  “Fine. I’ll tone down the ads. We were only going to run the soda and makeup spots for a month or two, just to gauge how well they worked.”

  Maggie pressed, “And what about the toy ads?”

  Danny caved. “Fine, we’ll get rid of those too, for now.”

  “For now?”

  Danny smiled his winning smile. “Look, I can’t promise the MathPal’s final version won’t have any ads. The MathPal isn’t set in stone. It’s a moving target. We’re trying loads of things—slicker graphics, advertising, sales of user data . . .”

  “Sales of what?”

  “User data,” said Danny.

  Maggie was incredulous. “Why would anyone want to buy intel on how our kids are doing with their math facts?”

  Danny smiled at Maggie’s quaint naïveté—as if she were a five-year-old who’d just asked whether butter comes from butterflies. He simpered, “No, babe. They don’t care about that stuff. What they’re after is consumer preferences—where the kids go on vacation, what movies they like, what products they want to buy, and all that. It’s a marketing bonanza if you target it right.”

  Maggie balked. “You can’t sell that stuff.”

  Danny said serenely, “I’m afraid I c
an. It’s part of our deal with the district.”

  Maggie gaped. For a moment, she looked like she was trying to catch snowflakes in her mouth. Then it came back to her—the barrage of questions the MathPal had made her answer before she could log on to the program. Instinctively resenting the program’s invasiveness, she’d concocted a phony identity—as a third grader named “Smelly Donut”—and had given bogus answers. But real third graders wouldn’t do that—no, they’d gleefully hand over genuine, personal information, not realizing that doing so might subject them to years of commercialized online stalking. Maggie sneered, “You sold my students’ information?”

  Danny raised his hands defensively. “Whoa there. We didn’t sell it, not yet. But sure, we analyzed it. You can’t put a price point on data if you don’t analyze it. Look, selling the MathPal to end users is just one way to monetize the program. We have to look at everything: advertising, sales of user data, whatever works. I can’t take anything off the table yet. But I can agree to strip out ads from the version your kids are using. Good enough?”

  Maggie said nothing.

  Danny added in his best “but-wait-there’s-more” voice: “And I will promise not to sell your students’ user data. Eh, how’s that work for you?”

  Maggie nodded. She stopped glaring at him, but remained silent.

  Danny persisted, “You’re still not happy, are you?”

  “No, I’m not happy.” Maggie spat out the h in “happy.”

  “Why not?” Churlishness crept into Danny’s voice. And Maggie was relieved to hear it. She detested his slick, reptilian everything-is-just-business patter. That patter wasn’t just unattractive. It was somehow menacing, a threat to her way of life. Maggie respected capitalism, but she wished it would stay in its own yard.

  Danny looked expectantly at her. She explained, “It’s not just me who’ll be uncomfortable with ads and selling kids’ personal information, Daniel. Most public schools won’t . . .”

  Danny brightened. “Public schools aren’t our target audience.”

  “We’re not? Then who is?”

  “People who can afford it. Public schools are strapped. The real money is in the private sector—homeschooling, swanky private schools, for-profit colleges. I mean, the reason we created the program in the first place was to . . .” Danny trailed off.