Molly McGinty Has a Really Good Day Read online

  Irene looked up at the class and tapped the fingers of one hand together to indicate that Val was yammering on and on. Everybody nodded in sympathy.

  “As long as I've got you on the phone, Valerie, give me a rundown of today's phone messages….

  Uh-huh Call Judge Morgan back and tell her that

  of course she can borrow my bike, but remind Her Honor that she hasn't returned my tent yet…. Sammy the potbellied pig was not fired from that job and I don't care if they call it artistic differences—our contract was good, so we're due

  full payment Yes, I'd be delighted to speak at the

  Youth Correctional Center Career Day again. I just love visiting there. They have great energy.”

  Irene pulled the phone away from her ear and turned to Molly. “Does Our Lady of Mercy have Career Day, petunia? I'd be more than happy to come back and give a presentation. I think hearing from a positive female role model would be very beneficial to the students. I'm an entrepreneur and a, single parent. Tell me, is it admirable to be old, too? Because then I'd have a hat trick.”

  “I think today pretty much takes care of your responsibility to the students of this school, Irene,” Molly answered.

  “Well, maybe you're right, scooter, I wouldn't want to wear out my welcome.” Irene turned her attention back to the phone. “Val, you lost me, hon. I stopped listening awhile back…. No, don't worry about that. You always get three threatening letters before they turn off the lights.” She winked knowingly at Molly. “And, besides, you can come stay with us for a while…. Okay, then, I'll check in again later. Ciao, bella.”

  “I didn't know Valerie was Italian, Molly,” Mary Bridget said.

  “She's from Cleveland, but Irene has been listening to that learn-to-speak-Italian tape at the office recently. She's practicing with Val.”

  Irene clicked off the phone, reattached it to her belt and glanced at the clock.

  “We're almost out of time here, but you've really got the hang of poetry slams. Remember, good is not important. Sometimes honest is not worth that much either. But enthusiasm is always a good thing!”

  The bell rang, and Irene skipped out of the room, her arm around Kyle's shoulders, without so much as a backward glance at Molly.

  Molly muttered to herself as she tried to yank Irene's bag out from under her. The straps were caught on the bookshelf under her chair. She dropped to her hands and knees to free the bag. From her position on the floor, she saw Mary Bridget's loafers make their way to her row and stop.

  “Thanks for taking my cello, Mol. Carolyn's dad is taking us to dance class and it won't fit in his old convertible. And the other Marys refuse to carry it for me again after that blizzard incident last winter. Although I just know that if Pats hadn't dragged her feet at her locker, they wouldn't have missed the bus and they'd have made it home with plenty of time to spare before the snow started falling that hard. Okay, gotta run. I'll swing by your house later and pick it up. Mrs. Flynn invited me for dinner. We're having leftover finger food from that party she threw to celebrate Jiffy the bear's new job.”

  Molly watched Mary Bridget's loafers scurry from the room. She slowly rose to her feet and glared at the cello case. She bent over, took hold of the strap and slung it over her shoulder. She straightened carefully, testing the weight. It might just be possible. She seemed to be bent a little at the knees, but if she was careful and balanced the purse just right it might not break her back. She gently pulled the purse to her, ducked her free shoulder under the straps and, taking a deep breath, slowly rose to her full height, exhaling when the weight of both the bag and the cello hit her, and trudged toward the door.

  “Two more periods, that's all I have to live through,” she reassured herself. “Just two more periods of school, and then soccer practice.” She sighed. “Then I can run away from home.”

  Mary Margaret was sitting next to Irene, reading the horoscopes in the newspaper, when Molly arrived in social studies class. Ooh… I'm supposed to listen to an older, wiser person today who will give me many valuable insights,” Mary Margaret announced. “You just know they mean Mrs. Flynn,” she added, sighing happily. “Here's yours, Mol. Today is a six—’”

  “Yeah,” Molly said, “if one is being eaten by a shark and ten is dropping a bowling ball on your foot.”

