The Melting of Maggie Bean

by Tricia Rayburn

  15.

  Invisible eating. It sounded like some sort of carnival attraction or magic trick, and unfortunately it was one Maggie didn’t need a magic wand to perform and one she wanted to forget.

  She locked the bedroom door behind her and stood with her hands on her hips. Before she could change her mind, she rolled up her sleeves, took the purple garbage bin from beneath her desk, and squished down all of the empty Snickers and Milky Way wrappers that already overflowed onto the carpet. After making what she thought was enough room, she knelt by her bed and reached under her mattress with both hands.

  She pulled out bag after bag of miniature Hershey bars, M&M’s, Twizzlers, Swedish Fish, Andes Mints, Nerds, Tootsie Pops, Kit Kats, Twix, and Peppermint Patties, until her knees and back grew sore and she was up to her hips in creamy caramel, scrumptious sugar, and crunchy cookie filling. Up to her hips in millions of calories and thousands of fat grams. Up to her hips, which were three times the size of what they should be, because of all that surrounded her. The individual candy pieces looked like miniature Christmas gifts, wrapped in irresistible, shiny silver and gold wrappers. She found it no wonder that candy shelves were strategically placed by cash registers at the eye level of children. What little boy or girl could resist such pretty presents?

  Maggie breathed through her mouth as she crammed the boxes and bags into the little garbage bin, avoiding the sweet scent that she fell asleep inhaling every night. She stuffed and smushed until nothing more would fit and six bags still lay scattered across the floor, which she briefly considered shoving back under the mattress to deal with later. She was tired, it was late, and she’d already made great progress.

  But tonight there was no later. It had to be now or not at all.

  Her heart thumping and perspiration beginning to shine on her forehead, Maggie opened and closed each of her desk drawers and rummaged through her closet, looking for some kind of disposable bag in which to dump the rest of the candy. She finally settled on an old duffel bag that she hadn’t used in three years, shoved in the rest of the shiny evidence, and zipped up the bag in satisfaction. Voilà.

  She pushed the garbage bin and bag against the wall by the door, took off her sweatshirt to cool down, and sat down at her desk with her notebook and calculator to do math homework.

  She made it through the first page of problems in fifteen minutes. They were pretty easy, mainly a review of what they’d gone over in detail in class that day. She didn’t know how some people preferred to just goof off throughout class, writing notes and whispering. How on earth did they manage?

  Halfway through the second page of problems, she got stuck. She looked through her notes, read the textbook chapter that preceded the problems, and tapped her pencil on the desk until the point snapped. She sat for another fifteen minutes, trying to figure out the problem, until she grew bored and frustrated.

  Boredom and frustration, it turned out, were two key components to the invisible eating magic trick.

  Before she could stop herself, Maggie was out of her chair and standing above the bagged and binned candy. Not bothering to cover her nose or breathe through her mouth, she closed her eyes and inhaled the chocolate, peppermint, and licorice scents. It sure beat aromatherapy lotions or candles, both of which she’d attempted in hopes of relaxation and stress relief and which smelled more like the doctor’s office in her opinion.

  What would one little piece hurt? Just one little piece, to commemorate the occasion? A farewell, a parting gift to herself?

  “Maggie, honey?” Her mother knocked on the door. “How was the meeting?

  She shook her head quickly, snapped herself out of the Hershey hypnosis. She cracked the door open just enough for her mother to see her but not her room.

  “Fine.” She tried to sound casual.

  “Oh.” Her mother blinked twice at Maggie’s unexpected room block. “Can I come in?”

  “Um.” Maggie peeked quickly over her shoulder. Candy bars spilled out of the garbage bin and duffel bag right next to her feet. “Now’s not really a good time.”

  “Homework?” She tilted her head sympathetically. “I know Thursdays are rough and these meetings really cut into—”

  “It’s okay.” She waved one hand, grateful for the excuse. “I’m just trying to catch up.”

  Her mother winked. “Let me know if you need anything.”

  Maggie thanked her and closed the door, relieved.

