The Very Principled Maggie Mayfield

by Kathy Cooperman

  Maggie noticed that the common areas—unlike the residences—had loads of antibacterial gel dispensers. Gesturing to one, she told Walter, “You guys are big on hygiene.”

  Walter grinned. “There’s going to be a lot of us down here—sixty people. It’ll be crucial to keep the germs at bay.” He took a squirt of gel and rubbed his hands together. Maggie suddenly remembered Danny mentioning that Walter had a touch of obsessive-compulsive disorder. She wondered if she’d want to spend end times trapped with Howard Hughes.

  As Walter moved ahead with Danny, Maggie saw Diane shake her head again, glaring at a gel dispenser. Apparently having finally realized that Walter did not savor her criticisms, Diane whispered to Maggie: “These are a big mistake.”

  Cutting in on the women’s conversation, Hank asked, “Why’d you say that?” He didn’t sound offended, just interested.

  Diane answered coolly, “Because—and I don’t mean any disrespect here—if you’ve got sixty people living this close together, people are gonna get sick a lot no matter what you do. And if they’re slathering this gel crap on their hands all the time, their bodies’ll get resistant to antibiotics. Meds won’t work when you need ’em.”

  Hank squinted at Diane. “Who are you?”

  Diane squared her shoulders, evidently expecting some sort of fight over credentials. “I write a blog for preppers. It’s called Doomsday on a Budget.”

  Hank’s stern expression dissolved as he broke into a radiant grin. The smile transformed his features, suddenly making Maggie realize just how handsome he was. “You’re Doomsday Di?”

  Diane colored prettily. “I am. You read my blog?”

  “Never miss it. You and SGW are my favorites.” Hank’s voice went up a bit toward the end of this sentence. He was a doomsday fan, and this was his Comic-Con.

  Maggie asked, “What’s SGW?”

  Diane and Hank chorused, “Shit’s Getting Weird.”

  Diane asked Hank, “Do you ever comment?”

  Hank nodded. “Course. I’m Builder29.”

  Diane’s face lit up. “You’re Builder29? Well, this is a treat.”

  Maggie edged away from the chatting preppers and headed down the hallway to catch up with her man. As she came around a corner, Walter and Danny turned. Walter said, “Ah, there you are. I’ve been looking forward to showing you this.” He pushed open a side door and switched on a light. “This is our classroom.” He said it with the same intonation of a British tycoon announcing: “Welcome to Jurassic Park.”

  Maggie walked in and looked around. It was the most opulent classroom she’d ever seen. Blond wood tables, Persian carpets, and pitch-perfect lighting made the room seem warm but not drowsy. Workstations featured ergonomic chairs, the latest Mac laptops, and high-end art supplies. Bookcases lined the lower walls, sporting complete collections of pristine Caldecott and Newbery prizewinners along with basic readers. And on the walls were four top-of-the-line electronic whiteboards—retailing at $10,000 apiece. Maggie knew the price too well. She’d ogled the whiteboards online, fantasizing about how they’d transform her school. And here were four of them—hoarded for a miser’s rainy day. Maggie asked, “This is your fallback?”

  Walter nodded. “Not bad, eh?”

  Maggie managed to squeak out, “How much did all this cost?”

  Walter grinned—obviously welcoming this question. “Not much. About a hundred grand, way cheaper than twelve years of private school.”

  Maggie’s mouth had gone dry. “I see.” The other parts of Tilmore Tower hadn’t offended her, hadn’t even touched her. Walter’s gilded underground palace was no worse than the Kardashians’ golden toilets or Beyoncé’s diamond-encrusted Barbie dolls. Those things hadn’t hurt Maggie because she’d never longed for them. But this classroom was different. It was chock-full of things she’d yearned for, not to hoard or to lord over—but to use. And unlike Walter, she knew how to use these things. To him, they were just shiny toys. To her, they were the tools of her profession, and they were being wasted.

  She looked at Danny now. “How does the MathPal fit into all this?”

  Walter said, “Let me field that one. The driving force behind the MathPal, behind all of Edutek’s products, is to get rid of the most expensive, tedious part of the education system: the teachers.”

  “Excuse me?” said Maggie.