  “Horoscopes are silly,” Irene told Molly. “But I'd be happy to read your palm. I ordered a do-it-yourself fortune-telling kit from the back of a magazine last year, and if I do say so myself, I'm very good.”

  “You told me I was destined to marry a Gypsy and travel the world in a cart pulled by a pig,” Molly reminded her as she dropped Mary Bridget's cello and Irene's purse to the floor and sank into her seat, rubbing her shoulders. My arms, she thought, have lost all feeling.

  “What can I say?” Irene shrugged. “I see fascinating adventures in your future.”

  Father Connery entered the room as the bell rang and headed straight for Irene. He took both of her hands in his and grinned down at her.

  “I heard you were here today. You're the buzz of the school. Irene, my good friend, I haven't seen you since you outbid me for that Boston cream pie at the silent auction during last year's Spring Fling fund-raiser.”

  “I've got a mean sweet tooth, Jim, and more disposable income than you.”

  Mary Margaret looked at Molly and mouthed, “Jim?”

  Molly rolled her eyes and whispered, “Father Connery arranges all those senior citizen trips Irene takes. He's the priest she dared to try bullfighting when she went to Spain three years ago.”

  “You never told me the priest in the bullfighting story was Father Connery, though.”

  “I try to forget as much as I can about the things Irene tells me.”

  “Open your books to chapter eleven and we'll review the electoral college for the test next week,” Father Connery said.

  Irene reached over and grabbed her purse from under Molly's desk. She pulled out a radio with a headset and busily adjusted the frequency.

  Father Connery glanced over. “A little mood music to help you concentrate on the finer points of democracy in action, Irene?”

  “Nope, just the starting lineup for the baseball game. Cubs and Braves at Wrigley.”

  “Who are the starting pitchers?” he asked. “If there's a stiff breeze blowing infield this afternoon, you know it'll be a pitchers’ duel.”

  “Don't let me disrupt your class, Jim. I'll keep the volume low, and given how long those umpires let the at-bats drag out, I should be able to pay sufficient attention to your discussion, too. May I borrow a pencil?”

  Father Connery smiled. “I'm flattered. You'll be taking notes on my lecture?”

  “I've got a scorecard to fill out.”

  “I'm still trying to get enough people interested in that spring training trip to Florida, Irene. But it seems that you and I are the only members of the parish who'd rather tour the Grapefruit League than Cabo San Lucas. I heard St. Boniface has some keen baseball fans, so maybe we can work out an intrachurch trip next year.” He sat on the edge of Irene's desk and thumbed through an old program she had pulled out of her bag, along with the radio and scorecard.

  “Uh, excuse me, Father?” Molly interrupted.

  “Yes, Molly?”

  “Aren't we going to review for the test?”

  “Oh, uh, yes, of course we are.” He stood up reluctantly before looking back with a huge smile on his face. “Did you ever stop to think that a well-managed baseball team runs like a good government?”

  Irene's head bobbed up, and most of the boys, who usually spent the period dozing, snapped to attention.

  “Just think about it,” Father Connery went on. “Democracy is a team effort—everyone has to pull their own weight to get the most out of our system of government. But there is a clear hierarchy. In our government, it is the judicial, the legislative and the executive branches. In baseball, it is the coaching staff, the general manager and the owner.”


  Irene continued the train of thought Father Connery had begun. “Baseball is the greatest game on earth for that reason: it is the most like our government. Neither is perfect, but both are always interesting. Baseball and democracy may not be ideal, but they are the best we have to offer. Winston Churchill said democracy was the worst form of government in the world, except for all the rest. The same might be said of baseball.”

  “And that's”—Irene blew a huge pink bubblegum bubble—“why baseball players get the big bucks and the beautiful babes.” She shuffled through a deck of baseball cards, tucking some into a plastic bag and tossing others to a corner of her desk.

  “Mrs. Flynn has the best baseball card collection of anyone I know,” Mary Margaret told Father Connery.

  “I don't collect them. I just buy them and put them on my piano in little plastic cases. I'm not a fanatic, Mary Pat.”

  “Mary Margaret.”

  “Whatever.”

