The Meaning of Maggie (6 page)

Mom never let me read the pamphlets while we waited for Dad at the doctor's office either. She'd say they were filled with propaganda and then I'd say, “Geez hippie, calm down.” And then she'd take my M&M's away and then I'd say I was sorry and then she'd give me the M&M's back and then we'd take quizzes in magazines to find out if we were summers or falls.
²¹

I'd have to step up my research about the sleepiness. Right after I stepped up my research about the migration of monarch butterflies for my science project, but before I stepped up my research about Franklin Roosevelt and his sleepy legs. It only seemed right to figure out Dad's sleeping legs first.

I went to the bathroom to give my face a good splash of cold water, hoping it would scare away any residual weirdness I had left inside. When I pulled the towel away from my face, Mom was next to me.

“So everyone's voted for pizza for dinner. You in?”

“Sounds good.” I shrugged.

“You don't sound too excited for pizza. And you're always excited for pizza.”

“I don't know.” I couldn't find the right words. I felt like there was so much to say and also nothing to say at all. But I tried. “That was scary.”

“Oh Maggie, Dad's fine. You saw him. He's totally fine.”

“Then why do I feel so weird? Should we be scared?” Mom knelt in front of me.

“We shouldn't be scared, honey. Not even a little.” She took my hand and squeezed.

“We should be brave.”

Dad's fall led to more fall but of the autumn variety. The leaves turned and the temperature dropped and some other stuff happened that wasn't really important because then it was Halloween. Halloween! The single best day of the year! The day I would make a national holiday once I was president. Schools would be closed but banks would stay open and instead of money they would hand out buckets and buckets of candy!

Layla and Tiffany were both home on Halloween night, which was weird because they should've been at parties dressed up as hotter versions of themselves. But Halloween was on a school night and Mom never allows hotness on school nights. So they stayed in and helped me get ready for trick-or-treating.
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They tried
to convince me to be a ton of things involving makeup, high heels, and tight dresses but I opted for an homage to one of my heroes: Albert Einstein.

Layla teased my hair into a tizzy and Tiffany sprayed it white with Halloween hair dye. We used Dad as a model for my mustache and Layla penciled in the perfect whiskers with eyeliner. I made a bow tie out of my scarf, put on a sweater, and ta-da! I was a genius.

I was so excited to hit the streets, but for some reason Dad wasn't feeling great. Probably because I told him I wouldn't share any candy with him, which was only 90% true because I'd give him all my Smarties because I hated Smarties because they are like fake candy. Anyway. I begged him to go with me because he'd never been with me and Mom was stuck at work and kids who trick-or-treat alone get kidnapped.

“Okay, I'll go, but I don't have a costume.”

That's when I had the best idea ever. I found a stack of black and gray construction paper and started cutting. I cut out a few big boulders and Scotch Taped them to his shirt. “Ta-da! Let's hit the streets.”

“Wait, what am I?”

I tapped the wheel on his chair. “You're the Rolling Stones!”

“Ha, that's pretty cool.” He laughed and we rolled out the door.

Layla and Tiffany joined us halfway up the driveway in their last-minute costumes. Layla wore a sweatshirt with
the neck cut out and said she was an aerobics instructor and Tiffany wore a sweatshirt with the neck cut out and said she was a punk rocker. Whatever. All that mattered was they were there and we were together and they could take over pushing Dad up the hill because my arms were about to break off.

We knocked on all kinds of doors and every time I explained Dad's costume I got a big laugh and an extra handful of candy, which made me think, I should bring this guy everywhere.

On our way down the hill, Layla and Tiffany headed back home early because they had eaten too much candy and by too much I mean three candy corn. I was sharing a Twix with Dad when I heard someone shout my name. And that someone was an angel sent straight from heaven. Even though he was dressed as a zombie sent from that other place. It was Clyde.

My knees buckled as Clyde walked his bike over to Dad and me.

“I thought that was you. You look great! Albert Einstein, right?”

God, we had so much in common. I also thought I looked great.

“Yeah, Albert Einstein. I love him. Well not like that. I don't LOVE him. We'd just be friends if he were alive. Nothing more. So, what are you? A zombie?”