  Walter went on, “It’s mechanization, Miss Mayfield. It’s the way the world is going. Supermarket cashiers give way to self-checkout machines. Autoworkers give way to robots. Soon, truckers will give way to self-driving trucks. As technology advances, it takes over ever more complex tasks. You can’t stop it.”

  Maggie was incredulous. “So you think the MathPal is going to replace actual teachers?”

  “I know it will. Maybe not in five years, maybe not even in ten. But it will happen. Why bother paying for teachers when you can have a much cheaper, more effective system like the MathPal? A system that delivers lessons based on the individual student’s ever-changing skill set—without boring him for a second.” As he’d spoken, Walter’s voice had taken on the “but-wait-there’s-more” tone of a used car salesman.

  Maggie said, “I see.” She felt Samuel L. Jackson levels of rage building up inside her. She had an almost physical need to tell Walter how lousy the MathPal was, how it could never replace her teachers. She wanted to tell him how destructive it was for children to have every lesson—every experience—tailor-made for their specific tastes, how disastrous it was to build children who could not tolerate a millisecond of boredom or discomfort. How selfish—how Walter-like!—those little monsters could be. She wanted to shake him by the shoulders and scream that he was wrong about inevitability. It was not inevitable that hardworking, dedicated professionals would step aside so that the Walters of the world could “monetize” and “optimize” everything. What was inevitable—what was right—was that there would be a comeuppance for all this hubristic, technological bullying.

  She wanted to tell him this, but he was her boyfriend’s boss. So instead, she did something she’d never done in front of two male witnesses. She fumbled in her purse, yanked out a chocolate bar, and wolfed it down Cookie Monster–style. The men’s eyebrows shot up in unison as they watched her. When she was done, she wiped the edges of her mouth, telling them sheepishly, “I’m hypoglycemic.”

  Walter said, “Ah, well then . . .” He looked puzzled for a moment, as if unsure whether to be concerned or disgusted.

  Danny, however, sensed an unmistakable disturbance in the Force. He said, “Obviously, the MathPal is nowhere near replacing teachers at this point. We’re decades from doing anything like that, if ever. Right now, the goal is only to supplement what teachers are doing. And—”

  Walter cut in, “We disagree about timing, Danny boy. But you’re right. For now, the MathPal is a backup tool. But I take comfort—and so do my friends—from knowing it’s there. If the bombs fall, our kids will need it. I’ve already sold prototypes of the MathPal to all of my friends. Word is spreading. Demand is skyrocketing.” Buoyed by his own words, Walter headed out of the classroom, saying cheerily, “On with the tour!”

  Maggie asked Danny, “Was this your plan—to market the MathPal to survivalist tycoons as a teacher replacement?”

  Danny shrugged. “Among other things.”

  “Yeah, but that can’t be a big market. I mean . . .”

  Danny stepped in closer to her. “It doesn’t have to be a big market. You don’t need a gazillion sales . . . so long as you hit the right price point. If guys like Walter can blow $150K on a window TV, they can fork out a lot more for a decent math system for their kids. After all, the children are our future and all that.”

  “But how many guys like Walter can there be?”

  Danny smiled. “There are a lot of Walters out there. The survival fad’s caught on big with the jet set. Everybody who’s anybody has a bunker somewhere. There are underground luxury condos springing up—or I guess, springing down�
�all over the world: here, Europe, China, and don’t get me started on South Korea.”

  Maggie said sourly, “I assume there aren’t many in Africa.”

  Danny balked. “Are you kidding?! What else do you give the dictator who has it all?”

  Maggie sighed. Her eyes fell on one of the electronic whiteboards. Would the MathPal be like that? Paid for and never used? Was it just a tech version of Walter’s subterranean swimming pool? His version of a gold-plated toilet? What a waste!

  But then, a new thought dawned. If the MathPal didn’t work—this might be the perfect place for it, at the bottom of a rich man’s overstuffed toy box. For the first time since she’d tested the program and gotten a sense of just how lousy it was, Maggie saw a way out. Maybe Danny could have all the success he needed in selling meticulously branded, overpriced snake oil to rich preppers. The MathPal could be like Tindler elevators or YALOS Diamond TVs. Maybe Danny could prosper, and no one would really get hurt.

  He took her hand. “Come on, Maggie, they’re waiting for us.”

