The Melting of Maggie Bean

by Tricia Rayburn

  A quarter of the way through her earth science reading, Maggie was unintentionally informed.

  When she heard her mother’s muffled voice trickle underneath the bedroom door, she got up from her desk and crouched with one ear in the direction of the living room, her heart pounding. It had been at least three days since the last argument, so they were due.

  “I can’t believe you didn’t go,” her mother said, in disbelief. “Why wouldn’t you go?”

  “So I missed the appointment. Big deal. There are plenty of others.”

  “Plenty of others? When? Where?”

  “I know what I’m doing.”

  “If that’s the case, why are we having this conversation?”

  Maggie nibbled her fingernails.

  “The job thing isn’t the problem—”

  “No, Robert, the problem is that they’re going to turn off the lights and disconnect the phone because we haven’t paid those bills in two months!”

  “Everything looks better in the dark and there’s nobody I need to talk to.”

  “And rent, Robert. Rent was due two weeks ago! We’re already going to have to pay a late fee, just like we’ve had to the past three months, and last time Mrs. Morgan said that if it kept happening—”

  “She’s not going to kick us out.”

  Her mother sighed and Maggie pictured her holding her forehead with both hands, the way she did when it seemed her brain might explode from stress.

  “Robert. Mrs. Morgan depends on this money to live. We depend on money to live”—her mother sighed—“besides the fact that I had to beg my uncle for that interview. Couldn’t you have at least talked to him?”

  The silence that followed was so loud, Maggie could’ve put on her headphones with the stereo volume cranked to ten and still strained to hear the music.

  She looked at the clock. Four minutes passed before her mother spoke again, her voice softer.

  “Robert, I know it was a shock, losing your job so unexpectedly, but I’m tired. I need help. I can’t keep asking my parents for money.”

  “If your uncle was so willing to contribute to our cause, why don’t you ask him?”

  Maggie heard her mother’s sudden hurried footsteps around the house. The familiar clinking of glasses and plates in the kitchen let Maggie know her mother was keeping busy to deal, the way she always did, while her father sat nearby, maybe feeling badly about the argument’s turn but unwilling to make it better. He’d never been a very emotional person, but since losing his job, he’d become about as sensitive as a rock.

  Maggie crawled into bed and drew the covers over her head. She reached one hand underneath the bed and grabbed the first plastic bag her fingers grazed, pleased when it was the Kit Kats. She ate one after another, the chocolate melting as quickly and easily as the harsh sentences flew out of her parents’ mouths.

  She thought of dinner at Aimee’s house, during which the McDougall family actually talked about everything—their days, friends, and upcoming events. They asked questions and even lingered at the table when everyone was done eating, and laughed at one another’s stories. The television was nowhere near the dining room table; in fact Maggie couldn’t recall ever seeing the McDougalls watch television. After dinner the kids cleaned up, and later everyone ate dessert together on comfy couches in front of the living room fireplace. In the winter Maggie and Aimee did their homework by that fireplace after school with cups of hot chocolate and real whipped cream. Aimee’s whole house was something right out of a Pottery Barn catalog, which featured beautiful furniture and household items on pages that Maggie’s mom earmarked, but from which she never actually bought a thing.

  The McDougall house wasn’t just a house. It was a home. A warm, safe, happy place to return to at the end of the day—just like on television or in the movies.

  Maggie finished off the bag of Kit Kats, licked her fingers, and lifted her laptop from the floor. When Maggie’s Master Multitasker appeared, she inserted a new tab on the bottom of the screen and labeled it “Dad.” She typed quickly, as though the faster the ideas came, the sooner things would go back to normal.

  #1: Get newspaper for job listings.

  #2: Look for help wanted signs

  #3: See if other landscaping companies are hiring.

  She studied the list, grabbed a peppermint patty from her nightstand drawer to help her think, and added one last item.

  #4: Make Dad want a new job.

