The Very Principled Maggie Mayfield

by Kathy Cooperman

  With studied casualness, Maggie trolled the lower school playground for intel but learned little. The kids had plenty of thoughts all right, just none about the MathPal’s efficacy as a teaching tool. So while gap-toothed Audrey from second grade hung upside down from the jungle gym, she told Maggie she “loves, just loves” the MathPal’s dance team game because she wants to be a dancer when she grows up, and her mom’s going to get her an agent, only it’s hard to make it “in the business,” so maybe she’ll become a senator instead. First-grader Noah—a red-haired boy in a “SCHOOL DROOLS” T-shirt—said the MathPal’s Summer Camp program was better than real summer camp because it didn’t make him sing “dopey songs.” And kindergartner Seth Wardlow said the MathPal’s Wild West program was “broken” because it didn’t make bullet noises, and it was “unfair a-cause Miss Cariddi shushed” him for yelling “pew-pew” when he played it.

  The only useful feedback Maggie got came from Lucy Wong. Maggie approached the pigtailed third grader as she stood on a bench, studying the playground through bright-pink plastic binoculars. Rachel sat beside her, hunched over a drawing pad. Maggie began, “Hello, girls.”

  They chorused, “Hello, Mrs. Mayfield.”

  Lucy sheepishly asked Maggie, “Am I in trouble?” Kids were not supposed to stand on the benches.

  Maggie glanced around the playground to ensure they were not being watched. Like an old-timey cop pretending she hadn’t just seen someone come out of a speakeasy, Maggie said, “Nah, you’re not in trouble. You were just getting down from that bench right now, weren’t you?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Lucy scrambled down, then stood next to the bench with her hands folded and a too-wide grin on her face—innocence personified.

  Maggie winked at Rachel, then told Lucy, “I wanted to ask you about something.”

  Lucy cocked an eyebrow. “Are you doing a survey?”

  This threw Maggie. “Why do you ask?”

  Lucy breathed on the lenses of her binoculars and rubbed them against her shirt. “I saw you talking to the kids on the monkey bars.” Lucy squinted meaningfully, “It looked . . . suspicious.”

  Maggie bit her lip in amusement. “It wasn’t. What’s with the binoculars anyway?”

  Lucy and Rachel exchanged a look. Then Rachel nodded for Lucy to spill whatever kid secret they had brewing. Lucy said, “We’re planning war games.”

  “Against who?” asked Maggie.

  “Different enemies. Boys, zombies, zombie boys. There are lots of risks. We need to be ready.” Lucy said this with perfect seriousness, but Rachel was stifling a giggle.

  Maggie said “ah” as if this made sense, then tried again. “Lucy, I wanted to ask you about the MathPal. What do you think of it?”

  Lucy frowned in contemplation, then said neutrally, “The animation is all right—but not as good as Rachel can do.” The girls high-fived without making eye contact, their deadpan expressions intact.

  Maggie pressed, “Okay, did the program teach you much?”

  Lucy squinted again. “Is this off the records?”

  Maggie nodded, suppressing a smile at the mangled idiom.

  Lucy said, “I didn’t learn anything from it.”

  “Nothing? Are you sure?”

  Lucy nodded. “No, it does some math stuff, but all really easy. And—”

  Maggie cut in, “But doesn’t it get harder as you go along?”

  “You mean like asking you to add small numbers and then moving on to big numbers?”

  Maggie nodded eagerly. “Yes, like that.”

  “No, it doesn’t get harder. There’s just more of it. It’s like you start on a hike, and the ground is flat at first, and then it turns into a big hill, and that’s the hard part. Only, there is no hill on the MathPal. It’s all flat. All easy.” Seeing Maggie’s face fall, Lucy added hastily, “But there are colors. It’s like walking on a flat path through . . .”

  “Through foliage,” said Rachel.

  Lucy nodded. “Yeah, it’s a stupid walk, but it’s pretty.”

  Rachel said diplomatically, “Don’t feel bad, Mrs. Mayfield. Lots of people love stupid pretty.”

  Maggie frowned. “Yeah, but not me.”

