The bell rings, and I get swept along in the sea of bodies rushing toward the cafeteria. Everybody just slings their books and bags outside the lunchroom door, so I do the same. Then I take a tray and slide it along the metal rail. I stare at platter after platter of brown-and-green mush, trying to figure out what exactly they could have on them.
“Corned beef hash or meatloaf?” a lady in a hairnet growls at me. “What’s it going to be? You’re holding up the whole line.”
“Oh, sorry! Neither, please,” I answer, because they both look like canned cat food. “Just some corn and fruit cocktail, I guess.” Yum. That should fill me right up.
Being pushed around in the lunch line is nothing compared to walking out into the big wide-open lunchroom. I’ve seen this scene in way too many movies, and I’m not about to go through the whole “this seat’s taken” routine. I hold my tray tightly—please don’t let me trip—and walk straight out the double doors. There’s a little patio out there, and thankfully, it’s totally empty. It’s gray and wet outside, and the cement bench feels like it’s made of solid ice, but at least there’s nobody to ignore me out here.
I can’t believe this is my new life. When I was a little kid, I used to wish I were invisible. But now that I am, I’d give anything just to have things the way they were. I sure didn’t appreciate what I had when I had it. The worst part is tomorrow is my birthday. Twelve! The big one-two. Who cares, right? Birthdays used to be so cool. Turning ten was huge, because of the double digits and also finally getting to order the full-size spaghetti at Luigi’s instead of that skimpy kid’s plate. And eleven was awesome because I finally got to ride the Super Screamer at Splashy’s Water Park. But what do you get when you turn twelve? Nothing, that’s what. It’s still another whole year until I can see a PG-13 movie, and two more years until my mom will let me babysit. Plus, I have to spend my actual birthday here, at Stinkerton.
I pick up a banged-up metal spork that looks like it’s gotten stuck in the garbage disposal a few dozen times and shove a bite of cold, mushy corn into my mouth. It would be completely bland if the tears streaming down my face didn’t give it a salty flavor. Happy almost birthday, Maggie Malone. Welcome to your worst year ever.
After lunch, I trudge to biology class.
“Find your partner and get your pigs out of the cooler,” says the teacher, Mrs. Shankshaw. She’s old and brittle and has the scrunchiest face you ever saw. It’s all pinched like she’s outside on a bright, sandy beach and forgot her sunglasses.
Wait, did she just say get your pigs out of the cooler?
Just then, a kid plops a tray down on the table right next to me. On that tray—ten inches away from me—is a pig, all right. A puny, gray, totally dead pig. I turn my head away and gag.
“Does everyone have a scalpel?” Mrs. Shankshaw wants to know. I raise my hand to tell her that no, I don’t have a scalpel—or a partner, or a stomach for dead pigs—but apparently I am invisible in here too.
“Okay, great then,” she continues, oblivious to me. “Your first incision will be from the top of the throat to the bottom of the umbilicus. Don’t cut too deep or you’ll hit the internal organs.” She sits down at her big desk and focuses on a stack of papers. I lower my hand and slump down in my chair.
Not getting noticed has one advantage: I have no partner, and no pig, and nobody even cares. I spend the hour holding my nose with one hand to escape the stench—there’s a reason dead pig isn’t a popular candle scent—and sketching with the other. I draw a cute little smiling pig with wings and a halo. Finally the bell rings, and we’re released from the slaughterhouse.
I make it through world history without any drama. After the day I’ve had so far, I consider that a major win.
My last class of the day is art. Maybe my bad luck streak is about to end. I love everything about art. I love the way colored pencils smell right after you sharpen them, and I love trying to paint a perfect circle (ever since I heard that’s the hardest thing in the art world to do, I practice all the time), and I really-super-love sketching. At Sacred Heart, I won the school-wide Whiz Kids contest three years in a row, and last year, my self-portrait made it all the way to the state competition level. I got beat by some kid who built this 3-D multimedia diorama of the human body. His dad is a famous surgeon, so we pretty much know who did that project.