  She saved the changes, closed the laptop, and lowered it to the floor. She lay down, pulled the covers to her chin, and was about to put on her headphones when she heard a light knock on her door.

  Thinking she misheard, Maggie kicked off the covers and sat straight up in her bed. There it was again.

  She stood up, unlocked the door, and cracked it open.

  A small pair of sad brown eyes stared back at her.

  “They’re fighting again.”

  Maggie leaned against the door. “Do you want to be the car?”

  Summer nodded.

  Maggie opened the door all the way, gave Summer the headphones to block out any potential noise, and pulled Monopoly from the closet. They moved the car and thimble game pieces around the board without talking until Summer fell asleep on a pile of pink, green, and blue bills.

  12.

  “You promise?” Aimee asked skeptically, one palm on the swinging locker room door.

  Maggie swallowed and nodded.

  “You’re not going to turn right around as soon as I get in and hightail it home?”

  “I’m in my bathing suit,” Maggie defended herself. “I’m not going anywhere but underwater where no one can see me. I just need a minute—or five, tops.”

  “Fine. Just remember the reindeer antlers and stinky bowling shoes. Consider me your favorite charity.” Aimee winked before pushing through the door.

  It’s no big deal, she told herself, clinging to the yellow striped towel she’d brought from home (not trusting the small white school towels to wrap all the way around her). It’s just a bathing suit. Every person out there is already wearing one.

  Peering through the door’s window, she waited for the dive team to finish stretching and move toward the diving platforms before taking a deep breath and throwing open the door. Her feet were slippery on the tiles but she didn’t look or slow down. Staring straight ahead at the water, she padded along as quickly as she could before dropping her towel, hurrying to sit on the edge of the pool, and sliding in. She hoped she’d looked more graceful than she’d felt, shuffling and waddling like a beached seal, but she looked casually around once safely in the water and was relieved to find no one gaping or laughing. No one was even paying attention, except Aimee, who smiled before dunking underwater and swimming over to Maggie.

  “You did it! The worst part is over.”

  “One of the worst parts is over,” Maggie corrected. “I still have to get out!”

  Aimee dismissed the thought with a wave of her hand. “So what do you want to do first? Breaststroke? Backstroke? Crawl? Handstands?”

  Maggie’s eyes widened and she shook her head at the last option. “Underwater! That’s part of the deal!”

  After agreeing on free swim, they moved over to one wall and grabbed the ledge, braced for push off. Maggie knew she wasn’t competing against Aimee, but lined up against the wall she felt she was competing against someone or something—she just wasn’t sure who or what.

  They pushed off at the same time and Maggie let herself glide through the water for a few seconds, enjoying the cool rush against her skin, before beginning to kick and paddle. She hadn’t really swum in years, but it seemed to be like riding a bicycle, as the strokes came easily.

  “Doing okay?” Aimee asked, popping up for air after another underwater turnaround.

  “I feel like we should be surrounded by hammocks and palm trees!”

  Aimee grinned, gave a goggled wink, and swam ahead.

  It did feel like vacation. With each
cut her arms made though the water, Maggie relaxed more. Jimmy Buffett’s “Margaritaville” played from the overhead speakers and the sun warmed her arms each time they left the water. Her movements were unhurried but steady. When her arms grew tired, instead of worrying about how out of shape she was, she simply rolled over and did the backstroke. She moved through the water slowly and gracefully, her breathing and movements even, her head clear. She didn’t think about how she looked or who was around, about how her bathing suit straps tightened around her shoulders with each motion, or about her parents, Peter Applewood, Water Wings, Ms. Pinkerton, or Pound Patrollers.

  “This is exercise?” Maggie called to Aimee as they swam past each other.

  She’d never thought of swimming as a workout. But her muscles contracted and her heart pumped, so even without the familiar cramping and sore calves, she knew her body was working.

  They swam for a half an hour before Maggie began to tire. She flagged Aimee down and waited for her on one side of the shallow end.

  “So, you know better than anybody that I hate being wrong,” Maggie said with a smile as Aimee swam over. “But I was very wrong, and you were very, very right. This was amazing.”