  38

  APRIL IN PARIS

  Over the next few weeks, reality became like a Monet for Maggie—it only made sense if she didn’t look too close. She still had her doubts about the MathPal. But thanks to its leaked test results, Edutek’s stock price soared to giddy heights. A 20/20 piece on the dire state of America’s “ossified” education system touted the MathPal as a high-tech cure-all. Other news outlets followed up on the story, often interviewing Danny. And why not? Photogenic, charming, and “on the verge of revolutionizing education,” Danny made a ridiculously yummy interviewee. One Fox News reporter had flirted so outrageously with him that Maggie could have sworn he’d made her ovulate.

  Not that Maggie was jealous. Oh no. She had plenty of character flaws: (1) a controlling nature, (2) a weakness for chocolate, and (3) a tendency to enumerate her own deficiencies. But she was not a jealous woman. She trusted Danny, for the most part. Though he was away a lot—off publicizing the MathPal—he seemed more into her than ever. During their brief nightly chats on the phone, he told her he loved her, and he began dropping hints about her moving to San Francisco. Wouldn’t she love to work for a charter school? Or maybe start a new one? Or what about going into curriculum development?

  But Maggie couldn’t see leaving Carmel Knolls Elementary. This was where she fit—most of the time. Tonight was an exception. She felt painfully awkward parading about at the school’s gala. The gala and its all-important auction were about extracting the parents’ money. With Edutek’s cash petering out, its stock was the only “asset” left in the district’s STEAM cupboard. True, the stock price was soaring, but so had the Hindenburg right before it exploded. Now more than ever, Maggie was determined to extricate her school’s destiny from the MathPal. So, heigh-ho, a begging she would go.

  This year, the gala’s theme was “April in Paris.” Accordion music wafted through the auditorium while elegantly dressed parents milled about, giddy at the prospect of a childless evening. Diane had subtracted a decade from the partyers’ faces by switching off the room’s harsh overhead fluorescents and relying instead on more forgiving string lights and table candles. A ten-foot model of the Eiffel Tower—festooned in more string lights—glowed in the corner of the room, and waiters walked about in berets, plying guests with appetizers, wine, and champagne. Maggie had objected to the sheer volume of booze on hand until Diane pointed out “the substantial research” indicating that donors are more generous when tipsy. Diane never actually substantiated this “substantial research,” but Maggie did not feel like nitpicking.

  Danny was at Edutek’s Silicon Valley office yet again, so Maggie flew solo for the third year in a row. She told herself it was best for him not to be there. After all, they still weren’t “out” as a couple at Carmel Knolls. But she felt somehow bereft, and—looking at the French pastries on the buffet table—she also felt hungry. She could afford to splurge because she’d lost weight. Her once-tight black cocktail dress hung too loosely against her frame. Her appetite for sweets had exited stage right as soon as Danny entered on stage left in her life. But over the past few weeks, her sugar cravings had returned—not meekly, but in grand style. So now, the pastries were calling to her—chocolate opera cake, crème brûlée, and éclairs. She was tempted to gobble them Hungry Hippo–style.

  She tried to look nonchalant as she fetched an éclair—it was important to look like you want the thing you’re eating, but not that you want it. Just as she was about to bite into the pastry, she felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned to find Arlene beaming at her. The district superintendent wore one of her signature pastel pantsuits—a pink one this time—but she’d nodded to the gala’s Paris theme by pinning a French flag to her bosom. Arlene simpered, “Hello there, Maggie.”

  Feeling caught out, Maggi
e waved her éclair around awkwardly, stammering, “Buh, hello. So, um, to what do we owe this pleasure? I thought you didn’t do school galas.”

  Arlene flicked her wrist, making her clunky bracelets jangle. “I usually don’t. But I couldn’t resist. The education world has caught MathPal fever, and Carmel Knolls is patient zero.”

  “What a nice way of putting it.”

  Arlene bubbled, “Isn’t it?” Beside her, a small, wiry man with thick glasses nibbled on a pastry. His dainty, quick motions reminded Maggie of a mouse. Following Maggie’s gaze, Arlene said, “Where are my manners? Maggie, this is the district’s new comptroller, Simon Petal. And, Sy, this is Maggie, she’s the principal here at Carmel Knolls.”

  Simon offered Maggie his hand. “Ah, Maggie. Arlene’s told me so much about you.”

  “All good I hope,” said Maggie too brightly.

  Simon smiled, but said nothing to this.