The art room looks a lot like the science lab, with big square tables instead of desks. The tables are covered with buckets of mangled paint brushes and cups of murky water. But still, there’s not a dead pig in sight, which is not something I ever thought I’d be particularly thankful for.
The art teacher, Mrs. Kibble, walks around the room putting paper plates globbed with tempera paints in the middle of each table. Then she walks around again and places a bowl of sad-looking fruit next to the paints.
“As you are painting today, try to remember what we’ve learned about perspective and depth,” she tells us.
Sweet strawberry pie, finally a break! I take a dull, chewed-on pencil from a cup and start lightly sketching the rotting fruit. I don’t want to brag, but my fruit bowl looks pretty darn good. My apples might be a little bit rounder than the ones in the bowl—thanks to all of that circle practice—but I’m really happy with the sketch. When I get to the painting part, my hideous day starts to melt away. I nail the shading on that bruised-up banana perfectly. I think this one might even deserve a frame.
I’m just about to raise my hand to show Mrs. Kibble my work when the girl across from me lets out the biggest sneeze you ever heard. There’s no build-up or anything, just this gale-force, ear-splitting achooooooooo that sends me jumping out of my seat. Before I can recover from the shock, she lets loose with another gust. When she does, she knocks over two of the water cups between us. I watch helplessly as the murky liquid seeps across my perfect picture, smearing those circles into unrecognizable splotches of brown goo. I can’t even cry. What would be the point? It’s not like it would change anything.
I crumple up my soggy picture and wonder if this is just how it’s going to be from now on. The final bell of the day rings, and I’ve learned exactly one thing today: this Stinkerton place officially stinks. Sort of like my life.
I’ve never been so happy to go home in my whole entire life. I’m just not up for unwrapping my skull at the moment, so I squish and smash and shove and eventually I get my bike helmet to fit over my mummy head. I pedal as fast as I can all the way home, trying to get some distance between me and Stinktown, USA. I’m breathless when I finally reach my street and look up to see my neighbor, Mrs. G, right before I turn into my driveway. Her last name is Galifianakis. Can you say that? I can’t either—that’s why she’s Mrs. G to me and my little brother Mickey. I guess she can’t see my bandaged-up head under my bike helmet ’cause I’m pretty sure she’d be concerned. And this Rudolph sweater? Not to be mean, but she might have one similar. Mrs. G may not have great fashion sense, but she’s a wizard in the kitchen and bakes the best sticky buns you ever tasted. I live for a good sticky bun. Sometimes she’s waiting with a plate of them outside for me when I get home, but today she’s just sweeping her steps. Figures.
I swing my right leg over my bike and hop off. When I do, I spot a brown box next to the front door. I sling my bike between the bushes and the front porch and get a little bit excited. Maybe it’s an early birthday present from Granny Malone or Aunt Fiona. Hopefully Aunt Fiona. My Auntie Fi is a world traveler. My dad calls her a professional vagabond, and I don’t exactly know what that means, but I do know that she sends me supercool presents from far, far away—which is exactly where I’d like to be right now. Last year, she sent me a fancy red silk kimono from Tokyo. I keep it in the box it came in and save it for sleepovers. When I wear it, my friends are all, “Where’d you get that?” and I’m all, “Oh this? Let me see if I can remember…Oh yeah, it’s from Japan!”
The box on the porch is wra
pped in brown paper tied with a string and has tons of weird-looking stamps on it. It’s definitely from Auntie Fi. Maybe this terrible, horrible day is going to have a surprise happy ending. Maybe Auntie Fi is sending me a plane ticket to join her in some distant land—even the dusty outback of Australia or some dilapidated village in Calcutta would be better than here.
I have, like, ten thousand chores I’m supposed to be doing the minute I get home, but considering the day I’ve had, I think my mom will understand if I try to squeeze a little something good into my afterschool wind-down.
I rip the brown paper off the box, imagining that inside there’s a bottle of fancy perfume from Paris or maybe a set of those Russian nesting dolls. But when I lift the lid, all I find is a dirty, scuffed-up pair of old cowboy boots. In boring brown. What? I wasn’t expecting any fancy wrapping paper or anything—Auntie Fi would never hurt a tree just so your present could look pretty. But still. Somebody’s dirty old boots? And then I remember: I have a stinky, scuffed-up, super-not-fun life now. So it just makes sense.
