She returned to the cookbook and scanned dozens of recipes. Nothing sounded quite right. Baked pears were too basic. Raspberry granitas were too slushy. Banana yogurt parfaits were too bland. Cinnamon oranges were too juicy. Strawberry angel food cake was too spongy. These desserts were so healthy, they could also be eaten for breakfast. Not only that, she and Arnie had already had caramel apples and blueberry crepes on previous dates, which, despite their thick sugar coatings, were still fruity if not exactly healthy desserts.
Those had been fine for those dates, but for this date, which was the one that all the others were leading to, she thought dessert should be something special. Something they’d never forget. Something … with chocolate. She’d never had a Valentine, but she’d certainly spent enough time in the drugstore candy aisle to know that boyfriends didn’t give their girlfriends baked pears in celebration of their love every February fourteenth. They gave them chocolate. Boxes and boxes of chocolate.
She’d just closed Low-Sugar Showstoppers and was about to go online to look for more appropriate recipes when the phone rang.
She smiled as she picked up the cordless. “It’s been fifteen minutes. Did you really think I’d cave so soon?”
“Maggie?”
Her smile disappeared. Unless Arnie’s latest Abdominator exercise involved inhaling helium that raised his voice three octaves, he wasn’t on the other end of the line. “Yes?”
“Oh, thank goodness.” The woman exhaled loudly. “You have no idea how long this has taken. I thought I had your number written down on a piece of paper in my wallet, but my wallet was empty. Then I thought I might’ve put it in a shoebox with all my other important papers, but it wasn’t there. Then I thought I must’ve put it on the refrigerator so that I had easy access to it at all times, but the only things on the refrigerator were expired coupons and pictures of Peabody.”
“Peabody?” Maggie asked, now recognizing the voice—and the disorganization.
“My cat,” Electra said. “Anyway, I finally found your number under the couch on your old Pound Patrollers index card, and I’m so glad I did.”
“Electra,” Maggie said gently, “I’d be happy to give you a lesson in spreadsheets sometime.”
“Thanks, but I think I’ll stick with my old-fashioned pen and paper. You can’t get lazy working by hand.”
Maggie frowned. Electra didn’t sound like herself. In fact, she sounded almost annoyed. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?”
“Yes, something happened.” Electra sighed and groaned at the same time. “And Maggie, let me preface this by saying that I adore you. You know I think the world of you and Arnie, and I’m so proud of everything you’ve done for yourselves, and for Patrol This.”
“Thank you … I think.” Maggie’s pulse quickened. If Electra felt the need to remind Maggie how she felt about her overall, then that meant there was something specific she wasn’t happy with.
“So, remember last week, when we mailed out the Patrol This members’ status updates? Their confidential updates, with personalized diet recommendations, exercise tips … and weights?”
“Of course.” Maggie had taken on the responsibility herself and stayed up until two in the morning organizing, printing, and stuffing and labeling envelopes. The updates had needed to be mailed the following day in order to reach families in time for the next Patrol This meeting. “Did the parents not get them? The envelopes were pretty thick, but I made sure I had enough postage. I hope they didn’t—”
“Every envelope went to the address on its label.”
“Oh, thank goodness.” Maggie’s eyelids fluttered closed in relief.
“The problem was what was inside the envelopes.”
Her eyes snapped open. “Inside the envelopes?”
“When I got home tonight, I had twenty-three messages. I didn’t even know my voice mail could hold that many messages.”
“What’d they say?” Maggie’s voice was practically a whisper.
“Well, the first one was from Mrs. Marsh, Antonia’s mom. Do you know Antonia?”
“Eight years old, blond hair, green eyes, missing top tooth,” Maggie said automatically.
Electra paused. “Wow.”
Maggie pulled her laptop toward her and opened the Patrol This spreadsheet. “She came in at eighty-seven pounds, and as of last week, was down to eighty-four.”
“That’s why Mrs. Marsh and Antonia were confused. The current weight on the paperwork they received was a hundred and sixty-three pounds.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Maggie said. “The only member in the one sixties is Clint Baxter.”