  Father Connery opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a clock radio. “Let's all listen to the game. Can you find the station for us, Irene, while I draw a scorecard on the blackboard?”

  Mary Margaret tossed Molly a note:

  Molly looked over at them; they were reenacting the most recent play of the game for the non-baseball fans in the class, illustrating the virtues of an ideally executed sacrifice bunt. Irene was holding a yardstick that had been abandoned in the corner of the room, using it to show how the bat catches the ball, making it bounce weakly into the infield. And Father Connery was playing the role of the befuddled infielder scrambling after the ball.

  Molly scribbled a fast reply and hurled the note back to Mary Margaret.

  Irene was then demonstrating for three boys the proper grasp for a knuckleball as Father Connery sketched an aerial view of the infield on the blackboard.

  Mary Margaret threw note after note at Molly's desk. Molly studiously ignored them all, concentrating fiercely on her textbook.

  Mary Margaret resorted to whispering. “Well, I was just thinking that, since Mrs. Flynn doesn't seem to like my great-uncle Charlie, even though it's the talk of the neighborhood how stuck on her he is, maybe Father is more her type.”

  Without thinking, Molly blurted out, “Are you insinuating that my grandmother is flirting with a priest?”

  The room fell instantly silent, and Molly looked up to see Irene crouched on the floor in a catcher's squat, flashing hand signals to the small crowd that had gathered around her. Irene ducked her head modestly and fluttered her eyelashes at Molly.

  “Thanks, cutie, I'm glad to see you think this old lady still has what it takes to catch a man's eye. But”—she shook her head—“I could never flirt with someone like Father Connery.” She paused. “We're just too radically different in our philosophies. For instance, he thinks the designated hitter is a good idea.”

  Irene took a good look around the industrial arts workshop when they arrived at what Molly was relieved to note was the final class period. Molly did her involuntary visual sweep of the room to locate Jake Dempsey.

  “Who's that?” Irene caught Molly's glance around the room and pointed to Jake. “He's a dish.”

  “N-n-no one,” Molly stammered, feeling her cheeks turn hot and putting her hand over Irene's pointing finger. “J-just someone named Jake.”

  “Sweet pea, he's adorable. You know he asked about working for us during lunch. Is he a friend of yours?”

  “Not really.” Molly fidgeted with the lock on Mary Bridget's cello case.

  “Well, he should be. Go over and talk to him.”

  “Talk to Jake Dempsey?” Molly's voice squeaked before she regained control. “Uh, no, that's okay, Irene.”

  “Oh … well, I see. Never mind, then.” Irene whistled to herself and followed Molly to her workbench. “Whatcha doing?” she asked.

  “Making a desk organizer. See, I can put my pens and pencils in this cup, I can fit a ruler in this slot thing, and this little depression is for paper clips. I'm going to add a paper tray and some little stand-up dividers for envelopes later.” Molly felt content for the first time all day.

  She was soon lost in the job of sanding the top of her desk organizer and checking the straightness of its edge with the mini-T-square she carried on her key chain. She'd half noticed that Irene had strolled away from her and was investigating various projects around the room.

  Molly was debating whether to add a magnet to the paper clip tray when she began to hear fragments of an argument drifting her way from across the room. At first she didn't pay attention. But when she heard Irene's raised voice, she looked up and dropped her sanding block.

  Her grandmother was standing on a box, which made her tall enough to peer down at the innards of an engine that were scattered across a workbench. She was standing next to Jake Dempsey.

  Jake and Irene were talking. Not just talking, but arguing. Loudly.

  “… so you want to retard the timing on the compression stroke to set more power,” Irene said.

  “Yeah, if you want to ruin the engine.” Jake frowned at the engine part he held in his hand.

  “Anyone who knows the principles of an internal combustion engine—”

  Irene caught Molly's eye.

  “Flowerpot, come over here.”

  Molly shook her head vigorously.

  Irene beckoned again.

  Molly shook her head again. As much as she wanted to run from the room or disappear completely, she was unable to turn away from the sight of her grandmother and Jake working together.

  Irene got a glint in her eye and picked up a booklet from the workbench, waving it in Molly's direction.