I feel bad for not being more grateful for Auntie Fi’s gift. It’s hard to explain, but my aunt and I have this crazy connection. When we’re together, she always knows what I’m thinking, even if it’s about something totally random. And sometimes I find stuff she’s given me in places I’m absolutely positive I didn’t leave them. I’m not saying it’s a haunting situation or anything, but there’s definitely something different about Auntie Fi. The other weird thing is that we look nearly identical, which isn’t that weird seeing as we’re related and everything, but nobody else in the family looks one bit like us, with our wacky red ringlets and freckly, I mean buttermilk, complexions.
As the best gift-giver I know, I’m a little surprised that Auntie Fi thought I would love these boots, but times are tough and like my mom says, it’s the thought that counts. I scoop up the paper and the box and tuck the boots under my arm. When I do, a rolled-up piece of paper falls out of one of the boots, along with a spider that scuttles away, probably off to spread some rare, incurable disease. I pick up the paper by a corner and give it a shake. It’s a note from Auntie Fi. Those are always fun! I decide to read it in my room.
I close my door and flop down on my bed, unrolling the letter.
Dear Maggie,
Happy 12th birthday! I’m writing to you from a tent in South Africa, where I’m helping a Zulu tribe figure out a way to filter the water in their village. Can you imagine not having clean water to drink? Life is hard here, but it sure is beautiful too. I wish you could see it. I bet you will someday, if you decide you want to.
Listen, I know you’re wondering why Auntie Fi sent you some dirty old boots for your birthday. Your dad will tell you it’s because I’m crazy, but the truth is they were mine when I was your age. Those boots are so special that I’ve carried them around the world with me twice, just waiting for your 12th birthday. Turning twelve is a really big deal. You’re not who you used to be, but you’re not who you’re going to be yet either. You’re in between, and it’s kind of like you’ve got a toe in two worlds. It’s a time when YOU get to decide how big you want your life to be from now on. Does that make any sense at all? Probably not now. But it will.
I know these boots don’t look like much, but trust me when I tell you that things aren’t always the way they seem. You’ll see what I mean.
Gotta run—there’s a troop of vervet monkeys tugging on my tent! Have fun with the MMBs, and tell Frank I said hi!
xoxo,
Auntie Fi
My dad said it would happen one day, and I guess he was right: Aunt Fiona has officially lost it. What is she talking about, having toes in two worlds? And what could that have to do with these dingy boots? What’s an MMB? And who the heck is Frank? Auntie Fi’s probably eaten too many wild berries or sipped too much wacky voodoo tea at those scary tribal ceremonies she’s always talking about. I pick the boots up off the floor, and a big dirt clod falls off one and crumbles all over my zebra rug. Special? These things? Not so much. Okay, maybe they’d be cute cleaned up with my jean skirt and a sparkly tank top. I wonder if they’ll even fit. After I tap them one last time over my trash can to get the last bit of dirt off, I walk over to my tall stand-up mirror and pull the boots on.
“Hey there, kid,” says a strange man who is suddenly standing right behind me.
“Before you freak out, I’m Frank,” the man says, holding up both hands. At least he doesn’t have a weapon.
I scream like a banshee (actually I don’t even know what a banshee is or if they even scream, but my mom says that all the time) and twist around, not sure if I should run or fight or just keep screaming. But when I do, the man is gone.
What the heck? I back toward my door, ducking to see if he’s hiding under my bed or behind my curtains. Did I just imagine him? I’m almost to my door when I see him again, in the mirror. Now he’s standing right next to me! I scramble up onto my bed, grab my dream catcher from its nail on the wall, and hold it up in front of me like a shield. Don’t ask me why—it’s all I can find. I squeeze my eyes shut and brace myself for whatever is about to happen. When nothing does, I gather up enough courage to open my eyes. When I do, he’s gone again.