  Arlene cut in, “No worries, Maggie. I couldn’t resist a little gloating when I told Sy the whole MathPal saga. Back in September, you were miserable about having the MathPal beta tested here. I practically had to talk you down from the ledge, am I right? I’m right.”

  Maggie laughed dutifully. She hated being Arlene’s studio audience.

  Arlene winked. “Oh well, no one’s clairvoyant. Even I had no idea how big the MathPal was going to be. This is going to be quite a feather in my cap.” A naked careerist, Arlene was blissfully unaware that most ambitions look better with their clothes on. She gave Maggie’s arm a squeeze. “You must be over the moon.”

  “Must I?”

  “Oh yes. If the price holds, the stock Edutek gave to the district back in September is going to be worth . . .” Arlene turned to her moneyman.

  “Worth millions,” Simon answered.

  “And Sy knows this stuff cold,” said Arlene. Leaning in toward the little man, Arlene cooed, “And we’ve all got to do what Simon says.” The two administrators laughed at their private joke, and Maggie wondered idly whether they were sleeping with each other. The thought made her feel vaguely nauseated. Arlene continued, “But think of it, Maggie. Millions. Enough to fund STEAM programs for the next ten years, maybe twenty.”

  Maggie nodded, inhaling deeply. “Save the STEAM programs” had been her mantra all year. It steadied her now. She flailed to make conversation. “So, uh, how about . . .”

  Suddenly, Diane materialized at Maggie’s side. Diane had an uncanny knack for knowing when to rescue Maggie—like Lassie sensing that little Timmy had fallen down the well. For the Paris theme, Diane wore an oversize beret and a classic painter’s smock with bright paint splotches all over it. She held a palette in her hand and had drawn an old-timey, finicky mustache over her lip. “Hello, Arlene. I am so sorry to interrupt. But I need Maggie’s help with the silent auction. Can I steal her for just a moment?”

  Arlene waved her hand magnanimously. The MathPal’s success had led her to assume an almost regal manner.

  Grateful for an escape, Maggie excused herself and followed Diane toward the auction tables. “What’s the problem?”

  Diane mimicked Arlene’s throaty drawl. “‘I didn’t mean to startle you, Maggie dear.’ But you looked desperate to get away from that hag.”

  “And Sy,” added Maggie.

  “Sy?”

  Maggie explained, “The new district comptroller, Simon Petal. I think they may be an item. Arlene kept calling him Sy.”

  “Ewwwww. Bureaucrats breeding.” Diane shuddered.

  For the next two hours, Maggie and Diane mingled with the parents, congratulating the moms on their faux-Parisian outfits and egging on the dads to outbid each other on the auction. Maggie was grateful to see that the teachers were working the crowd as hard as she was. Sadie Pearl discussed a new art exhibit in La Jolla. Mr. Carlsen listened patiently to a wannabe inventor’s design plans, and Jeannie feigned interest in some mom’s blather about the healing power of pottery. Only Mr. Baran—usually the life of the party—took a much-needed break, spending most of the night dancing with his wife, the Judge.

  Thanks to Diane and the PTA, the gala was turning out to be a hit. Mightily pleased, Maggie headed out to the ladies’ room. She peed, washed her hands, and was about to leave when she heard a muffled sob coming from one of the stalls. She called out tentatively, “Everything all right in there?”

  A stall door flung open, and a bleary-eyed Andrea Klemper emerged. The PTA denizen wobbled precariously on her stilettos, and Maggie stepped forward to steady her. “Maybe you should sit down, Andrea.” She maneuvered the obviously soused woman down onto the linoleum floor just under the paper towel dispenser.

  Andrea slurred, “S-sorry. I’m not supposed to have wine.”

  “AA?”

  “No, juice cleanse.” Andrea hiccupped loudly. “It’s supposed to get the toxins out.”

  “Well, you look pretty healthy to me.” Maggie wasn’t lying. Andrea was thin and toned with shiny blond hair and a perfect complexion. Her image was the one other moms used as a cudgel to beat themselves with whenever they reached for a forbidden cupcake.

  “Trust me, I’m chock-full o’ poison,” said Andrea.

  Maggie gave an obligatory, “Now, that’s not true.”

  Andrea shot back, “It is true. I’m a terrible mother.”