“Right. Mrs. Marsh and Antonia figured that out when they turned the page and saw Clint’s name listed with all of his previous weights and measurements.”
Maggie stopped breathing as the blood rushed to her cheeks.
“The next message was from Mr. London. He and his daughter, Natalie, received paperwork for Wendy Pong. The third message was from Mrs. Wilson, who received paperwork for Robbie Fitzpatrick.”
“No,” Maggie moaned. “No, no, no.”
“I’m afraid so. All of the messages were to report receiving wrong paperwork. More important, the kids are devastated that their personal information is no longer confidential.”
“Of course they are. I just don’t understand how this happened.” Maggie scrolled down the Patrol This spreadsheet for clues. “I’m so careful with their information. I always double- and triple-check anything I enter.”
“Did you happen to double- and triple-check the envelope address labels against the paperwork inside?”
“Absolutely.” Maggie shook her head. “I mean, I think so. I must have.”
But the truth was, she couldn’t remember. Right then, all she could recall about that night was that it had been very late, and she’d had three cups of coffee to make sure she stayed awake long enough to finish the project. She’d even been so sleepy at one point that she’d set her alarm and taken a fifteen-minute nap.
“Well, there’s nothing we can do about it right now. I just wanted to give you a heads up in case they couldn’t wait for me to call them back and tried calling you. Or in case they showed up at your door with torches and pitchforks.”
Maggie swallowed. “You really think they’re that mad?”
Electra sighed. “I think we’ll have a pretty big fire to put out at the next meeting. It can be done, but not without some serious damage control.”
“I’m sorry, Electra.” Maggie blinked back tears when the computer screen grew blurry. “I’m so sorry. This isn’t like me.”
“I know, and it’ll be okay. Just get some sleep and try not to worry. We’ll figure it out tomorrow.”
Maggie wasn’t sure how long she sat at the kitchen table after hanging up the phone. She didn’t look for recipes, update her schedule, or review her spreadsheets. She just sat there, staring at the computer without seeing it, and wondering how she could’ve been so careless. Mislabeling the envelopes was the kind of simple, silly mistake she hated to make—and worked tirelessly to avoid. And not only had she made the mistake, she’d done so at the expense of the Patrol This members’ comfort and security. She couldn’t have felt worse if she’d borrowed Ms. Pinkerton’s megaphone, stood on the elementary school steps on a Monday morning, and blasted the kids’ weights at the top of her lungs.
After a while, when she checked her watch and saw that it was almost midnight, she got up and made a pot of coffee. She’d been drinking several cups a day for almost two weeks, and the idea of drinking any more so late at night made her stomach turn … but she had no choice. Tomorrow, there would be fires to put out. And since she hadn’t planned for fires, she had a lot of work to do before she could go to sleep.
18. Maggie was so tired in history class the next day, she had to rest her chin on top of her travel coffee mug to keep from laying her head on the desk and falling asleep.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to s
tay?” Aimee asked when the bell rang and Maggie didn’t move.
“I’m sure.” Maggie sighed, reached both arms overhead, and stretched, like she’d just woken from a nap. “But thanks.”
“And you’re sure this is what you want to do?”
Maggie looked at her. “Aim, it’s already done. It’s been done for weeks.”
“Right.” Aimee waited, as if Maggie might still change her mind. When Maggie didn’t, Aimee stood up and handed her the clipboard. “Good luck.”
“Thanks.” Maggie took the clipboard and watched Aimee leave, suddenly feeling wide-awake.
With the school board meeting only a week away, Maggie had decided she’d better let Ms. Pinkerton know that the swim team might as well hang up their swimsuits for good. The plan was to show Ms. Pinkerton what they’d accomplished during the campaign and explain how that couldn’t compete with free iTunes, Frappuccinos, and pool parties. If, after their conversation, Ms. Pinkerton wanted to rally the rest of the swim team to give it one last push, or if she still wanted Maggie to attend the school board meeting on their behalf, that was fine … but Maggie knew they’d only be wasting time. She also didn’t think Ms. Pinkerton would care, considering she’d basically rolled out a red carpet for Mrs. Swanson and Mrs. Richards to trample them on the week before.