I race to my closet, swing open the door. Nothing. He’s not under my bed or behind my polka-dot chair or my curtains either. He’s gone. Which leaves me with only one of two possible explanations for the mystery man in my room: either I’m totally losing it, or I have a concussion and it’s making me see things that aren’t there. I did get bonked on the head pretty good today. I’m praying that’s it.
You are totally safe and not at all crazy, I tell myself. I do another thorough scan of my room, but there’s no weird man in here. Freaky.
Get it together, Malone, I tell myself. Why don’t you try to pick out an outfit for your birthday? That always cheers you up. I pull my turquoise sparkly tank and my favorite jean skirt from my dresser. I’m holding the clothes up to try to see how they look when the man pops up right behind me again.
“We’ve got to stop meeting like this, Maggie Malone,” he says to me.
I wheel around, snatching up my piggy bank that’s chock-full of quarters, and cock it back ready to fire when I realize he’s gone again. I lean into the mirror to see if my eyes are dilated—that’s a sign of a concussion, you know, which would explain everything—and when I do, there he is again. Maybe crazy runs in the family! Maybe it’s in my JEANS! I drop my jean skirt to the floor.
“You catching on yet?” the strange man asks, trying to pull his faded jeans up over his big belly. Yeah, that’s not happening.
“Huh?” I say, because apparently now I’m talking to the peculiar man in the mirror.
I haul my five-pound piggy bank over my head and hurl it right at him, but it just lands on the floor and shatters into about a zillion pieces.
“Really, kid?” the man says, like you really thought you’d clobber me with that? “Maybe you wanna take five or something,” he says, shifting his weight from one boot to the other. “I’m Frank, Frank the Genie? Your Aunt Fiona was supposed to mention me in the letter she rolled up in those boots you’re wearing. But of course she forgot to do that, didn’t she? That’s Fiona for you! These things never go like they’re supposed to.”
“Wait, how do you know my Auntie Fi?” I ask, swinging around to face him. But instead I’m looking at my coat rack, filled with hats and scarves and belts.
“Your aunt said you were some smart cookie, but you seem to be a little slow on the uptake here, pal. No offense, of course,” Frank-the-genie says when I look back into the mirror.
He gives me a crooked smile and hikes his eyebrow up on the right side. I think it’s the right side—it’s hard to tell since I’m looking in a mirror. I decide to stay still this time and get a better look at this guy. He seems harmless enough. He’s got a hound dog kind of face with tired-looking, dro
opy eyes like my Uncle Doyle. He’s wearing cowboy boots that look a lot like the ones Auntie Fi just sent me, and he’s got a big tarnished silver belt buckle that says “Aerosmith” on it, whatever that means. Maybe he’s an alien, not a genie, and that’s the name of his spaceship. To top it all off, he’s wearing this huge, worn-out cowboy hat with hot pink and green peacock feathers on the front.
“Genies aren’t real,” I tell him, putting my hands on my hips. “And if they were, I don’t think they’d look like you. No offense.” Well, they wouldn’t.
“Of course genies are real, or else you’d be standing here yapping to yourself, and that would just be nuts,” Frank says to me with a big laugh. “Oh, and no offense taken. But you shouldn’t believe everything you see in the movies. I don’t know a single genie who wears a turban or has a pierced ear. Just so you know.” He pauses to check his watch and looks a little bit freaked out.
“Oh shoot, I’m running out of time,” he continues. “Do you want to know about those boots you’re wearing or not?”
“What about these boots?” I ask Frank, looking down at my feet.
“Those boots you’re wearing,” he says “are Mostly Magical Boots.”
“These boots are supposed to be magical?” I ask with disbelief. I mean, they’re not even cute!
“They’re mostly magical,” Frank says. “And from the looks of that nasty head-wrap thing you’ve got on, you could use a little magic. Or at least, some help picking out hats.”
“For your information, I was struck down by a gigantic textbook on my first day at my rotten new school,” I explain. “I almost bled to death right there on the dirty floor.” I add this last bit for effect and because, well, I am a teensy bit of an exaggerator.
Maggie Malone and the Mostly Magical Boots Page 2