  This wasn’t going to work. She needed to get the chocolate out of her room, out of her life, now. Otherwise what always happened would happen again. One piece of one kind of candy would lead to one piece of each kind of candy. One piece of each kind of candy would lead to two, three, four pieces. Soon she’d be stuffing bag after bag under her bed until she was back where she started. What she needed to do was get it out of the house and into the garbage barrels outside awaiting morning pickup.

  Dropping to her knees one more time, Maggie peered under the mattress to make sure not one chocolate bar had gone unnoticed. If she didn’t do it now, she’d do it some other time, when she actually hoped for something to have been left behind.

  The floor was littered with forgotten socks and notebook paper, but clear of candy. Since she was there, she gathered a handful of socks. She was about to sit up when she noticed something else that had been hidden by her laundry. It was too far back to make out so she jumped up, yanked an empty hanger from the closet, and fell back to the ground.

  Using the hanger as a plastic arm extension (if only hers were so thin!), Maggie lay flat on the ground and reached until she felt the hanger neck get a solid grasp on whatever she’d missed. She pulled it from underneath the bed slowly shimmying backward until her butt smacked against the dresser.

  When it was finally on the floor in front of her, Maggie sat back, crossed her legs, and brought it to her lap.

  A box of tissues. She looked quickly to her nightstand where the same empty Kleenex box had sat for weeks.

  This tissue box was inside a crocheted cover in the shape of a small white house, out of whose chimney sprouted pale blue tissues. Maggie had always loved the cover because each time one tissue was pulled, another popped up out of the chimney, as though an imaginary fire forever warmed the little home. It had been one of Aunt Violetta’s first craft projects after her marriage, which she’d given to Maggie’s mother. Its place was on her mother’s nightstand, not underneath Maggie’s bed.

  And yet here it was, practically empty.

  Maggie put the tissue box to the side and reached back under the bed with the hanger until the neck once again hooked onto something. She reached and pulled and reached and pulled until her arm and back grew sore. She reached and pulled, until she was up to her hips once again. Up to her hips, in a sea of crumpled, blue tissues.

  Crumpled, blue tissues, which, when Maggie held them in her hands, were still damp.

  16.

  The day after her bedroom candy cleansing, Maggie, Aimee, and Summer sat on her floor, surrounded by newspapers and magazines. It was the first time in months she didn’t have to fear people in her room accidentally spotting the stray wrappers and bags she was always so careful to hide, which made focusing on their task much easier.

  “Here’s the Maple Grove Sun, the Daily Dose, and People.”

  Maggie raised her eyebrows.

  “Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie?” Aimee pointed to the magazine cover. “Brangelina? Adopting needy, non-American child number thirteen?”

  “They’re going to be in a new movie, too!”

  Maggie laughed as Aimee held one finger to her mouth to keep Summer quiet.

  “And I got Today’s News and the New York Times,” Maggie added, entering all the information onto the Master Multitasker. “So that’s four newspapers, one motivational magazine—”

  “And a phone book.” Summer held up the yellow pages.

  “Right.” She finished typing, saved the document, and slid off the bed to the floor.


  “So what exactly are we looking for?” Aimee sat next to Maggie and grabbed a newspaper.

  “Anything outside. Landscaping, construction—”

  “Dog walker?” Aimee suggested, opening the paper.

  Summer scrunched her nose.

  “Dad likes to lead, not be led,” Maggie confirmed. “That’s why no office jobs—not that he’s in any position to be picky.”

  “Okay, outdoor, be-your-own-boss jobs. Got it.”

  “Also look out for full-time, competitive salary, and benefits,” Maggie read from her spreadsheet. “Including health insurance, dental insurance, vacation time, and 401K. Those are the main things I’ve heard Mom talking about on the phone with Aunt Violetta.”

  “401 what?” Summer looked up from the Maple Grove Sun.

  “Some retirement thing,” Aimee explained. “You and your company each put aside some money every month, and then you get it all when you retire or leave the company. So then when you’re done working, you get money from the government and have all that extra money on top of your regular savings.”

