But, not surprisingly, Ms. Pinkerton was not most substitutes.
“Who was making out? Who broke up? Whose little romantic escapades are so important that you simply can’t wait for the bell to ring to start picking them apart like hawks on roadkill?” Ms. Pinkerton leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest. “Please. Indulge me.”
Maggie winced at Ms. Pinkerton’s tone as she scanned the room for the poor victims—and then slowly slid down her seat when every single one of her classmates turned and looked in her direction.
“Bean,” Ms. Pinkerton barked. “McDougall. I’m sure we’d all enjoy a good love story right about now. Isn’t that what history’s about, after all? The events that occur as a result of people coming together, being torn apart, and leaving entire continents reeling in their wake?”
“Well,” Maggie started, “sort of, but—”
“Ms. P,” Aimee said sweetly, “Maggie and I weren’t gossiping. Like you, we have more important things to do than worry about the dating trials and tribulations of our peers. In fact, we were just—”
Aimee stopped when Ms. Pinkerton held up one hand—which, Maggie couldn’t help but notice, must’ve just had an at-home manicure. Ms. Pinkerton’s previously nonexistent fingernails were now covered by neon pink, clawlike tips.
“Please. That’s enough. I enjoyed every bite of the cheeseburger with extra cheddar, fried onion rings, and mayonnaise I had at lunch … but I don’t need to taste it again.”
Maggie and Aimee exchanged looks as Ms. Pinkerton slowly pushed her chair away from the teacher’s desk and stood up.
“You’re right about one thing, McDougall,” Ms. Pinkerton said, wobbling across the room in yellow sandals with threeinch heels. “You do have more important things to worry about than your classmates’ out-of-control hormones.”
Maggie bit her bottom lip to keep from smiling as a series of groans sounded throughout the room. Her classmates had a hard enough time staying serious when discussing anything related to the human anatomy in science class … but hormones and Ms. Pinkerton were definitely a bad combination.
“Now,” Ms. Pinkerton continued, “I haven’t talked to Miss Wells or her doctors, so I don’t know how long she’ll be recovering, when she’ll be back at school, or if she was really even sick to begin with.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know if she was really even sick to begin with?” asked Luke Garzo, one of Maggie’s classmates. “Principal Marshall said she was in so much pain last night, she could hardly walk.”
“Maybe so.” Ms. Pinkerton’s heels clicked against the linoleum as she walked to the classroom closet. “But wouldn’t you be hurting—or calling in sick and hiding out in fear and embarrassment—if you knew you were about to inflict this kind of torture on your unsuspecting students?”
Maggie watched her classmates exchange worried looks as Ms. Pinkerton threw open the closet door.
“What is that?” Luke asked suspiciously.
Ms. Pinkerton stepped back from the closet so that they had an unobstructed view. The closet was filled from top to bottom with textbooks, binders, folders, and thick stacks of paper held together with rubber bands.
“That is what I’ve been instructed to give you while Miss Wells lounges in her flannel pajamas and watches SOAPnet.”
“But we already got our textbook for this class,” Polly Crews said.
“World History: A Complete Overview,” Ms. Pinkerton said with a nod. “The state requires every eighth grader to at least pretend to read that, so you’ll need to hang on to it.”
“So then what’s with the miniature bookstore?” Aimee asked.
Ms. Pinkerton took a deep breath and clasped her hands behind her back. “Young, pretty, blond Miss Wells, who’s been voted Teacher of the Year five years running, has decided to use her popularity to try to implement academic change.”
“Academic change?” Polly repeated doubtfully.
“What kind?” Maggie asked, growing concerned.
Instead of answering, Ms. Pinkerton turned back to the closet and removed a hardcover textbook, another paperback book, a three-ring binder, and a stack of rubber band–bound papers. As she carried them to Miss Wells’s desk, her shoulders slumped forward from the weight.
Maggie jumped when Ms. Pinkerton dropped the books to the desk. The noise was like a grenade detonating.
