“Sure about that?” he asked as the magazines slid from their holding spot and fell all over the floor.
Maggie knelt down and gathered her self-help guides. She hoped there was an article among them about how to curb her clumsiness.
The sales clerk crouched down to help before she could refuse. As he handed her copies of Vogue and InStyle, she noticed he wore a Swiss Army watch with a black leather band and silver face, just like—
“Peter?” She froze and felt the familiar heat rise to her cheeks.
“Doing a research project on modern beauty rituals?” he asked with a smile.
“Sorta.” She focused on keeping her hands steady so that she didn’t drop again all the magazines she’d just picked up.
“That’s PhD-worthy, if you ask me.”
“What’re you doing here?” She gathered the remaining issues, brought them to her chest, and stood up.
“My own research.”
“Sports Illustrated and National Geographic?”
He shrugged. “Athletes and polar bears are more alike than you’d think.”
She laughed. “I’ll be sure to pick up your thesis from the library.”
“So”—he motioned to her stack—“can I help you to the register?”
She quickly shook her head. The idea of walking with Peter down any kind of aisle was enough to send instant goosebumps up and down her arms, but she didn’t want him to get any closer looks at her research material. She’d picked up Shape for its foldout “bun and tummy” exercises, and she didn’t need him to read about it on the magazine’s cover.
36 dates, 24 phone calls, 36 kisses.
“No, I think I’ve got it.” She smiled and held the stack tighter against her chest.
He nodded. “Right, okay. Well, good luck—with your project, I mean.”
Did he look disappointed? Was she imagining things?
“You too.”
As he walked away, she shook her head and tried to regain focus. Now was not the time to get silly and girly because of Peter Applewood. If all went well, there’d be plenty of time for that later.
Her arms heavy, she hobbled down the aisle and balanced the stack of magazines on one leg as she grabbed a roll of Scotch tape and a pair of scissors. She dropped everything on the counter by the register and then ran to aisle nine: hair products, lotions, soap, and makeup. She found the same pink mascara tube that Anabel and Julia had carried when Maggie was last there, and added lipstick, nail polish, and tweezers to her growing pile.
The cashier tapped a bandaged fingertip on the counter.
“That all?” she asked, sounding bored.
Maggie quickly ran through the list in her head and nodded.
The woman scanned the gum and added it to the third plastic bag.
“Forty-seven dollars and fifty-two cents.”
Maggie’s mouth dropped open as she looked at the glowing green numbers on the register and then down at her purchases on the counter. This new project was certainly more expensive than maintaining her secret candy stash, and would wipe out her entire allowance savings. She considered putting some of the magazines back, but quickly decided against it. It was a small price to pay for the benefits she hoped to derive, and Maggie knew she’d wonder later if whichever magazine she returned held the one secret or beauty tip that would put her back on the social radar. Three nintey-nine wasn’t worth the risk.
She took her time counting out the exact change and enjoyed the fact that she didn’t have to hurry out of embarrassment the way she usually did when leaving the store with bags and bags of chocolate. She even let herself lean one arm on the counter and wait for a receipt, as though every purchase was so casual.
Maggie carefully guided the scissors around the Gap model’s pronounced, blushed cheekbones, slender neck, delicate shoulders, perfect chest, and tiny waist, where she stopped in brief, wistful admiration. She tightened her grip and continued down the model’s hips, legs, and narrow ankles until the entire figure popped from the magazine page like a paper doll. She held the cutout gently, as though one wrong move might rip the model—and Maggie’s grand plan—into a zillion pieces.
She gently attached two pieces of Scotch tape to the model’s back before sliding off the bed, stepping over the wobbly stack of shredded magazines, and surveying her room.
A Victoria’s Secret brunette winked in leopard-printed lingerie from her underwear drawer. A green-turtle-necked, freckled J.Crew blonde grinned from the top of her jewelry box. And a cargo-panted Abercrombie & Fitch redhead peeked from the top of her nightstand. These girls modeled the clothes that everyone could wear but her, and the reminders were plastered from floor to ceiling.