  Maggie said nothing now. She didn’t want to cockblock Andrea’s insights—booze fueled or not.

  Andrea went on, “I’ve never known how to act around that kid—Rachel, I mean.” Maggie nodded sympathetically, but her sympathies were with poor, young Rachel, not the inebriated figure before her. Andrea said, “I wanted to save her, but I couldn’t.”

  “Save her?”

  Andrea sniffed and rubbed her nose. “She’s fat. There, I said it. She’s always been fat. It was so surreal when she and Alec were born—a thin, blue-eyed golden boy and a fat, olive-skinned girl. It looked like Alec came into the world with his own Mexican nanny. I . . . Oh shit, is that racist?”

  Maggie nodded. “Breathtakingly so. But go on.”

  Andrea continued, “I tried to help her. I started her on a diet as soon as the doctor said it was safe. She’d ask for a cookie, and I’d give her a carrot. I trotted her to every mommy-and-me exercise class I could find. I read her children’s books touting good nutrition. I even started locking the pantry at night. But nothing stopped her. You know, one time, I actually caught her going through our garbage like a raccoon, looking for cookies.” Andrea sniffed again, then huffed, “Don’t look at me like that!”

  “Like what?”

  “Like I’m some kind of monster, Cinderella’s mean stepmother. I love Rachel. I want her to go to the ball someday, but boys don’t ask fat girls to dance.” Maggie opened her mouth to object. But Andrea held up a hand. “Don’t give me that Dove-campaign-love-your-body crap. I don’t care how much a girl loves herself, if she’s a fat blob, her life is gonna be hell. Trust me, I know.”

  “Were you chubby when you were little?” asked Maggie.

  Andrea nodded. “It was awful. Girls wouldn’t play with me. Boys called me ‘Double-Wide.’ They’d make truck horn sounds when I passed. I couldn’t fit into regular stuff, so I had to get all my clothes from Big Sally’s.”

  Maggie winced. “Sounds hard, but—”

  Andrea cut in, “And you know what my mother did? Nothing! I’d come home in tears, and that woman would feed me Twinkies. Twinkies! She said I was just as God made me. It never occurred to her that God has some off days.”

  Maggie sighed. She’d seen this too many times. Moms and dads reacted against their parents’ blunders only to make equally devastating, fresh mistakes of their own. Like generals, parents were always fighting the last war.

  Andrea was searching Maggie’s face now, waiting for advice or absolution. Maggie said, “Look, I get why you want a thin kid. But a thin kid is not what you have. You have to love the child you’ve got, even if she’s not the child you thought you wanted for yourself.”


  Andrea bristled. “I love Rachel. I just want her to . . .”

  “To be thin. And until then, you will withhold your approval? But what if Rachel never gets thin? What then?”

  Andrea struggled to keep up, asking, “You mean, like if she’s got a gland problem or something?”

  Maggie’s patience waned. “No, I mean what if she never goes on a diet, what if she stays this size? What if she wants to be this size? Do you really want to spend her entire childhood focused on the size of her butt?”

  “I don’t . . . ,” Andrea sputtered.

  Maggie went on, “Rachel is a magnificent kid. She’s smart and kind. And she’s a fighter. She beat dyslexia. She was two years behind her class last year, and now she’s reading above grade level. She won the school art contest, for Chrissake.” Now it was Andrea’s turn to wince. Maggie prodded, “Oh, c’mon, you had to be proud of that one.”

  Fresh tears rolled down Andrea’s face. “Ohmigod, I was so ashamed.”

  “What?!”

  Andrea explained, “I was shocked. I mean, with Alec, every time he scores a goal, I’m so proud because I know I helped him get there. I took him to the soccer clinics. I practiced with him in the yard. But with that art show, I did nothing. Rachel did it all on her own. I gave her no help, no encouragement. I knew she could draw. You’d have to be blind not to see that, but I had no idea just how talented she was. So, that night, when she won, it was like . . . It was like I was watching her graduate from college—only I didn’t even know she was enrolled. Afterward, Rachel came over and was begging for my attention. She was so needy, like a puppy. But I was too shocked to respond. She was looking for a standing ovation, and I gave her polite applause. And that Wong lady, she caught up with me in the parking lot and . . .”