But now that they were alone in the classroom, Maggie was nervous. Ms. Pinkerton might not have supported their efforts as much as Maggie thought she would, but not long ago, she’d encouraged Maggie to join the swim team instead of accepting a belated, reluctant invitation to join the Water Wings. Maggie didn’t know if she would’ve made it through seventh grade without the swim team, and she didn’t know if she would’ve joined the swim team without Ms. Pinkerton’s encouragement.
But not long ago was still a year ago. A lot had happened since then, and she wasn’t the same person. She was thinner, stronger, and more confident. She even had a boyfriend, which she’d once hoped for but never thought possible. She didn’t need the swim team the way she once had.
Assuring herself that this was just the last chapter of a great book that she didn’t have to read every day in order to remember forever, Maggie stood up and walked toward the front of the classroom.
“Did you and your fellow brainiacs bug the joint?”
Maggie stopped two feet in front of Miss Wells’s desk when Ms. Pinkerton spoke without looking up from the issue of InStyle she’d been reading all period. “What do you mean?”
Ms. Pinkerton yanked open a drawer, removed a tall stack of papers, and dropped it on the desk.
“What are those?” Maggie asked.
“Like you don’t know,” Ms. Pinkerton sniffed, returning to the magazine.
“I don’t.”
Ms. Pinkerton finished reading the caption underneath a full-page photo of Cameron Diaz before raising her eyes to Maggie. “You didn’t install video cameras around the room?”
“What?” Maggie shook her head, taken aback by the accusation. “No. Why would I do that?”
Ms. Pinkerton nodded slowly, as if trying to decide whether Maggie could be believed. “What do you want, Bean?”
Still confused but now wanting to do what she needed to and get out of there as fast as possible, Maggie placed the clipboard on top of the magazine.
“What’s this?”
“A petition,” Maggie said, trying to keep her voice steady. “To save the swim team. We talked to tons of kids, and collected a hundred and three signatures.”
Ms. Pinkerton flipped through the pages of names. “Not bad.”
“Not great, either.”
Ms. Pinkerton leaned back, crossed her arms over her chest, and peered at Maggie from underneath the brim of her baseball hat. “If you have something to say, Bean, say it.”
Maggie stood up straight and squared her shoulders. This was it. She just had to say the words, and they could all move on.
“It’s over,” she blurted. “The swim team. It’s over.”
“What do you mean?” Ms. Pinkerton checked her watch. “The meeting’s not for a week.”
“Ms. P, let’s face it,” Maggie said, her heart thudding in her chest. “We can’t compete with the Water Wings. We never could. We were done as soon as the board said it was us or them.”
Ms. Pinkerton didn’t say anything as her eyes narrowed.
“If you want to talk it over with the other girls, that’s fine. And if you still want me to go to the meeting and present the petition, I will. But as the team’s unofficial official leader, I have to say that I think it’s a lost cause.” Maggie paused for a response, but Ms. Pinkerton continued to stare at her without speaking. “I know you had to make us try, and I appreciate that—but I also know you feel the same way. If you didn’t, you never would’ve let Anabel’s and Julia’s moms come in here and brag about their daughters for an entire period.”
Maggie held her breath as Ms. Pinkerton looked down at the clipboard. Given her lack of interest up until now, Maggie expected her to shrug her shoulders, and maybe tell Maggie that it was her life and she didn’t care one way or the other how Maggie chose to live it. Or, if she was having an even worse day than usual, Maggie was braced for a torrent of shouting, name slinging, and door slamming. But what Maggie didn’t expect, what she couldn’t have even imagined, was the response she actually got.
“Ms. P,” she said quietly when Ms. Pinkerton’s wide shoulders started to tremble, “are you crying?”