  “How old are you?” Maggie teased.

  “My parents are always talking about what money to use and which accounts to borrow from when they buy things. It’s extremely boring, but I picked up some of it.”

  “Your parents must have a lot of money,” Summer said in awe.

  “Anyway.” Maggie changed the subject when Aimee’s cheeks turned pink. “We’re looking for jobs that require physical labor.”

  “And that pay a million bucks,” Summer added, turning back to the newspaper.

  “So if you find anything good, just cut it out and I’ll add it to the list,” Maggie instructed, handing out scissors.

  “Mags, you know I’m thrilled to help, but tell me again why your dad isn’t doing this?”

  Maggie shrugged. “I guess he doesn’t realize how much he needs to.”

  They flipped pages, snipped ads, and made piles on the floor according to job type and pay. Using the phone book, they compiled the names and numbers of local landscape, construction, and pool companies. They worked until the room darkened from the setting sun and they heard the front door open and close.

  “Mom’s home!” Summer whispered, eyes wide. “I’ll go distract her?”

  “Good thinking!” Maggie winked. Their mother would never barge in, but Summer liked being included in such a top-secret project, and the more secretive it seemed, the more helpful she’d feel.

  “So what’s next?” Aimee asked, gathering the small piles scattered across the floor. “How are these going to go from tiny pieces of paper to actual jobs?”

  Maggie sighed. “I haven’t figured that out yet. I don’t want Dad to feel pressured, because I know he’s getting that from Mom. So I can’t just give him these ads and the phone, but I also can’t call places myself.”

  “Your voice is a little girly for Mr. Robert Bean.”

  “So.” Maggie shrugged. “First thing’s first. I’ll enter the possibilities on the spreadsheet, sort them by type and salary, and go from there.”

  “What if you got help?”

  Maggie looked up from her laptop. “I did. You and Summer.”

  “No!” Aimee patted Maggie’s knee. “You could get someone to call and pretend to be your dad.” She suggested this as though they hadn’t just ruled out Maggie passing for a forty-six-year-old man.

  “My pool of available bachelors is small, sorry.” Maggie turned back to the laptop.

  “What about Peter?”

  Her mouth fell open.

  “He seems so nice. I’m sure he’d help!”

  “Yeah, okay. I’ll be sure to bring it up the next time I stuff my books in his locker. What about you? This is such a great idea you must have other people in mind.” Maggie was teasing, but Aimee did have a long list of admirers, each of whom would probably jump at the chance to win points.

  “Please.” Aimee rolled her eyes. “You know I can’t be bothered.”

  Unlike Maggie, Aimee chose to remain crushless. She’d decided boys got in the way of friends and sports, and didn’t want to deal with their silliness. Maggie envied her confident ability to choose. If Maggie ever swore off boys, it’d be because she gave in to the fact that they’d never look her way.

  “Anyway,” Aimee continued, “what’s the big deal? What could it hurt? If he says no, oh well. But if he says yes, just think of all the time you could spend together. You do want your dad to have the best possible job, don’t you?”

  “Aim.” Maggie closed the laptop. “You’re my best friend, but you’re also crazy. That would never work and I’m never going to ask. My family’s money problems aren’t going to get me anywhere with Peter.”

  “Fine.” Aimee pouted.

  “But I do appreciate your wanting to help two areas of my life at once.”

  “That reminds me.” Aimee snapped her fingers. “There is one other area that could use improvement.”

  Maggie laughed. “There’s more than that.”

  “But none as important as Water Wings,” Aimee said, wiggling her eyebrows. “Tryouts are—”

  “I changed my mind.” Maggie winced. “I’m really sorry and don’t worry, I’ll still help you study. It’s just not for me.”

  “But just last week at the pool you said—”

  “I know, but I really don’t have time. Now I have this job hunt on top of school and my activities. I just don’t see how I’d squeeze it in.”

  Aimee frowned. “But are you totally sure? I could help you, we could do laps and practice the routines, and it would just be such a fun thing to do together. Think of all the possibilities! Meeting new people, swimming every day, going to other schools. Plus your mom would be totally thrilled.”

