Molly McGinty Has a Really Good Day Read online

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  This is for Pat, Ann and Irene

  Most of my books have boys as main characters. There are exceptions: The Monument, Nightjohn, The Night the White Deer Died and Sisters were written about girls, and, I hope, in girls’ voices. But much of what I write is about boys, because I was a boy and I did boy things— still do, since I'm what might be called an old boy.

  But stories come from where they come from, and humor lives where it wants to live, and at least half the time it lives with girls.

  And so this story of Molly, who is based on a girl who told me about her three-ring binder organizational system.

  “Don't you think Sparkleberry lipstick would be a good idea, cookie?”

  Molly McGinty looked up at her grandmother from the math notes covering her desk and took a deep calming breath to prepare herself for the day ahead: Senior Citizens’ Day at Our Lady of Mercy Middle School.

  Molly had been sitting at the desk in her bedroom since five-thirty that morning trying to quiz herself on math formulas, or was it formulae (another thing to look up). Her grandmother had been awake just as long, constantly interrupting.

  “All I'm saying, doll, is that you might want to add a little jazz to your image. I mean, you are in the sixth grade now and it might be a good thing to … well, have some fun with your look.” Irene Flynn looked at her granddaughter critically from her place before the mirror as she added yet another string of beads to her own glittering neck.

  Yes, Molly reflected, Irene would think more sparkle was in order, considering her own “ensemble” that day, chosen in honor of her unbroken attendance record at the annual Senior Citizens’ Day. Irene hadn't missed an opportunity to visit Molly's school since kindergarten. Sometimes Molly dreamt about the visits, all six of them. The dreams were always nightmares.

  “Now that we're attending social functions together, call me Irene,” Molly's grandmother had instructed her when she first began to attend school events. “I'm on a first-name basis with all my dearest friends.”

  That day Irene had already been talked out of the hat with the feather. Molly had successfully argued that it would block the view of the blackboard for anyone unlucky enough to be seated within eight rows behind her. But Irene could not be persuaded that purple suede jeans were a bit loud for a school day.

  “The salesgirl said all the kids were wearing these.” Irene had pivoted in front of the mirror, admiring her new clothes. Molly hadn't known whether to tell her grandmother that she was far from being a kid, that Our Lady had a uniform-only dress code or that she'd been victimized by a saleslady working on commission.

  Molly sighed and turned back to concentrate on the math notes she'd borrowed. She'd fallen asleep at her desk the night before, resting her head on the pile of textbooks, index cards, other kids’ illegible class notes and, apparently, her pencil—if the groove in her cheek that spelled out TICONDEROGA NO. 2 was any indication.

  Not only was she facing perhaps the most brutal math test ever given and an entire day at school with Irene in tow, but the day before, Molly had lost her notebook.

  Her Notebook that Contained Everything She Needed to Live.

  Molly McGinty was organized. Very organized. Exceedingly organized. Everyone knew that about her. And the key to her organization was a multi-pocketed three-ring binder that she carried everywhere.

  She had spent countless hours straightening and rearranging her notebook, getting it just so—no, getting it perfect. Molly's notebook wasn't just a place to keep paper and to put work sheets: it was a repository for valuable information.

  She kept her homework in the school section (every class in a different-colored folder, of course) along with a cross-referenced listing of test schedules and the due dates of large projects and important papers. She was especially proud of her system for keeping track of when to return library books, a structured grid laid out by date and time of day. Two years earlier she had been reading a book about the Wright brothers and their first flight at Kitty Hawk that contained an old photo showing the inside of the shack the men lived in while getting ready for the first powered flight. On the wall of the shack was a wooden rack full of eggs, which they ate for breakfast. The book said that each egg was numbered in order of freshness so that the oldest egg could be eaten first.

  Molly had nearly cried; she understood the Wright brothers perfectly and knew, knew, that their organizational abilities were the primary reason there were airplanes today. The Wright brothers probably had three-ring binders.

  Molly's address book was in the social section of the binder. She included pertinent information about her friends: phone numbers, e-mail addresses, birth dates (including a special notation to avoid Kevin Spencer's birthday parties, where the combination of carrot cake, chocolate frosting and Neapolitan ice cream was a given and where on one occasion somebody had made the frosting with laxative as a primary ingredient), pets (type, size and general level of friendliness, with a jotted reminder to steer clear of the D'Agostinos’ slobbery Great Dane, Caesar, who might or might not have eaten a cat), siblings (age and likelihood to be annoying during sleepovers, with a highlighted, double-underlined postscript to skip Patty Schumacher's house until the twins were done teething because they bit like Tasmanian devils and probably had not had their shots), and favorite subjects, for the organization of future study groups prior to final exams.

  Lunch tickets were tucked into a zippered plastic pocket along with bus tokens and extra quarters for emergency phone calls, although Molly had never actually faced an emergency where a phone call would have helped, unless you counted the time Nicholas O'Connor set his hair on fire to show off for Kimberly Klein, and then the fire was well out before the fire department got to the bus. Still, she felt comforted knowing she was prepared.