  31

  INSPECTING RACHEL

  Lucy’s mother did not believe in playdates. Playdates were a waste of time, an excuse for “lazy white kids” to play video games. So instead of a “playdate,” Lucy asked for a “team meeting.” Lucy and Rachel were working on a project for the school science fair. She explained science fairs to her mother, saying that student teams compete and only one team from each grade wins. Mrs. Wong asked if any kids lose, and Lucy said no. The “not winners” get a ribbon for participating. Mrs. Wong shook her head in disgust. “Sometime, a kid need to lose big in front everyone. It push him work hard next time.” Mrs. Wong jabbed at the air with her index finger to show how shame could prod kids forward. The science fair wasn’t until spring, still months away. Another parent—maybe one with lazy white kids—might have questioned the need to get such a big head start, but not Mrs. Wong.

  Rachel arrived on the Wongs’ doorstep on the first Saturday of winter break. Her heavily made-up, blond mother, Andrea Klemper, did not bother to get out of her expensive cream-colored car. Instead, Andrea talk-shouted from the driver’s seat, explaining that she was rushing to take her son to an indoor soccer clinic. Mrs. Wong smiled and bobbed her head, saying loudly, “No trouble, no trouble.” But as she turned and ushered Rachel into the house, Mrs. Wong muttered something in Chinese about white people having terrible manners. Strike one.

  Still smiling, Mrs. Wong asked Rachel for her jacket. As she hung it on a pegboard, she said to Lucy in Chinese, “Sweet face, but how come so fat?”

  Betraying nothing, Lucy answered casually in Chinese, “I’m not dating her, Mom.” Lucy was used to her mother’s parallel conversations. They were like watching a movie with painfully polite English-spoken dialogue and rude, brutally honest Chinese subtitles.

  Mrs. Wong asked in Chinese, “Her mother works?”

  Lucy said no, and Mrs. Wong shook her head. Mrs. Wong—a junior project manager for a giant pharmaceutical company—disapproved of women who didn’t work. She prodded Lucy in Chinese, “What about her father?”

  Lucy glanced at Rachel, who wore the look of a person trapped in an elevator, pretending not to have smelled a stranger’s fart. She might not know Mandarin, but she sensed that the Wongs were discussing her—she smelled it. Switching to English, Lucy said, “Rachel’s dad is a big-time lawyer. He travels all over the country, arguing cases.”

  Mrs. Wong asked Rachel—in English, “So you don’t see your daddy much?”

  Rachel said, “No, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Wong nodded. “Good.” She approved of workaholics. She led the girls to the kitchen. Lucy had left a few nature books on the table in there—proof of the team meeting’s seriousness. While the girls opened their books, Mrs. Wong fetched unasked-for snacks and drinks: SunChips, glasses of water, and sliced lychee nuts.

  The girls argued over whether to do their project on butterflies or clown fish while Mrs. Wong chopped vegetables for dinner. Unable to remain silent for long, Mrs. Wong drifted over, asking, “Why do project on clown fish? Fish are for pan, not project.”

  Rachel said, “Most of the time, yes—but not clown fish. They’re awesome. Did you know all clown fish are born male?”

  Mrs. Wong said quickly, “I know, I know. So what?” Lucy knew her mother was bluffing. Mrs. Wong said you should never admit ignorance to a white person “because then they get you.”

  Rachel went on, “So, when the last female clown fish dies, the toughest, most dominant male fish becomes a female. Isn’t that cool?”

  Mrs. Wong nodded, saying, “That’s ’cause women stronger and smarter than men. Only best man can become a woman. Like Bruce Jenner!”

  Rachel said, “Yeah. He wasn’t ready to become a woman till after he won a bazillion medals.”

  Mrs. Wong smirked, and Lucy felt giddy—proud and relieved that her two “best people” were getting along so well. Mrs. Wong drifted out of the kitchen, leaving the girls to their “work.” And the girls spent the next two hours whispering and doodling on their drawing pads. Rachel drew a few clown fish, and Lucy ruffled the pages of her books to pantomime productivity.

  Lucy said, “You were already good, but your drawings are getting so much better.”

  Rachel beamed. “That’s because of Miss Pearl.”

  Lucy singsonged, “Yes, you’re Miss Pearl’s pearl.”

  Rachel simpered, “Sounds like someone’s jealous.”

