“I am happy for you. It’s just . . .”
“Just what?” asked Maggie.
“Don’t get me wrong. I think it’s great that you tore the dust cover off your snatch. I really do. And I wholeheartedly support fooling around with Big Red.” Diane was fickle with nicknames—so Danny had morphed from “Homeland” into “Big Red.” “But are you sure you want to get serious with him?”
Maggie blustered, “I don’t see why not.”
Diane sucked air in through her teeth, and Maggie could picture her wincing on the other end of the line. “I think you do see why not, Magpie. I mean, you’ve always been moralistic—a very principled principal. Whoever you’re with has to square with that.”
“So I can only date saints?”
“No,” said Diane. “Your man doesn’t have to be perfect. But he can’t graffiti your church.”
Maggie sighed. “You lost me.”
“Look, I don’t know many people who have a true calling, but you’re one of ’em. Your whole life is about teaching kids. That means the three Rs, but it also means character. Moral shit. And this guy is messing with kids on both levels.”
Maggie snorted. “Daniel isn’t corrupting children.”
“No, he’s not training them to be killers or congressmen. But he’s messing with their heads. That MathPal nudges kids in the wrong direction. It makes ’em less smart and more materialistic, probably less focused too.”
Maggie fumed, “Daniel is not the MathPal.”
“Yeah, but he’s the one pushing it.”
Like a ventriloquist’s dummy, Maggie channeled Danny’s words. “Besides, it’s unfair to judge the MathPal at this point. The program is not set in stone. Edutek is constantly changing it. It’s a moving target. It’s . . .”
“Slippery?” asked Diane.
Maggie bristled. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”
Diane answered, “Calm down. I’m on your side. If you’re fine with Danny, I’m fine too. It’s just . . .”
“What?”
Diane said softly, “I don’t think you’re fine, Maggie.”
Later that night, as Danny slept, Maggie lay beside him, arguing inside her head with Diane. Danny was not sleazy. He couldn’t be. The movies had taught Maggie how to spot sleazy men. Sleazy men could be handsome, but they had certain tells: slicked-back hair, an oily complexion, or a vulpine smile. Sleazy men didn’t listen beautifully, lip-sync Elvis songs, or fuss over puppies on the street. No, sleazes cut off your sentences, listened to vaguely sinister classical music, and hated animals—except for puffy white cats that they stroked while sitting in oversize leather chairs. When a sleaze wanted a woman, he’d say something creepy like “You are my most exquisite possession.” And Danny had never said that. So there!
Besides, Danny worked too hard to be a sleaze. Maggie was born and raised in Protestant New England, and conflated toil with virtue. She herself was a workaholic in good standing, and she was slightly in awe of Danny’s industriousness.
Even when Danny was relaxing, he was still “at work.” Case in point, he got up every morning at five thirty to work out. His living room was tricked out with an exercise bike, free weights, and an elaborate full-body Nautilus machine. When Maggie had teased him about “trying to look good for the ladies,” he’d laughed, saying he needed to stay fit “for work.”
Maggie asked, “Since when does a CEO have to look good in a bathing suit?”
“It’s not about looking good. It’s about looking young. Tech is a young man’s game,” said Danny.
“You’re young,” said Maggie.
“Are you kidding?”
“You’re what? Forty-two?” asked Maggie.
He shook his head. “No, I’m forty-four.” He said this if as delivering a cancer diagnosis.
“Forty-four is old?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“But Mark Zuckerberg is in his forties.” Maggie had studied up on the Facebook mogul after Danny’d first invoked him as part of his holy trinity.
“Yes, he’s in his forties now, but he was in his twenties when he founded Facebook. Forty-four is young for a titan of industry, but it’s old for a person who’s never had a hit.” Danny smiled as he said this, but he couldn’t hide the anxiety in his eyes.
Maggie consoled him, “Well, Methuselah, you look pretty spry to me.” It made her feel vaguely unsafe to be with a man who felt so unsafe—the emotional equivalent of sitting on a rickety chair.
But Maggie soon twisted his insecurity into a virtue. It meant he was one of the good guys. Like Dorothy assuming all witches are old and ugly, Maggie assumed all “sleazes” were smug and lazy.
33
AND THE WINNER IS . . .