  “There's a manual,” she called. “Just full of instructions and directions and, urn, rules and regulations and so on and so forth.”

  Molly's ears pricked up. She felt her feet slowly move toward her grandmother.

  Irene made room for her in front of the engine next to Jake. Molly couldn't begin to meet Jake's eyes. She took the manual from Irene with shaking hands and tried to concentrate on the words printed in it. She studied the bits of machinery scattered in front of her, trying to align them with the instructions in the manual.

  “It's an outboard motor for my dad's fishing boat. I'm trying to juice it up, and your grandma is helping,” Jake explained.

  “That's a head gasket, right?” Molly asked, pointing. “I mean, it looks like the picture in the book.”

  “Yeah, that's right. Can you hand me that little screwdriver?”

  “Oh, sure. And these must be spark plugs.” Molly concentrated on the manual, then looked back at the parts on the workbench.

  “Uh-huh,” Jake said. “Are you twitching?”

  “Urn, sort of. I don't usually, I mean, but we had a funky lunch. Is this piece cracked or is it supposed to look like this?”

  Jake took it from her hand. “Yeah, we'll have to replace it. You know, I've seen you before, but you seemed like you'd be hard to talk to.”

  “I, urn, thought the same thing about you.”

  “Then I'm glad your grandma came over to see what I was doing. She's wrong about internal combustion engines, of course, but interesting to talk to.”

  “That's what everyone says about her. Really, I'm not very much like her. At all. Ever.”

  “You're kidding, right? You've got a black eye and you're twitching. And I don't know what's all over you but it smells like lunch. And you seem real cool about it all. Plus, you pick up mechanical stuff real quick. That makes you the most interesting girl I've talked to all day.”

  You only think that, Molly thought, because you didn't get the memo about how really boring I am. But this time, wisely, she kept her mouth shut.

  Molly trudged back to the locker room from the field after soccer practice, squishing loudly with each step. Mary Pat jogged to catch up with her.

  “Sorry about that puddle, Molly. I tried to pass the ball to your right so you'd miss it.”

  “That's okay, Pats. That
's my blind side today. I know you didn't mean it.”

  “Is your grandmother coming home with us on the activity bus? Or do you think she's going to stay for the entire cheerleading practice?” Mary Pat stopped in front of her locker. “You've got to admit, she looked pretty awesome out there. I'm glad to see that Kathleen Ferguson doesn't have the highest kick on the squad after all.”

  Molly spun the combination on her lock and jerked it open. She stood there dumbly, waiting for the reality of what she saw, or rather what she didn't see, to sink in. Mary Pat glanced over when she noticed that Molly hadn't responded.

  “My stuff … all my stuff is gone, Pats. First my notebook and now my clothes. I can't believe this.” She stared blankly at the empty locker. “Somebody took all my clothes.”

  “Here, Mol.” Mary Pat quickly rooted through her own locker and thrust a bundle of clothes into Molly's hands. “I have an extra school uniform you can borrow. Uh-oh, no shoes. Check the lost and found. There's sure to be something drier than those wet soccer cleats you're wearing. At least something to get you home.”

  Mary Pat looked past Molly and brightened.

  “Look! Today's not a total waste. Your grandmother's bag and Mary Bridget's cello didn't get stolen! They're right over there in the corner where you hid them.”

  Molly cast a baleful glance at the cursed black bag and cello case as she sloshed her way numbly to the lost and found box on the other side of the locker room.

  Ten minutes later, she was alone in the now deserted locker room, sitting silently on the bench in front of her locker, staring down at the bowling shoe on her right foot and the Rollerblade on her left foot. Our Lady of Mercy Middle School, Molly thought, has a crummy selection in their lost and found.

  Everyone else had changed their clothes and quickly left the building after casting leery glances at Molly, who appeared to be in a trance. She took a deep breath, pulled herself to her feet, slung Irene's bag across her body and began the awkward thump-glide, thump-glide toward the buses outside, Mary Bridget's cello bouncing painfully off her shin with each thump-glide.