  The notebook also contained a family section, with a color-coded calendar so she'd know when to remind her grandmother to pay the bills. Molly had come up with that particular strategy after having taken phone messages from a number of bill collectors. Regardless of Irene's determination to look upon those two weeks without water and electricity as an urban adventure, Molly had not enjoyed bathing by candlelight with two-liter bottles of natural springwater heated, or rather slightly warmed, in a pan held over a butane lighter.

  Molly's grandmother was a talent agent specializing in animal clients. (“Do you realize, sugar, that last month's entire mortgage was paid for by Dizzy the dog?” Irene had recently boasted. Dizzy was Irene's favorite, a three-year-old border collie who had landed the enviable role of spokesdog for the largest bank chain in a three-state area.)

  Irene's unusual career explained, at least to Irene, why their home was in a constant state of upset. She claimed that she couldn't be on top of things at
both her house and her business. Her creative juices would desert her if she was too regimented.

  Apparently, her creativity was also threatened by paying bills on time, dressing sedately and dusting.

  Molly had a schedule for housecleaning, too, in her lost notebook, immediately before the grocery list, the pager number of the emergency plumber and the list of her and Irene's doctor and dentist appointments for the next year.

  Molly reluctantly dragged her thoughts from her lost data and watched Irene fluff her hair.

  “Irene, did I already ask you if you'd seen my notebook?”

  “Notebook? Hmmm … no, I haven't seen it today. But if you had a good bag, pet, a really smart purse, you'd never misplace anything. See … I can keep everything I need in my shoulder bag and, being basic black, it goes with everything I own!”

  Irene triumphantly dragged her purse to the middle of the room. It was the approximate weight and size of a Marine Corps duffel bag. She hadn't been able to actually lift the purse for weeks now— ever since she'd ordered the miniature chess set from the Shopping Channel, the one-of-a-kind set with the pieces carved to represent the two teams who played in the 1991 World Series.

  “You never know, angel,” Irene had cooed when the chess set arrived in the mail. “This stuff could be worth a fortune someday to serious baseball memorabilia collectors. That series marked the start of the Atlanta Braves’ emergence in the nineties.”

  Just as Molly began to worry that she would be saddled with her grandmother's bag all day, she heard the kitchen door open downstairs.

  She took a deep breath and braced herself for the invasion of the Marys.

  Mary Margaret Blake, Mary Pat Montgomery and Mary Bridget Sheehan burst through Molly's bedroom door in a blur of navy blue plaid school uniforms.

  “Hi, Molly.”

  “Hi, Molly.”

  “Hi, Molly.”

  “Mary Margaret. Mary Pat. Mary Bridget. Have any of you seen my notebook?”

  Molly and the Marys had spent their school days together since kindergarten and rode on the same bus because they lived in four houses in a row on their street. At least one of the Marys was in every one of Molly's classes.

  “Good morning, Mary Margaret—” Irene started.

  “Mary Pat.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Excuse me, but we were trying to figure out if anyone had seen my notebook,” Molly reminded everyone.

  “Sweetie, you're going to have to learn how to go with the flow. It's the secret of life,” Irene said.

  “I thought you said the secret of life was having the right shoe for every occasion.” Mary Bridget gazed doubtfully at her own scuffed loafers.

  “No, the secret of life is going with the flow,” Irene said firmly. “But you can never have enough shoes—that's true. I think you mixed up what I said, Mary Pat.”

  “Mary Bridget.”

  “Whatever.”

  “About my notebook …”

  The oven timer rang at that moment and Irene dashed downstairs to the kitchen, calling, “Breakfast is ready.”

  Molly took another deep breath. Before the day was over, she was sure she'd have to hyperventilate just to get enough air to stay calm.

  “Mary Margaret. Mary Pat. Mary Bridget. As you know, my notebook disappeared yesterday and I still can't find it.” Molly paused, waiting for the full impact of her words to sink in.

  Mary Pat turned pale, Mary Bridget let out a small squeak of horror and Mary Margaret sat down hard on the bed.

  “Oh, Mol… that's, well… that's just about the worst thing I ever heard. I was just sure the notebook would have turned up before school this morning.” Mary Bridget looked as if she might actually burst into tears.

  Mary Pat said carefully, “You had it yesterday in science. I know because I asked if I could look at that laminated periodic table of elements you have. But,” she quickly added, “I gave it back to you. I did. I know I did.” She looked frantically at the other Marys for support. They nodded vigorously.

  “I've retraced my steps,” Molly said as she began to pace. The Marys sat silently, barely breathing, only their eyes moving as they watched Molly walk back and forth.

  “And I know that I brought my notebook home. I clearly remember setting it down by the back door when I got home from school yesterday. It was a Thursday, so that means I had to bring the empty garbage cans back to the garage.”

  The Marys nodded solemnly. Being neighbors, they had trash collection on the same day.