January was a slow month at Carmel Knolls Elementary. Students and teachers moved groggily about, emotionally hungover from the holidays. But there were a few glimmers of liveliness. Mr. Baran opened his morning superhero workouts to all comers, and they became wildly popular, thanks to the elaborate scenarios “superassistant” Connor helped devise. Mr. Carlsen tricked students into learning chemistry by starting a Slime Club, and Lucy quickly established herself as the campus “slime queen,” gaining much-needed cool points.
But for Lucy, Slime Club was not January’s headline. Instead, she focused on the school’s art contest, pretentiously dubbed “Aspirations.” The theme was the equally pretentious “Ideas Take Flight.” Lucy mulled it over, but all her ideas plummeted to the ground. A Tinker Bell wearing brainiac glasses? The Wright brothers having a stilted eureka moment?
Whoever won the school round would move on to the district level, then county, then state, and so on until achieving world domination. And Lucy wanted first prize for Rachel.
On the night of the contest, parents and students trudged into the auditorium, girding themselves to be uplifted by culture. Miss Pearl greeted people as they filed in, and she gave Rachel and Lucy an especially huge smile.
The contest entries hung in neat rows on the walls. Lucy and Rachel shuffled past them slowly, shepherded by Mrs. Wong. Rachel’s father was out of town on business, but her mother was there all right. Andrea Klemper was on the PTA committee hosting the contest. She was working the refreshments table, resplendent in a tight, shimmery silver dress. She gave them a distracted wave, and Mrs. Wong reciprocated with her best obsequious-cute-Chinese-lady smile, telling Lucy in Mandarin, “She looks like Tinfoil Barbie.”
Lucy pressed forward, studying the competition. She was gratified to see that most of the kids had skipped the “ideas” part of the “Ideas in Flight” theme and focused exclusively on “flight.” The walls were crammed with clumsily made paintings of flying birds, planes, and rockets. Lucy whispered to Rachel, “You are soooo going to win.”
Rachel didn’t answer. Her eyebrows were knit together with worry. She looked like she expected a monster to jump out at her. And that’s sort of what happened. Rachel’s monster was a painting in the fifth-grader section. It showed a perfectly rendered pterodactyl flying over a Jurassic jungle. Then there was a wave of small white parentheses, the kind they use in cartoons to show something being broadcast from one tower to another. And on the other side of those marks was a pelican flying above the ocean. Attached to the pelican’s foot was a red banner flowing out across the bottom of the painting. The banner said “EVOLUTION.”
Lucy scowled at the painting. “It stinks.”
Rachel answered, “It doesn’t stink. It’s beautiful.”
“That’s why it stinks,” said Lucy.
Mrs. Wong said too loudly, “It’s not gonna win. People hate birds. So dirty.”
Lucy turned on her mother. “People don’t hate birds, Ma.”
Mrs. Wong folded her arms across her chest. “You’ll see. I know things.”
Rachel told Lucy, “I can’t see my painting. Do you see it anywhere?”
Lucy shrugged. “Not yet. Don’t worry. It’s got to be around here.”
They conti
nued walking, looking at more birds and planes until a PTA lady took the stage with a microphone. The PTA lady was blond and painfully thin like Rachel’s mom. They looked like they’d been bought at the same store. She said, “Isn’t it a wonderful night out? I’d like to thank the contestants, and Sadie Pearl, our fabulous art teacher.” The PTA blonde bubbled, “Don’t forget to donate to the STEAM fund so we can keep Miss Pearl. She’s the best. Isn’t she the best?”
The PTA blonde went on, “And now, the moment of truth. The judges—I’d tell you who they are, but then I’d have to kill you, just kidding!—the judges came by earlier today, and they picked three winners. Now, obviously, all you kids are winners. But only three of you are actual winners. I mean, only three will go on to the next level.
“In third place, we have Ryan Samperson from the fifth grade for his terrific poem about the Wright brothers. Come on up, Ryan.” A short gap-toothed boy ran to the front while the crowd applauded.
Mrs. Wong wrinkled her nose in distaste, telling Lucy in Chinese, “You can win with a poem? That’s so lazy, like wearing sweatpants to a wedding.”
The emcee went on, “And in second place, we have Lisa Mullens—also from the fifth grade—for her wonderful painting on evolution. Get up here, Lisa.” A tall, lanky girl with frizzy red hair walked to the stage, beaming.