Ms. Pinkerton shook her head and sniffed.
“Yes, you are. The ink’s running on the petition.” Maggie stepped toward the desk. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Ms. Pinkerton took a deep breath, lifted her head like it weighed fifty pounds, and looked at Maggie. “It’s just … you love the swim team.”
Maggie’s heart leaped when she saw the tears pooling in Ms. Pinkerton’s eyes. “I do,” she reassured her quickly. “I did. I’ll always be grateful for everything it did for me. And if this year was like last year, I’d be at every practice and meet.”
Ms. Pinkerton’s tears spilled over. Her mascara ran in thin black lines down her cheeks.
“It was great while it lasted,” Maggie continued, feeling like the adult as she took a box of tissues from the corner of Miss Wells’s desk and offered it to Ms. Pinkerton. “But nothing lasts forever. At some point, we always have to move on … you know?”
Ms. Pinkerton snatched a tissue from the box and blew her nose so loudly, Maggie jumped. “Why?” she whimpered, her face crumpling. “Why do we have to move on? Who says?”
“Well … the school.” Maggie wasn’t sure what to make of the unexpected response. Up until two minutes ago, she wouldn’t have thought Ms. Pinkerton was physically capable of shedding a single tear—let alone crying over something that had seemed to annoy her more than it made her happy. “And the school’s budget. It wasn’t anything we did or didn’t do. Our time was just up.”
Ms. Pinkerton grabbed another tissue, and another, and another. “It’s not fair,” she whined, pawing at her eyes. “It’s just not fair.”
Maggie took the rest of the tissues out of the box and placed them on top of the petition. Ms. Pinkerton was crying so hard now, her shoulders shook instead of trembled, the chest of her silver sleeveless blouse was turning black from absorbing stray tears, and her breaths sounded like burp-hiccup hybrids. Maggie had never seen Ms. Pinkerton emotional without yelling, and she didn’t know what do. She wanted to help, but worried about saying the wrong thing and making Ms. Pinkerton fall to the floor in hysterics.
As it was, she was already going to be late to English class.
“Like I said,” she tentatively tried again, “you can talk to the rest of the girls. I’ll still go to the school board meeting. We can—”
“No.” Ms. Pinkerton honked into a ball of tissues. “You’re right. What’s the point?”
Maggie snuck a glance at the clock hanging over the closet. The second bell would ring i
n thirty seconds.
“We’ll get through it,” Ms. Pinkerton blubbered. “We’ll pick up the scattered pieces of our shattered hearts, brush them off, try to glue them back together, and hope that some day, some way, they’ll feel something again.”
“Right . . .” Maggie watched the second hand tick toward the top of the clock. “Ms. P, I really don’t want to leave you alone like this … but I kind of have to get to English. And I still have to go to my locker, which is on the other side of the building. I can come back at lunch if you want, or we can meet after school to finish talking, or—”
“No, no.” Ms. Pinkerton inhaled a long, shaky breath. “I’ll have to get used to it. Being alone, I mean.”
Maggie nodded and started slowly backing toward the door. “I’m really sorry for upsetting you. I didn’t mean to.”
“I know.” Ms. Pinkerton blew her nose, tossed the used tissue in the trash can by the desk, and wiped her palms on her shorts. “Bean, wait.”
Maggie stopped just as the bell rang.
“Here.” Ms. Pinkerton flipped through the stack of papers she’d pulled from the desk drawer. She pulled out a smaller pile from the middle of the stack and handed them to Maggie. “I thought this was what you wanted to talk about. Miss Wells stopped by this morning and dropped off your graded reports. She might be back for good next week so she asked me to hang on to them until then, but I know how you love your tests and papers. This might help when you’re all alone in your bedroom later tonight, feeling sad, and lonely, and—”
“Thank you.” Maggie took the papers without looking at them and hurried toward the door. “I’m sorry—I really have to go. We’ll talk more later, I promise. Hang in there!”
Maggie Bean in Love Page 14