Dad answered before Clyde could. “You're a zombie Buddy Holly. Right?”

Clyde's face lit up. “You're the only one who's gotten my costume all night!”

“Really? The black glasses make you a dead ringer.” Dad nudged me. “Get it?
Dead
ringer?”

I wanted to disappear. I couldn't believe that Dad would humiliate me at this critical moment in my relationship with Clyde. But Clyde laughed so I just laughed too.

“I tried to get my brother to be the Big Bopper. But he wanted to be James Bond.”

“Sean Connery James Bond right?” Dad asked.

Clyde smiled. “Yeah.”

“Because he had the coolest cars.”

Clyde nodded. “Exactly. Well, I better go. My mom will kill me if I'm late for dinner.”

“That's impossible,” I pointed out. “You're already dead.”

“I guess you're right.” Clyde laughed. “But I don't want to chance it.”

He got on his bike. “It was nice meeting you, Mr. Mayfield. See you at school, Maggie.” And then he rode away into the moonlight.

Dad unlocked his wheels and turned toward me. “So that's Clyde?”

“That's Clyde,” I sighed with my whole heart in my throat.

“You're right. He is really cool. And he thinks you look great.”

“I know!”

When we got home, Mom already had dinner ready and I pulled on my PJs but left my hair crazy because it was hilarious. Dad wheeled himself over to the stereo and put on
Sticky Fingers
by the Rolling Stones and the house lit up with “Brown Sugar.” We took our seats and I blessed the Lord for these our gifts of spaghetti and meatballs. And then Dad dropped his fork.

No big deal, right? His fingers were probably still sticky from the Snickers we snuck before dinner.
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He picked his fork up again, guided it to his noodles, lifted it to his mouth—and dropped it all over his Cream T-shirt. Now Eric Clapton was eating Dad's spaghetti.

His next attempt was more determined, more focused. He gripped the handle of the fork with his whole hand,
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scooped, and lifted again. The whole bite dropped into his lap.

Layla and Tiffany locked eyes with their plates while I sank into my scarf. I don't know why. I just felt weird.

Dad took a deep breath. “No one eats until I can.”

Really? Really. This was serious. The house was silent except for the murmur of Mick Jagger singing about
wild horses. A million butterflies took off in my stomach. We put our forks to sleep on beds of asparagus and watched as Dad tried again. But this time when he dropped the fork, he dropped his head to his chest too.

Mom sprang up. “Let's get some fresh air, okay?” She wheeled Dad out into the garage. Layla, Tiffany, and I kept our eyes down and we waited. We waited and waited and waited.

On minute ten of waiting, I picked up my fork and went for a bite.

Layla threw her napkin at me. “Stop it. You heard Dad.”

My stomach growled like it was sticking up for me. “But I'm starving.” Emphasis on
starving
.

Tiffany grabbed my fork from my hand. “How can you be starving? I saw you scarf that Snickers before dinner.”

I grabbed my fork back. “It was a mini Snickers! And Mom would want us to eat. What's the big deal anyway? I drop my fork all the time.”

“It's a huge deal!” Tiffany yelled.

“Why?”

Before Tiffany could let me have it, Layla interrupted. “Stop it, Tiffany.”

Hold on, people. Did everyone know something I didn't? “What's going on?”

Before they could answer, the door opened and Mom rolled Dad back inside. Their eyes were red and Dad had a smear of lipstick on his cheek. Mom stacked the still-full plates on top of each other and sighed.

“Who wants ice cream for dinner?”

I had no idea what was going on, but I did know one thing. I definitely wanted ice cream for dinner.

Mom scooped chocolate almond ice cream into mugs and passed them around the table. She took a bite from her cup and spooned a scoop into Dad's mouth while the record needle softly skipped reminding us that there was a second side to
Sticky Fingers
that needed to be heard.

I stirred my ice cream into a milkshake, drank it down, and let myself slip into a sugar coma trying to forget the fork, the weird, and the butterflies.