  Maggie sighed. If only joining the team was about fun and nothing more.

  “I’m sorry, Aim. But I promise to be at all your meets!”

  “Maggie, honey!” Her mother called through the bedroom door. “Mac and cheese in fifteen minutes!”

  “Do you want to stay?” Maggie asked, scrambling to her feet when Aimee stood. “We can do homework and review notes for all our classes?”

  “Sounds thrilling,” Aimee teased. “But actually, I got a C yesterday on Madame DuMonde’s quiz du jour, and Mom wants me home so she can see me physically open textbooks.”

  “You won’t be on house arrest for long,” Maggie assured. “And thanks for the help. I’m sorry again—”

  Aimee threw her arms around Maggie’s neck and squeezed. “Call me later.”

  After Aimee left, Maggie sank back to the floor and rested the laptop on her knees. She pulled up the Master Multitasker and inserted a new tab next to “Dad.”

  On the new “Water Wings” page, she added three tasks.

  #1: Learn routines.

  #2: Lose weight to avoid bathing suit trauma.

  #3: Keep secret.

  She highlighted #3, saved the document, and closed the laptop.

  Because she really hadn’t changed her mind. She’d still try out for Water Wings, but she’d decided to prepare on her own. Unlike Aimee, athlete extraordinaire, Maggie had to consider the risk of not making the team. She’d train day and night before tryouts, but the embarrassment she’d feel after training day and night and not making the team would be a million times worse if other people knew how hard she’d tried, only to fail. She felt like a big enough disappointment gaining the weight of a small child over the past year. She didn’t want to disappoint anyone, especially her mother, ever again.

  Of course she wouldn’t stick one toe in the water if she wasn’t fueled by that same disappointment and the desire to prove to everyone that she wasn’t who they assumed she was. She wanted to show Anabel and Julia that she could do anything they could do, and in a silver two-piece. She wanted to show her parents that she could lose weight on her own, without the help of silly meetings. And she wanted to show her dad that the impossible really was possible.

  A
s she was about to leave the room for dinner, she spotted her school photo from the year before resting on her nightstand. She picked it up and rubbed one finger over the dimples she hadn’t seen in months.

  She wanted to show herself, too.

  17.

  Two days after stuffing her entire candy stash in street-side garbage barrels, Maggie stood in the front of the drugstore, tightly clutching her plastic green change purse.

  “Sweetie, get a load of this! SnackWell’s now has zero fat, zero carbohydrate vanilla wafers!” The drugstore sales clerk smiled and held up a bright yellow box as he passed by with his cart. “Just got ’em in! Aisle two!” He winked.

  “No, thanks.” She smiled quickly, her cheeks instantly warm, before hurrying as far away from aisle two as she could get.

  She’d only spent time in aisle three, the candy aisle, so she had to peek down the rest in pursuit of her new weekly survival kit. She dashed past pet supplies, makeup, medicine, shampoo, and toilet paper and didn’t stop until the very last aisle.

  Aisle ten. Pens, notebooks, computer paper, and, at the very end, magazines.

  Without even looking at their contents, Maggie picked up as many shiny, boldly colored magazines as her arms would hold: Glamour, Cosmopolitan, Vogue, Mademoiselle, YM, Seventeen, and Lucky, those she’d seen other girls reading on the bus or in study hall. She tried not to fixate on the cover models, their blemish free skin, snow-white teeth, pencil-thin legs, and flat tummies. The intimidating perfection was exactly what she’d fixate on later, after she’d paid for the magazines, brought them home, and read them cover to cover. If she looked too closely now, before she’d forked over her allowance savings, she just might give up entirely and take an unintended trip back to aisle three.

  “Need a hand?”

  This sales clerk really paid far too much attention to her.

  “No, thanks.” She shook her head without looking up. Spotting one last magazine to add to her pile, she leaned forward so that the stack was held in place between her torso and the magazine rack and carefully reached toward the bottom shelf.