Lucy reached for Rachel’s sweaty hand, and the two girls murmured a prayer toward the floor.
“And in first place, we have a surprise. As you may know, first place usually goes to a fifth or sixth grader. And we do have several honorable mentions from those classes. But today, for the first time in years, first place goes to a third grader—Rachel Klemper. Come on up, Rachel.” Rachel ran up, and the PTA lady handed her a trophy, then gestured to a large easel with a black cloth over it. Another PTA minion removed the cloth to reveal Rachel’s painting beneath. The microphone lady said, “Here it is—the winner of this year’s Aspirations contest.”
The crowd made impressed noises as they stared at the painting. And Lucy chided herself for ever doubting her friend would win. Rachel’s “Ideas in Flight” showed a little girl looking out her window as books flew through the sunlit sky. Each book had wings, and was different from its fellows. In vibrant colors, Rachel captured the delighted wonder on the girl’s face and the sense of movement as the books flew.
Lucy beamed at her friend, and Rachel beamed back.
Mrs. Wong gave Lucy a playful slap on the arm, saying in Chinese, “I told you, she’s a winner.”
The reception wound down quickly after that, the younger kids loudly complaining about needing to go home so they would not miss TV. Art was quaint, but TV was essential. It being a Friday night, Rachel had arranged to sleep over at the Wongs’.
As the people filtered out, Rachel ran over to her mom at the refreshment table. Lucy and her mother lingered close by, listening. Rachel jumped from foot to foot, like a puppy begging for attention. She spoke in a great rush. “It was awesome. Wasn’t it so awesome?”
Mrs. Klemper straightened her tight dress. She agreed it “was quite something.” She smiled down at Rachel, but Lucy saw that the smile did not reach her eyes. There was no warmth there.
Mrs. Wong stepped forward, telling Mrs. Klemper, “You must be so proud. I tell my Lucy, ‘How come you can’t draw like that?’ Such big prize. Maybe get scholarship for best college, eh?”
Mrs. Klemper said blandly, “Well, let’s not count our chickens.” Then she turned back to Rachel. “You’re off with the Wongs tonight, right, sweetie?”
Rachel nodded, unsure how to process her mother’s lack of enthusiasm. She said numbly, “We’re going for ice cream.”
Mrs. Klemper took out her purse and pulled out some cash. “Well, let’s make sure you treat the Wongs. And remember, honey, just one scoop. Those pounds aren’t going to come off by themselves.” She poked Rachel’s substantial belly, and Rachel’s cheeks reddened.
Mrs. Klemper told Rachel and Mrs. Wong, “I’m going to be stuck here, cleaning up. Then your brother’s got that early morning soccer clinic. Oh well, no rest for the weary.” She air-kissed Rachel’s cheek, and Mrs. Wong steered the girls out of the building.
As they walked outside, Lucy sensed Rachel’s disappointment, but Lucy didn’t know what to do with it. So she babbled happily about what would come next. Rachel would win district, then citywide, then who knows! Rachel nodded, but said nothing. And neither did Lucy’s mom.
Mrs. Wong opened the car doors and got the girls settled in, then she fumbled with the radio, still saying nothing. She turned on a pop station, too loud. And then Mrs. Klemper passed by, her high heels clacking noisily against the blacktop as she carried two trays to her cream-colored SUV. Mrs. Wong whipped her door open, telling the girls that she should help with the trays.
She slammed the door shut, and—inside—Rachel started to sway to the blasting pop music. Lucy pretended to get caught up in the music too. But over Rachel’s shoulder, Lucy saw her mother walk stiffly over to Mrs. Klemper’s SUV. She could not hear what her mother said to Mrs. Klemper, but—from her mother’s fighting stance and the shocked look on Mrs. Klemper’s face—Lucy knew it was not good.
34
GUERRILLA VALENTINES
Diane and Maggie stood in a tiny puddle of light beneath a street lamp, both of them clad in black. Maggie tugged on the bill of her black baseball cap to hide her face. Diane told her, “You don’t have to do this.”
“I want to do this,” said Maggie. Both of them spoke in low, husky whispers, like female versions of Batman.
“This isn’t your fight anymore. For Chrissake, it’s Valentine’s Day. You should be home with Danny.”
“Daniel’s in San Francisco.”