Spotting an empty patch on her closet of JCPenney plus-size, elastic-waist pants and stretchy sweaters, Maggie patted the Gap model into place.
Satisfied with her new bedroom decor, Maggie flopped back onto the bed and retrieved the stack of articles from her nightstand. Low-fat, high-fat, low-carb, sugar-free, cabbage soup, bananas, juice fasts, protein shakes, meat only, veggies only. There were a thousand different diets, and it could take a thousand years to figure out which one worked for her.
But Water Wings tryouts were less than three weeks away. She didn’t have the kind of time a normal, balanced diet required. She needed to show Anabel, Julia, her dad, and everyone else. She needed to lose a lot of weight, and she needed to lose it fast.
She pulled her laptop to the bed, loaded the Master Multitasker, and clicked on “Water Wings.”
Underneath the first three tasks she’d added three more.
#4: Buy magazines for diet/exercise tips.
#5: Plaster room with motivational models.
#6: Get sweating!
She proudly checked off #4 and #5, pushed the laptop aside, and grabbed the bun and tummy foldout from the stack of articles.
After making sure her door was locked, Maggie slid off the bed and spread the exercise guide across the floor.
She lay on her back, raised her legs in the air, and tried to lift her head and shoulders toward her knees. Her stomach jiggled, her neck strained, and she held her breath in concentration. When she thought her head might snap off, she dropped her shoulders back to the floor.
Only three more crunches to go and she could check off #6.
18.
“Remember when we’d go to the movies?” Summer asked without looking up from Today’s News.
“For Friday night openings and not Sunday afternoon matinees.” Maggie nodded.
“And we’d get real popcorn and soda from the snack bar—”
“Instead of smuggling snack bags and cans from home.” Maggie turned the last page of the Maple Grove Sun and tossed it to the floor. “Yup.”
“I hate the way people turn around when we open the cans.” Summer pouted. “Like we’re doing something wrong.”
“How about Monday Mania? With party hats, balloons, board games, and takeout to celebrate the beginning of another week?”
Summer laid the paper in her lap. “Now Mondays are just like every other day.”
Maggie rolled onto her stomach and rested her chin on her folded arms. “What I think I miss most of all is Mom and Dad just getting along.”
Summer’s eyes widened. “The fighting’s the worst.”
“It’s like they barely know each other.”
“But I miss all of us,” Summer added. “The way we’d all hang out.”
“We still hang out,” Maggie said brightly.
“It’s not the same.” Summer looked down and fiddled with the newspaper.
Maggie sat up and slid off the bed. “What do you mean?”
Summer shrugged. “After Dad stopped working and they started arguing, you began hiding in your room.”
“I didn’t—”
“It’s okay.” Summer glanced up. “I understand. But when you disappear after dinner, Dad watches TV and Mom cleans or talks on the phone. I don’t know.” She bit her lip. “I jus
t get sad.”
Maggie scooted closer and put one arm around Summer’s shoulders. “We’re all still here. And don’t you worry.” She patted the newspaper. “We’re going to fix things.”
Summer nodded. “I know.”
“And then we’ll have Monday Mania every day of the week.”
Summer grinned.
“So.” Maggie squeezed her tightly and then straightened the small piles scattered across the floor. “These are all from today’s papers?”
“Yup.” Summer sat up straighter. “Sorted by type and money.”
“Perfect.” She carefully gathered the clippings. “I’ll enter them on the list, and we’re done for the day.”
“Do you need me for anything else?” Summer asked hopefully.
Maggie shook her head. “Your job here is done.”
“Does that mean I have to do my homework?”
“You can do whatever you want.” Maggie laughed. “But that’s what I’m going to do.”
“Okay.” Summer sighed and stood up. “But I’m right down the hall if you need me!”