“This is about as much information as teachers have to learn before they’re certified to teach,” Ms. Pinkerton said. “And it is all the information Miss Wells would like you to learn in this class.”
Maggie’s eyes widened as the class exploded in protest.
Ms. Pinkerton didn’t respond to the outburst. She waited until the yelling dulled to grumbling before continuing. “In order to learn as much as possible in her absence, your history teacher wants you to read and memorize every word on every page in that stack, and prepare a syllabus.”
“What’s a syllabus?” Luke asked suspiciously.
“An outline,” Ms. Pinkerton explained. “You’re to take those thousands of pages and condense and organize the information so that it could be easily taught to other eighth graders.”
“But … isn’t that, like, the teacher’s job?” Polly asked.
“Miss Wells seems to think that this new method will help you remember who chopped whose head off in various battles throughout time better than simply reading the state-required textbook, taking tests, and writing papers.” Ms. Pinkerton paused. “Though you’ll still have to do all those things too.”
While her classmates groaned and shrieked, Maggie tried to stay calm. They didn’t have all the details yet. Maybe the assignment was for extra credit, which Maggie always appreciated the chance to get but usually didn’t need. And maybe it wasn’t due until the end of the school year. If the assignment wasn’t due for another ten months, she could probably start it in five months and still finish on time. That would make the second half of the year tough … but given the swim team situation, she might not have as much to do then, anyway.
Still, there was one other problem. As Ms. Pinkerton continued to unload the closet’s contents onto her desk, Maggie worried her body would snap in half if she had to carry even one more book without going to her locker.
“So I hope you didn’t have any big plans this weekend,” Ms. Pinkerton bellowed over the noise as she pulled another stack of books and papers from the closet. “Or any weekend between now and Christmas, for that matter. The final syllabus is due at the end of the semester, and Miss Wells wants weekly summaries and reports to make sure you’re staying on track. Your first report is due Monday.”
“But Monday’s in three days,” Luke said, as if Miss Wells and Ms. Pinkerton had forgotten. “I have a baseball game on Saturday.”
“I have a family reunion on Sunday,” Polly added.
Maggie swallowed. In addition to her regular homework and weekly family fun time, she had a Patrol This meeting and a swim team strategy meeting with Aimee that weekend. Most important, she had a date with Arnie on Saturday night. She’d already organized her schedule, and every minute was accounted for.
“Well,” Ms. Pinkerton said, dropping another load of papers and books on Miss Wells’s desk, “you’re young. You can sleep when you’re old and alone and have nothing better to do.”
Maggie snuck a glance at Aimee, who was looking at Ms. Pinkerton like she had an extra head growing underneath her Yankees baseball hat. Making students squirm usually brought Ms. Pinkerton great joy, but she sounded almost as unhappy with the assignment as Maggie and her classmates were.
“Blue sweatshirt.”
Maggie looked away from Aimee to see Ms. Pinkerton nod at Luke.
“Why don’t you and orange T-shirt make yourselves useful and start handing these out?”
Luke rolled his eyes at Adam Jackson. Apparently, Adam’s bright orange T-shirt had made him an easy target for Ms. Pinkerton. As the girls’ gym teacher, she didn’t know th
e boys’ names—though Maggie was surprised she didn’t know Luke and Adam. They were two of the baseball team’s best hitters. Maggie didn’t usually follow any school sports besides swimming, but not long ago, she’d attended every baseball game and studied the team’s yearbook picture like she was going to be asked to arrange the players by height. Because not long ago, she’d had one very important reason to pay more attention to baseball than any other school sport—including swimming.
Peter Applewood.
“You might want to save your energy, Bean. You’re going to need it.”
Maggie’s hand froze, and she quickly lowered it. She was suddenly so distracted, it took her a second to realize she’d already raised it to get Ms. Pinkerton’s attention. “I have to go.”
Ms. Pinkerton looked up from the piles on the desk and cocked an eyebrow at Maggie.