  It was the first time she’d felt lighter than a hippopotamus in months. She’d decided on the fifth turnaround that temporary weightlessness was enough to pursue a career in swimming or aeronautics; whether in the water or on the moon, defying gravity was the professional goal for her.

  “I knew it!” Aimee dunked herself quickly underwater and popped back up. “So that means you’ll come again, right?”

  Maggie grinned. “Is tomorrow too soon? And the day after tomorrow? And the day after that?”

  Once Aimee released Maggie’s neck from her excited squeeze, they rested their elbows behind them on the edge of the pool and let their legs float in front of them.

  “So I know I probably shouldn’t ask you so soon, but time is sort of running out.”

  Maggie turned her head to look at her friend. “Running out? What for?” This afternoon Maggie had felt she had all the time in the world.

  “For the Water Wings tryouts?” Aimee asked timidly.

  Maggie sighed. “Aim, I just got in the water. I don’t know if I’m quite ready for everyone to watch me try to move around in it.”

  “But you’re a natural, Mags! You swim like you were born doing it. It’s just another thing that you’re good at, like algebra or memorizing state capitals.”

  Maggie bit her lip, tasted the chlorine. It wasn’t chocolate, but it somehow tasted sweeter. Could she really do it? Was joining a water sport team not completely out of character? Was it only out of the character she thought she was?

  “Mom only taught me basic, ancient moves. I don’t know any of the choreography,” Maggie protested weakly with her last concern, her heart beginning to beat faster and a small smile forming.

  Aimee snapped her head around to look at Maggie. “I’ll teach you the routine to try out with, and they teach you the rest after you’ve made the team.”

  After you’ve made the team.

  “Okay.”

  Aimee paused, her lips widening in a disbelieving grin. “Okay?”

  “I’ll do it.” Maggie squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head, disbelieving it herself. She was so excited and distracted that she actually climbed the silver ladder without one glance around to see if anyone watched. “On one condition,” she added over her shoulder.

  “Anything,” Aimee agreed, planting both palms on the pool’s edge and hoisting herself out.

  “You let me help you study.” She wanted Aimee to have better grades, but if by some otherworldly bizarre phenomenon Maggie actually made the team, she also wanted to ensure she wasn’t joining it alone. And Aimee’s parents had already forbidden more activities unless her grades improved.

  Wrinkling her nose, Aimee leaned over to wring water from her hair.

  “It’s good ammo for your disapproving parents,” Maggie suggested.

  “They do think you’re an academic goddess,” Aimee admitted reluctantly.

  “Well.” Maggie shrugged and smiled.

  “Okay ,fine,” Aimee groaned. “It’s only fair.”

  “See? You’re a quick learner!”

  “Anyway,” Aimee said, the excitement back in her voice as she headed toward the locker room, “we have to come up with some sort of practice schedule for the next three weeks, and maybe we should go bathing suit shopping so that we stand out and—”

  Aimee stopped her quick walk to the locker room when she noticed Maggie was no longer behind her. She looked over her shoulder to see her friend stuck by the water’s edge, stiff and wet like a defenseless statue in the rain, and then up to the bleachers, from where she heard hushed whispers and muffled snorts of laughter.

  Anabel Richards and Julia Swanson sat on one of the benches, giggling and peeking above the hands that covered their mouths. They shone in their silver bathing suits, which they wore without cover-ups, looking like they’d just slithered off the pages of a Victoria’s Secret catalog, each fixing her hair with one hand and hiding her smirk with the other.

  And if that wasn’t enough to embarrass Maggie into a catatonic state, on the bleacher right behind them sat Peter Applewood.