  “Not about Miss Pearl. I’m just jealous because you don’t have to work on the MathPal. It’s a moron game. Same stuff over and over, and then all that dopey dancing and fake rewards. And makeup, blech.” Lucy gagged theatrically.

  Rachel ventured, “The other kids like it.”

  Lucy frowned. “Other kids are zombies, just happy to play a video game. They don’t have brains.” As if on cue, both girls extended their arms and lolled their heads, growling, “Brains, must eat brains.”

  Mrs. Wong returned, saw them, and pursed her lips in disgust. “You supposed to be working on clown fish.”

  “We are,” said Lucy. “Just look at Rachel’s drawing.”

  Mrs. Wong bent to look at Rachel’s art pad. Then she squinted at Rachel. “You trace this?”

  “No, Mrs. Wong. I drew it freehand,” said Rachel.

  Mrs. Wong tapped the art pad. “Show me.”

  Rachel quickly drew a gorgeous clown fish as only Rachel could, and Mrs. Wong nodded, impressed. Without asking, she seized Rachel’s art pad and began flicking through it. Lucy squirmed in her seat, delighted by her mother’s interest, but her glee fizzled when she saw the panic on Rachel’s face.

  Mrs. Wong’s smile dissolved. She put the pad down with a thud. The page she’d stopped on showed a pencil drawing of Mrs. Wong, her hands on her hips and her chin jutting out as if daring someone to punch her. Staring at the drawing, Mrs. Wong said sternly, “Tell truth, this picture of me?”

  Rachel nodded wordlessly, and Lucy felt her hopes shrivel. Her mother would throw Rachel out and give Lucy one of her patented tongue-lashings.

  But instead, Mrs. Wong grinned—a real grin, not her fake, tooth-bearing one. “So beautiful. So fierce. But my feet are smaller than that.” She tapped the paper, commanding, “You fix it.” Rachel bent to correct the drawing while Mrs. Wong leaned in, watching her. Lucy grabbed a lychee nut. Her friend had passed her entrance exam.

  32

  THE VERY PRINCIPLED MAGGIE MAYFIELD

  After her trip to Walter’s bunker, Maggie decided to decide the MathPal was harmless. Once unleashed on the market, it would either flop or be relegated to the rarefied universe of “luxury goods.” It would be a technological bauble for rich people—an overpriced program designed to educate wealthy preppers’ children if and when society crumbled. Who cared if it didn’t teach much math? Or if it was loaded with more ads than a SkyMall magazine? Maggie didn’t have time to worry about how the One Percent might teach their progeny in some dystopian fut
ure.

  No, what mattered were Maggie’s students, here and now. They were locked into working with the MathPal, but only for a year. Danny had promised to strip out the ads and forgo selling her students’ user data. Maggie would hold him to both promises. For the moment, her main goal would be to raise money so she could pay for STEAM programs here on out without mortgaging her school’s soul.

  And in the meanwhile, she would enjoy Danny. She deserved to enjoy something in this life, something fleshy and fun. A woman could not abide by Netflix and chocolate alone. She and Danny might have their differences, but he was a good man. She was sure of it, sort of.

  She spent the second half of winter break camping out in his swanky San Francisco apartment. During the day, while Danny put in much-needed face time at Edutek’s main offices, Maggie played tourist. She ate dumplings in Chinatown, took selfies on Fisherman’s Wharf, and spent a whole day at Alcatraz touring the prison where Al Capone had writhed in syphilitic agony.

  Nights belonged to Danny. Even though he worked long hours, he made time to treat her to late-night dinners out at San Francisco’s priciest eateries. Maggie had feared that—after the thrill of sneaking around for weeks—their romance might wither in public. Instead, like countless gays before her, she found being “out” in San Francisco delightful. She loved strolling down the street, holding hands with Danny, and he enjoyed “showing her off.”

  Best of all was the sex. Maggie yelled “Oh God” so many times that Danny’s neighbors must have wondered if he’d suddenly gotten religion.

  Drugged with happiness, Maggie made the mistake of calling Diane one afternoon. Diane made appreciative noises as Maggie described her glorious vacation. But it was a half-hearted performance, and Maggie knew it. Like a petulant teenager, she snapped, “Why aren’t you happy for me?”