“To the bathroom.” She didn’t have to go to the bathroom—and definitely wouldn’t have announced it so publicly if she did—but besides faking fainting and being whisked away to the nurse’s office, she knew it was the only thing that could get her out of class before the bell. “I have to go right now.”
Ms. Pinkerton glanced at the clock over the classroom door. “Your bladder can’t hold out for six more minutes?”
“No.” Maggie prayed Ms. Pinkerton wouldn’t ask any other questions. As it was, six minutes was pushing it. She couldn’t afford any delays.
“You might want to get that checked out.” Ms. Pinkerton didn’t sound pleased, but she turned back to the closet without saying Maggie couldn’t go.
“We’ll talk at lunch,” Maggie whispered quickly to Aimee as she jumped up.
Maggie’s backpack was now so stuffed with books and folders, she could no longer zip it shut. She had to carry it in front of her at all times, because if she tried to give her arms a rest and wear it on her back, everything inside would immediately fall out. That was challenging and exhausting; her arms were fairly strong from swimming, but pushing and pulling water wasn’t the same as hauling around thirty extra pounds every forty-five minutes. Maggie couldn’t believe she’d carried around even more than that every minute of every day before she lost weight.
Which was why she had no choice. If she was going to make it through the school year without collapsing, she would have to lighten her load. And since it wasn’t possible to drop a class or two to get rid of a few books, there was only one way to do that.
She would have to go to her locker.
Her biceps felt like they were going to rip through her sweater sleeves by the time she reached the front of the classroom. She forced her arms up an extra inch to rest her backpack on the edge of Miss Wells’s desk, grabbed one of each from the stacks on the desk, and piled the books and folders on top of her open backpack. She was glad Ms. Pinkerton was too busy handing books to Luke and Adam to notice Maggie taking her own pile. She didn’t need Ms. Pinkerton to ask why she didn’t think she could go to the bathroom and make it back to the classroom before the bell rang.
Supporting the backpack with both arms and digging her chin into the bundle of papers on top of the stack to keep the new additions from sliding off, Maggie moved as quickly as she could through the hallway. As she shuffled along, she tried to keep her mind off the pain by thinking of other reasons to leave class early and arrive to class late. The bathroom excuse was effective, but her teachers really would be concerned if she used it every day.
Before she could come up with an alternative, Maggie rounded a corner and shuffled to a stop.
There it was. It was still beige, and scratched in the top right corner. It still had a long, blue stain running along the bottom from an unfortunate pen accident last year. And it was still as pretty as she’d remembered.
Her locker. She’d missed it more than she realized.
Despite her reasons for being there, she couldn’t help but smile as she dropped her backpack to the floor and spun the dial. Her fingers stopped turning automatically, as if they were biologically wired to turn the dial left to 36, right to 24, and left again to 36. Last year, her locker combination had been a glaring, frequent reminder that her figure was nothing like those of magazine models. Now, it reminded her how far she’d come since then. And that almost made her forget why she’d gone to such lengths to avoid her locker for so long.
“Maggie?”
Almost.
“Hey, Peter.” She tried to turn around to face him, but couldn’t. What was he doing here? Why wasn’t he in class? Her heart slammed against her chest as she tossed as many books as her hands could hold into her locker. “How’s it going? How was the rest of your summer? How are your teachers this year?”
“Well—”
“Oh, would you look at the time!” she declared, checking her wrist, even though she wasn’t wearing a watch. “I have to be … somewhere … like, now. But we’ll catch up soon!”
She bolted down the hallway and resisted fanning her burning face until she was around the corner. Darting into an empty classroom, she closed the door behind her and dropped into a desk chair.
She knew she was being silly. She knew she couldn’t avoid Peter all year. And she knew that if she tried to carry all of her books without ever going to her locker next year, when they were in high school, her fingers would be too weak to hold a No. 2 pencil by the time the SATs rolled around two years later.
But that was next year. And she hadn’t planned that far ahead.