The next day I swore I'd get to the bottom of whatever it was that everyone else knew and I didn't. But when I woke up, I had mustache on my neck, cheeks, and eyelids and it took a while to scrub off. And then I had to get to school and I couldn't think about it there because I only think about school at school because there's just so much to think about at school. And then when I got home, I was preoccupied with my trick-or-treating loot. Inspecting every single piece for poison took time and precision. But when I finally finished, I decided to take Dad a boatload of unpoisonous Smarties.

I tiptoed into the living room because I felt like we should still be tiptoeing both literally and metaphorically. The night before still rumbled weird in my belly. Well, it could have been the SweeTarts rumbling weird in there but I was pretty sure it was just residual weird from what happened at dinner. So I decided it might be best if my mission to deliver the Smarties to Dad was as covert as possible. I walked up behind his chair so he couldn't see me and slowly stacked them on his table, then started moonwalking back to my room.

“Hey, Albert!”

Busted.

“Why don't you unroll me a couple sleeves?”

I gave up my cover and turned back. “It's just Maggie. Albert is nevermore.”

“Wouldn't that be Edgar?
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” Dad winked.

I piled a bunch of Smarties onto a napkin and ate one.
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“Maybe I'll be Edgar Allan Poe next year.” Suddenly I was really excited. “Wanna be my raven?”

His face lit up but only dimly. “Hmmm, maybe.”

Whatever. I turned to leave but he called me back.

“Hey Mags, check out this whopper.”

“What? Did you steal my Whoppers?!”
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“No, geez. I'm talking about the bruise on my foot.” I looked down. A light purple bruise covered his entire foot. It was impressive as far as bruises go and I knew a lot about bruises. I was covered in them.

“That's nothing. Look at this one on my arm.” I rolled up my sleeve and presented a black orb above my elbow. I looked back at his foot. “How'd you get it?”

“Dropped the shaving cream. What about you?”

“Ran into the pantry door.”

He cracked up. “But the pantry's always in the same place.”

“I dunno . . . it just snuck up on me.”

He was seeming more and more like my cool dude dad from before. More like my cool dude dad who would tell me anything.

“Hey Dad. Is, um, everything okay?”

“Hmm. Is everything okay?”

He rolled the Smarties back and forth on the table and then threw three in his mouth.

“Well, one huge thing happened last night. One huge thing that changes everything.”

He paused and I held my breath.

“Last night Clyde realized you're the coolest girl that ever was.”

I blushed and smiled and gathered up every last wrapper to throw away in the trash outside so Mom wouldn't know I had exceeded her two-pieces-of-candy-a-day limit by ten pieces. The rumbling weird in my belly was replaced by a rumbling ache but it wasn't because I was scared. It was just because I ate five Whoppers. And a Crunch bar. And maybe a candy corn or three. It definitely wasn't because I was scared.

A few weeks later Dad was back to his old Dad self. He even tried to get me to watch a scary movie, but I refused. “Mom says I'm not allowed to watch that kind of stuff.”

“We don't have to tell Mom,” he whispered.

“No way, Jos
é
,” I whispered back.

We were flipping through the channels and looking for something unterrifying when something so scary happened I almost died. And it wasn't on TV. It was right next to us.

Tiffany cruised by us wearing something super tight and super short and her face looked like she was competing in some kind of makeup Olympics where instead of medals they handed out fake eyelashes. The scariest part? She grabbed the car keys and walked right out the door.

Dad nudged me. “Oooh. Wanna watch
Wild America
? I love Marty Stouffer.”

“Dad! You can't let Tiffany leave! She's not allowed to be hot on school nights!”

“Oh, I didn't know that. What should I do?”

“Go after her!”

He wheeled over to the door and looked out the window. “Too late. She's already gone. Maybe she'll be right back?”

“Dressed like that? No way. I bet she's halfway to Vegas by now.”

“Don't you think you're overreacting?”

I shook my head. “She broke one of Mom's biggest rules!”

“Your mom has so many rules. How am I supposed to remember all of them?”

That's when I dashed into my
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bedroom and pulled my third most important notebook out from under my bed. I went back to the living room and flipped right to page five. “See, it's rule number twenty-seven. No hotness on school nights.”