Maggie closed the door after her sister and quietly turned the lock. She sat on the floor, opened her laptop, and loaded the Master Multitasker. She’d already finished her homework and Dad’s job could wait, so the cursor flew by every tab but the last.
She clicked on “Water Wings” and examined the growing list.
#7: No bread, pasta, ice cream, cake, candy, or anything yummy.
#8: No hamburgers, hot dogs, pizza, or anything fried.
#9: No whole milk, fruit juices, or regular soda.
#10: 100 crunches, 100 lunges, and 50 pushups, twice a day, every day.
#11: Befriend the scale.
#12: Memorize routine tapes!
She’d pored over her entire magazine stash the night before and noted the most important or frequently suggested tips. The biggest trend seemed to be eating foods high in protein and low in carbohydrates, which meant she’d live on chicken and lettuce until tryouts. Even fruits and vegetables were bad for dieting because they contained natural sugar.
She checked off numbers seven through nine in that day’s column. She’d had cottage cheese for breakfast and a grilled chicken salad with no dressing for lunch, and water instead of soda. She smiled at her logged accomplishments. It wasn’t easy, especially when she had to stop the school cafeteria lady from plopping chicken nuggets and onion rings onto her tray. Or when her mother made an entire pan of Rice Krispies Treats for Summer’s lunchbox. Or when she was in her room after dinner, thinking nonstop about peanut M&M’s. But the sacrifices were worth the pride she felt when logging her accomplishments every night, and that’s what she reminded herself with every craving.
She saved the spreadsheet changes and pushed the laptop aside.
She tackled the second half of #10 next, alternating twenty crunches with twenty lunges and ten pushups, five times. She had to stop after the third cycle to let her muscles rest, so she quickly entered the latest job ads into the Master Multitasker before resuming her crunches.
She hoped she was doing them right. Her abs hurt, but when she looked down as she lifted up, all she saw was mush. Her muscles were so hidden, she could only hope they were still there and working.
After finishing the last of the lunges and pushups, Maggie sat up and checked off #10. When she saw what was next, she quickly pulled the scale out from under her bed, tugged off her shorts, and kicked off her sneakers. If she didn’t just take a deep breath and get it over with, it’d never get done.
She wiggled her toes and waited for the black dial to stop moving.
It’s just temporary. Whatever number it lands on will be lower soon.
Inhaling deeply, she peeked over her stomach.
182.
She gasped, backed off the scale, checked the initial setting, and stepped on again.
182.
She’d thrown out her candy stash only five days before and she’d already lost four pounds. That was practically a pound a day!
She smiled at the unexpected number. No one but her would be as happy to weigh so much, but it was progress. That meant if she kept eating the way she was and exercised twice as much, she could lose nearly twenty pounds before tryouts! All the magazines said she should expect to lose about five pounds the first week and one or two every week after that, but maybe her body worked differently. Maybe she’d lose weight faster because her body needed to drastically adjust to its chocolate withdrawal.
She jumped off the scale, pulled on her shorts and sneakers, and happily typed her new weight into the Master Multitasker. Both the “Dad” and “Water Wings” spreadsheets were covered in green checkmarks. There was only one task she hadn’t completed, and that was a work in progress.
She jumped up and turned on the small television on top of her dresser. The routine tape she’d borrowed from Ms. Pinkerton was still in the VCR, so she pushed Play and lay on the floor.
As she circled her arms and lifted her legs, she felt her hidden muscles tightening and contracting. The carpet wasn’t as cool or refreshing as pool water, but when Anabel and Julia smiled in the video, she had no problem smiling back.
19.
“Maggie, are you okay?” Aimee whispered, plopping a stack of spiral notebooks onto the library table and sitting down.
Maggie’s eyes fluttered open. Why was Aimee looking at her like that?
“What’s wrong?” Maggie asked.
Aimee raised her eyebrows. “You were just sleeping sitting up. Your head was about to drop onto the dictionary. I know from personal experience that’s no way to build your vocabulary.”