  “But”—Molly wheeled around to face them— “when I returned to the house, before I could check off ‘return cans to garage’ on my Thursday to-do list, I got distracted. You know Irene fixes Mrs. Fritz's hair in our kitchen every Thursday before bingo.”

  “How's she doing?” Mary Margaret interrupted. “My great-uncle Charlie told me Mrs. Fritz has the most bingo wins at the weekly sixty-and-over game in the church basement. Great-uncle Charlie says that everyone swears that her good luck is because your grandmother does her hair every week. Maybe”—she looked thoughtful—“we should ask her to do our hair before big tests and things. Maybe Mrs. Flynn has the lucky touch.”

  Molly crossed her arms in front of her chest and tapped her foot impatiently. “That's not the point, Mary Margaret. The fact that my notebook has been missing for”—she checked her watch—“sixteen hours, seventeen minutes and four, no, five seconds now is the point.”

  Before the Marys could respond, Irene swept into

  Molly's room, balancing a couple of plates on a tray.

  Molly sniffed suspiciously. “What are you eating, Irene?”

  “Orange roughy.”

  “I thought we agreed that you wouldn't eat fish for breakfast anymore.”

  “But tootsie, fish is brain food. And I need all the brainpower I can get today, considering I'm a schoolgirl again. Besides, it's not like that time we tried sardines and cereal—this is much more conventional. Have some fish, girls. I made enough for everyone. Here, try a bite, Mary Bridget.”

  “Mary Margaret.”

  “Whatever.”

  The Marys and Irene sat together on Molly's bed, oohing and aahhing over the perceived benefits of unadulterated protein to start the day. Molly's notebook crisis was forgotten. Molly shuddered at the idea of fish fillets at 7:35 in the morning and remembered with a jolt why she had suppressed the memory of the sardines and Frosted Flakes her grandmother had served as an experiment. The experiment was based on eating things solely for their nutritional value, and Irene swore that together, Frosted Flakes and sardines in vegetable oil contained everything necessary to support life.

  “Okay, people. We need to concentrate, to focus on the important task at hand,” Molly began, hoping that by sounding determined, she might rally her easily distracted forces and find her notebook before her entire day was ruined due to a lack of preparation and widespread fundamental uncertainty.

  “That notebook is the single most important thing I own, and I depend on the information in it for every aspect of my life. I can't focus without it. My timing, for instance, is completely off. Timing… wait, there's something we're forgetting, something…”

  Molly frowned in concentration, then opened her eyes wide.

  “Nooooh!” She lunged toward the window but tripped over Irene's purse and crashed to the floor, smacking the side of her face on a corner of her desk as she fell.

  “The b …” Molly raised herself only as far as her knees, one hand covering her right eye, her feet hopelessly tangled in the straps of Irene's bag. She flopped back down on the floor and crawled frantically to the window on her belly, propelling herself forward with one elbow and her knees.

  “The bu …” Molly pulled herself up to the windowsill and peeked out over the street below, her one visible eye blazing with panic.

  “The bus is at the corner!” she shrieked.

  “We'd better hurry, girls, if we're going to get to school on time,” Irene said, and head
ed for the door, seemingly unaware of the fact that Molly was now lying flat on her back, her legs kicking wildly, the bag binding her feet more tightly together with every move.

  “Come on, princess, we'll grab an ice pack for that eye on the way to the bus stop,” Irene called back to Molly. “Be a love, will you, and bring my purse.”

  Irene and the Marys hurried downstairs in a cheerful group as Molly struggled to jerk her feet from Irene's bag.

  “I knew,” Molly said grimly to the empty room, “that I was doomed without my notebook.”

  “I don't know why you're so bent out of shape, Molly,” Mary Margaret told her as they stood in front of their lockers before homeroom. Irene had deserted them immediately upon arrival at school, heading to the principal's office with a determined glint in her eye.

  “I think Mrs. Flynn was right—it was a good idea for everyone on the bus to introduce themselves and share their special talent. I mean, my goodness, we've been going to school together forever and yet I never knew that Tommy Sullivan could sing. Mrs. Flynn was smart to remember that getting-to-know-you exercise from her group tour to Vegas.”

  The other Marys nodded and Mary Pat turned to Mary Bridget.

  “And I wouldn't have guessed that you could play your cello on a moving bus, Bridge. I'll be sure to tell your mom how good your arpeggios sounded this morning. YouVe been practicing.”

  Mary Bridget beamed and patted her cello case gently.

  “Would you really, Pats? She's been furious with me since I left my cello on the bus again last week. She made me take a blood oath that I wouldn't set it down in public again. Which reminds me, Mol … after my orchestra practice this afternoon, could you take my cello home with you? I'll pick it up after dance class tonight.”

  Molly was on her hands and knees in front of her locker, squinting at a pile of textbooks. Her black eye had swollen shut and she had to twist her head to the left to focus on anything. It gave her a leering look.