11. “Mag Pie … I think we need to talk.”
“Okay.” Maggie nodded as she typed. When she reached the end of the sentence, she checked the time in the top-right corner of the computer screen and then continued typing. “We have four minutes. What’s up?”
“Maggie.”
“I’m listening, I promise. I just need to finish this one para—” Maggie stopped short when her mother’s hands grabbed both of hers and squeezed.
“Sweetie, please save whatever you’re working on and close the computer.”
“Mom, I know four minutes doesn’t sound like much time, but I can still get a lot done while we talk.”
Her mother’s fingers tightened around hers.
Maggie looked at her notes on the screen, and then at her mother. “What is it?” she asked, refraining from adding that whatever they had to talk about, it had better be important.
Her mother loosened her grip but continued holding Maggie’s hands. Her eyes traveled from Maggie to the computer screen, and back to Maggie.
Sighing, Maggie hit the “save” icon and reluctantly lowered the laptop screen. Her mother didn’t release her hands until the screen clicked shut and its red power light dimmed. When Maggie finally looked away from the computer, she was surprised to see that her mom looked serious—almost worried. “What’s wrong?” she asked, feeling immediately guilty for having been too involved in her homework to notice that something was up. “Is it Dad? Is his cholesterol high again? Do we need to find lower low-fat cheese?”
Her mom tilted her head. “Your father’s fine. So is Summer. So am I. So is everyone else we know and love.”
Clueless as to what else could be wrong if her family was fine, Maggie sat back and braced for whatever it was her mother was about to tell her.
“Maggie … there’s no desk in here.”
Maggie shook her head slightly, not following.
“There’s no desk in here … because we’re in the car.” Her mother said this gently but firmly, as if she didn’t want to tell Maggie the obvious but felt like she had to.
“Mom,” Maggie said, her voice equally gentle yet firm, “are you sure you’re okay?”
Her mom leaned toward her and tucked a stray strand of hair behind Maggie’s ear. “Sweetie, I’m worried about you.”
“Me?” Maggie was genuinely taken aback. “Why?”
“Because you’re going on a date with Arnie—”
“But you love Arnie.”
“You’re right. I do. Which is why I can’t help but wis
h that, during the drive here, you were gazing out the window and daydreaming about all the fun you’re going to have tonight instead of staring at the computer screen.”
“Mom, I appreciate the concern—I think—but I really don’t have time for daydreaming. Would you like to see my schedule?” She went to open the laptop again, but stopped when her mom pressed down on it to keep it closed.
“Mag Pie, Arnie’s a great guy. You’re a great girl. And, trust me—I’m not trying to fast-forward your relationship or encourage you to put it before everything else, including your schoolwork. But I also don’t want you to miss out on some of the best parts of being in a brand-new relationship.”
Maggie frowned. “Like daydreaming?”
“Like daydreaming. It might not sound like much, but ignoring reality for a few minutes in anticipation of seeing someone you care about can be very, very exciting.”
Maggie considered this. She couldn’t be anywhere but in the moment when she was actually with Arnie—they had so much fun together that that was impossible—but lately, she definitely hadn’t been devoting as much time to Arnie when they weren’t together. She didn’t doubt what her mom was saying, but she also didn’t know how to turn off her brain and make time for daydreaming. Especially when she’d typed three whole pages of Civil War notes on the drive from their house to Sugar Plum Farm.
“Sugar Plum Farm?” Maggie asked suddenly, shifting in her seat and looking out the window. “As in an actual farm, with chickens, pigs, and dirt?”
“And fruit, vegetables, and flowers,” her mother said, sounding puzzled. “Isn’t this where Arnie said to meet him?”
“It is.” Maggie took in the small wooden building, the fenced-in area that served as a miniature petting zoo, and the people carrying red wooden baskets filled with produce. “But I just assumed Sugar Plum Farm was a cute name for, like, a shopping center or mall or something.”
Maggie Bean in Love Page 8