  Maggie stood at the pool’s edge, frozen. She looked down at her toes without seeing them, brought her knees together, bent over slightly, and crossed her arms over her stomach, trying without thinking to curl into a shell of herself and hide. She didn’t know how long they’d been sitting there, but guessed it was long enough to have heard the Water Wings discussion, which only worsened the trauma of being so blatantly scrutinized in her skirted bathing suit. She turned her head slightly to see her striped yellow towel sitting in a sad lump at least six feet away. To retrieve it quickly she’d have to turn around and reveal her butt, which resembled a cottage cheese-filled Jell-O mold in bright packaging. The only other option was to get back in the water, which she couldn’t do for fear of her splash fueling further laughter.

  So she stood in one place, water dripping from her hair and bathing suit and her toes threatening to stick permanently to the poolside tile.

  She raised her eyes slightly when she heard Aimee’s bare feet pattering across the tile to the striped towel and then over to Maggie. She stood up straighter once the towel was wrapped around her and shuffled as quickly as she could without slipping and falling (the only possible way the situation could be worse) toward the locker room door.

  “Hey, nice dress!” Julia called before erupting into hysterics with Anabel.

  “What’s your problem?”

  Maggie glanced quickly over her shoulder to see Aimee standing in front of Anabel and Julia, hands on her hips.

  “Come on,” Julia said, her voice still light with laughter. “It was funny.”

  Had Maggie stuck around, she might’ve noticed that Peter didn’t join in their amusements, but sat silently, shaking his head not at Maggie but at her two silver-suited antagonists. And had she stuck around and actually turned around, she would’ve witnessed the swift shove he threw at Julia’s shoulder that turned her laughter into a surprised yelp before he got up and left the pool alone.

  But she didn’t stick around. She made it to the locker room without falling, threw her school clothes on over her soaked bathing suit, and ran as fast as her legs would carry her toward home, her bed, and the covers she would hide under until she’d withered away to practically nothing and was light enough that someone could actually drag her out if they tried—if they even thought to look, which Maggie doubted they would.

  13.

  Maggie pressed one ear against the bathroom door. Her father watched television while her mother helped Summer with her homework. Their voices were soft, which meant they were down the hall.

  The coast was clear.

  She lifted the scale from the floor and slid it under her sweatshirt, wincing when the cool metal pressed against her belly. She held th
e scale in place with one hand and rested the other on the doorknob. Satisfied that her family was too busy to pay attention, she slipped through the door, dashed down the hall to her bedroom, and locked herself inside.

  Maggie hadn’t touched a scale since her last school physical. She liked having her height measured, because she felt her five-foot-seven frame helped rationalize her weight. But during the actual weighing, she always looked away from the long, narrow bar and asked the nurse to record the result without sharing and quickly slide both weights back to zero.

  But she had no choice now. There was no one there to absorb the bad news for her, and the mortifying pool incident had convinced her she needed to know the truth.

  She twisted the doorknob to make sure she was locked safely inside and, more importantly, that her family was locked safely outside. Because clothes, especially her clothes, would negatively skew the scale’s reading, the truth involved getting naked.

  She closed her eyes, took three deep breaths, and slowly unzipped her sweatshirt, cringing and biting her lip harder and harder with the revealing of each flabby roll.

  She tugged on one sleeve and then the other till the heavy gray sweatshirt fell to the blue bathroom tile. She lifted the Camp Sound View T-shirt that her mother had brought back as a souvenir from Summer’s day camp two years before, which was just a reminder of how silly Maggie would’ve felt at camp, playing volleyball and going canoeing. The only camp she was fit for was the annual Pound Patrollers “retreat,” which took place in the local mall. Campers walked six brisk lengths, from the Gap to JCPenney and back again, before indulging in low-fat, all-natural fruit smoothies at the food court, every morning, from Memorial Day through Labor Day. Aunt Violetta had done the retreat for so many summers that she’d already applied for leader-in-training, even though the next session wouldn’t start again for eight months.

  Maggie reached behind her and unhooked her bra, the boring, beige cotton racerback that lacked any cute polka dots, ruffles, lace, bows, or satin—small details that might’ve helped her feel more like a girl than just a body with mushy parts that needed extra restraining.