Maggie shut her eyes tightly, opened them again, and registered the book in front of her.
“Mr. Webster may have been smart, but he certainly wasn’t very exciting.” She attempted to laugh, but a yawn got in the way.
“Seriously, what’s up? What planet are you on?” Aimee looked away and unloaded textbooks from her backpack.
Maggie sat up straighter and shook her head to wake up her drowsy brain.
“Nothing’s up. I’m here. Everything’s great.”
“Yeah, which is why you’ve been late to first period the past three days. And why you weren’t at Mathletes on Monday or French Club yesterday.”
Maggie furrowed her eyebrows. Tried as she had to get her to join, Aimee wasn’t in Mathletes or French Club. “How did you—”
“Mr. Coogan and Madame DuMonde both asked me about you in class. Under normal circumstances, I would’ve known exactly what to tell them.”
“Oh.”
Aimee looked at her expectantly.
Maggie waved her hand. “I haven’t been anywhere. I’ve just had to get home right after school this week. No biggie.” She picked up a pencil and tapped its eraser against the dictionary, distracted.
Aimee raised her eyebrows.
“I’ve just had stuff to do,” Maggie said quickly. “Stuff around the house. And outside the house. But everything’s fine, really.”
Aimee frowned but returned her attention to her backpack. Maggie knew she was trying to give her another chance to talk about what was really up without asking further questions.
“So, how are you? How’s training going?”
As she rummaged through her backpack, Aimee shot her a look. “Shaved off three more seconds, and am up to two hundred sit-ups a night,” she reported, reluctantly accepting Maggie’s subject change. “And Justine Jackson offered to help me with another routine, so that’s good.”
Maggie nodded. Justine was a Water Wing whose circle of friends actually extended beyond the circle of bodies in the pool.
“Do you think you’d want to come by the pool after school today? She’s going to run through the routine with me, but I’d love to get your totally honest opinion on how ridiculous I really look.”
“You won’t look ridiculous. You couldn’t.”
“I’m sure I’ll look like a drunken crab. But I’m okay w
ith that.” Aimee grinned. Victoriously pulling a bag of trail mix from her backpack, she looked at Maggie. “It’d be nice to hang out. I feel like we haven’t really talked in days.”
It had been days. And the last time was over a marathon math study session, during which Maggie forced Aimee to discuss numbers only.
“I know, Aim, but not today. Soon though, I promise.”
Maggie tried to listen as Aimee talked about her big afternoon English test—they were in the library to study, after all—but she was very distracted by the open bag of trail mix sitting on the table between them. Every time Aimee took a handful she turned the bag back toward Maggie. It was an open invitation to help herself. She’d only had a salad all day, and her stomach had been growling for an hour. And the trail mix was her favorite kind, with peanuts, raisins, and imitation M&M’s.
As they opened their textbooks, Peter Applewood entered the library, laughing with his friends and assorted Water Wings members. She turned her head before he caught her watching, and instantly dismissed all trail mix thoughts.
The scale had read 181 that morning. She knew what she was doing.
20.
“Who’s hungry?”
“Daddy?”
“It’s me, Summer sunshine!”
Maggie muted the television when she noticed his pressed khakis, blue button-down shirt, and tie. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him in anything other than jeans and flannel shirts.
“What’s going on?” Her mother stood in the kitchen doorway, knife in one hand, carrot in the other. She looked him up and down, eyebrows raised.
“Honey,” Maggie’s father rubbed his palms together. “We’re going out to dinner.”
“What? Why? I’ve already started the chicken,” her mother protested.
He waved his hand. “Tomorrow, we microwave. Tonight, we let someone else cook!”
Maggie looked back and forth between her parents. Her mother was clearly confused. Not only did they never go out to eat, but she’d probably used coupons to help buy the carrot she still held, and had to wonder how they’d pay for a meal prepared and served by other people.
The Melting of Maggie Bean Page 8