“Again?”
“The man’s company is up there, Diane.”
Diane frowned. “Yeah, but he should be spending Valentine’s Day with you, not holed up in some office. You aren’t some old married couple. You’re in the throes.”
“The throes?”
Diane said, “The throes of passion—those early days of a romance where you bump into walls ’cause you’re so stupid in love. I don’t care how big a deal his job is. It’s your first Valentine’s Day. Danny should get his tail down here.”
Maggie shrugged, as if this mutinous thought hadn’t kept her up at night. She told herself it was silly to be sentimental about Valentine’s Day, but the committee in her head wasn’t buying it. They insisted he should be here. But since Christmas, Danny’s already-long hours had gotten even longer. His investors were clamoring for results, and his staff was racing to analyze the MathPal’s beta-testing data and prepare for the product’s launch.
Maggie missed Danny, but she didn’t complain. Complaints would make her seem unsupportive or, even worse, needy. Nothing bulldozes desire like neediness. Eager to change the subject, she told Diane, “Well, you should be in Wyoming with Hank.”
Diane bristled. “Don’t start on that. I told you, Hank’s just a friend.”
“A friend who’s sent you enough flowers to open a funeral home.”
Diane hip-checked Maggie. “Stop it.”
Maggie singsonged quietly, “K-I-S-S-I-N-G, first comes love, then comes . . .”
“Are we going to do this thing or not?” Diane’s voice had an edge to it now.
Maggie nodded, chastened. Diane pointed to the far side of the hotel parking lot. “You take the left section. I’ll take the right.”
Maggie grabbed Diane by the forearm. “You’re sure about this setup?”
Diane said defensively, “Yes, I’m sure. I showed you the brochure, didn’t I? Those Beta Nutritionals people will have those ladies in there for two nights. Tonight’s all about the problem. They tell those poor suckers they’re alone on Valentine’s Day ’cause they deserve to be alone. They’re too fat to love. The only way they’ll get male attention is when they die and their hot gay neighbor smells the corpse. Then, tomorrow night’s the solution. They’re go
nna sell them a fortune in bullshit diet supplements—some miracle crap they found in Asia or the Amazon or some other exotic A-place.”
Maggie said solemnly, “Let’s do this.”
The two women split up, putting pink notes on each windshield. Every note was the same, each written out in Diane’s loopy, feminine cursive (Maggie’s handwriting was a bit too spiky—somehow vaguely threatening). The notes said: “Save your money, sweetie. You’re already beautiful.”
Maggie and Diane had begun their guerrilla Valentine campaigns the February after Maggie’s divorce. They mostly targeted weight-loss seminars and a few of the meaner “what’s-wrong-with-you-lady” how-to dating conferences. Every Valentine’s Day, hotels in suburban Carmel Valley made a double killing: renting regular rooms out to beleaguered parents desperate for a night of nonfurtive sex and renting conference halls out to money-grabbing self-help gurus preying on women who hadn’t had sex—furtive or otherwise—in eons.
Maggie and Diane had only screwed up one guerrilla Valentine mission. Diane had heard that there was an especially odious “nobody-will-ever-love-you” seminar selling subliminal CDs, but she got the address wrong. They ended up leaving “Somebody loves you” notes on windshields outside a women’s shelter. They realized their mistake when some of the women came out for a cigarette break, found their notes, and started screaming, “Oh no! He found me!” Maggie and Diane apologized a lot that night. Maggie later soothed Diane, telling her, “That’s the thing about helping people. Sometimes you screw up.”
After Maggie and Diane papered this latest parking lot, they returned to Diane’s car and huddled down to wait—like parents watching for their kids’ reactions on Christmas morning. Maggie prodded Diane, “You should use the ticket.” After months of nightly Skype sessions, Hank had surprised Diane with a first-class, round-trip ticket to visit him in Wyoming for Valentine’s Day weekend.
Diane huffed, “I know I sound like Effie in Dreamgirls. But I am telling you: I’m not going. The whole thing seems fishy to me. A suspiciously good-looking loner sends me a plane ticket to Wyoming? Sounds like a setup for a Lifetime movie. He could be a psycho planning to kill me and harvest my organs or something.” She shook her head ruefully. “Preppers are weird.”
The Very Principled Maggie Mayfield Page 20
