Molly McGinty Has a Really Good Day (9 page)

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.

“Gimme a B! B! Gimme an A!” Irene was standing outside near the door waiting for Molly, fluffing her new pom-poms and cheering softly to herself. She
stopped abruptly when she caught sight of Molly's dejected face. “Kitten, what's wrong?”

“Wrong? Why would you ask if anything's wrong, Irene?” Molly thump-glided a few feet past Irene before spinning around suddenly to face her.

“Okay, let's recap my day thus far: I lost my notebook, but I'm carrying around fifty pounds of
your
junk in the big black bag from hell, plus this cello. I couldn't have a best friend who played the harmonica, now could I, or maybe even the flute? Oh, no, Bridge has to play the heaviest instrument in the universe and I get stuck carrying it around.”

Molly stopped to catch her breath. “I got a black eye and was forced to participate in a talent show, all before school even started. Not only does my grandmother insist on being the only human in the Western Hemisphere who takes Senior Citizens’ Day seriously and actually comes to school, but then she gets accused of smoking in the bathroom.

“I missed science and got detention. I tore my dress up to my throat and what didn't rip got burned when one of the dysfunctional malcontents you now call a buddy set me on fire. Half of my hair is
in tiny braids that are held in place by rubber bands that were in someone's mouth.”

Molly paused for a moment, giving her thoughts a chance to catch up with her rapidly building fury.

“We ate lunch with a bunch of soon-to-be criminals who have probably moved into my room by now, because, in addition to giving them all jobs, I'm sure that room and board is the next offer you'll make to them.”

Irene moved as if to speak, but Molly raised a hand.

“Just so you don't think the day was a total waste, I did get to talk to the cutest boy in school. Too bad that every square inch of me was covered in spaghetti sauce and blue-black ink. Oh, yeah, and I was twitching from the coffee beans we had for lunch, so he probably thinks I'm clinically insane.

“The only bad thing that
hasn't
happened to me today is that I haven't been carried off by little trolls, but, hey, the day is still young.

“And it's all because I lost my notebook.” Molly was sobbing now, standing outside the locker room door. “You don't understand,” she sniffled. “That
notebook contained a list of all my life's goals and I'm just… lost without it.”

“I thought you had a wonderful day, Molly”

Molly didn't even bother to respond. She just dragged her sleeve across her nose.

“In any case,” Irene continued gently, “don't you think you're just a little too dependent on that notebook?”

“Well, yes, you could say that. But I can't rely on that computer diary you got me for Christmas. You know I don't have a laptop, and the success of my notebook system depends on constant access, an ongoing system of updating and refining …” Molly trailed off and looked up at Irene.

“Molly, Molly, Molly. Your life is much more important than what you put in that notebook.” Irene grabbed her bag from where Molly had dropped it, reached in and rooted around for a moment before pulling Molly's notebook out with a flourish.

“See, I told you I could carry everything I needed in my bag,” she remarked triumphantly.

Molly stared at the notebook in Irene's hand. “Did you take my clothes from the locker too?”

“Molly, I was manipulative today, not mean. Nope, that was just good old-fashioned bad luck.”

“You mean I've been carrying my notebook around all day?”

“I thought that had a nice
Wizard of Oz
touch— just like Dorothy, you had what you needed all along, only you didn't know it. I took the notebook from you yesterday when I saw that you never did anything without checking it off your to-do list. I worried that you wouldn't even scratch your a—”

“Is this some kind of joke?”

Irene shook her head. “Look, Molly, this is the kind of day that builds character.”

“Because if this is all some kind of sick joke, I'm not laughing.” Molly studied her borrowed clothes, picking at the blouse. It didn't quite fit, she thought, like her life. “I'm done, Irene. I'm all done and fed up and sick of it all, so if there's some kind of punch line coming for this hysterically funny joke, you'd better let it fly because I'm …I'm done.”

Irene smiled softly. “Dear one, there is no joke, only me loving you and wanting to help you. And maybe sometimes I'm a little heavy-handed and
maybe sometimes it seems to go sideways a little, but the truth is that everything I am is for you, to help you. If nothing else comes from this day, I hope you at least see that.”

Molly looked up, caught by the tone in Irene's voice, the softness, and felt her good eye tear up, and something inside her tore a little and all her anger left her and she reached over to throw her arms around Irene and they clasped each other tightly and stood that way for a long and wonderful time, until Molly was startled by a cheer that went up from behind them.

Looking over Irene's shoulder, she saw that their whole conversation had been closely followed by the entire membership of the detention squad, who were now hanging out the windows of the Detention Room, cheering and whooping.

Molly waved at them, gave them a thumbs-up and smiled. If you had to have new friends, she thought, they weren't so bad. It was kind of like being friendly with a bunch of pit bulls.

Irene gently pulled out of their hug and returned the notebook to Molly. She looked over Molly's shoulder at the activity bus and got a crafty gleam in her eyes.

“You'd better hurry if you want to catch that bus, Mol.”

“Aren't you coming home with me?” Molly asked.

“I'll be home in a bit. But I have a date with the padre for pie. I'm going to try to convince that social studies teacher of yours how wrong he is about
the infield fly rule.” Irene jogged off, pom-poms fluttering, to find Father Connery.

The driver stopped Molly as she started up the steps.

“No blades on the bus.”

“That's okay, I'll hop.”

Molly lifted the foot with the Rollerblade and, using the cello as a crutch, boarded the bus. She ignored the astonished faces that silently turned as she made her way toward the only available seat, which was, she noted with a small shiver, next to Jake.

She sat down and sighed as she let Mary Bridget's cello case drop to the floor of the bus with a gratifying crash. She grinned at all the heads that swiveled toward her.

“It's a cello,” she called cheerfully. She turned, still smiling, to Jake. “It's Mary Bridget's cello and I'm taking it home for her.”

“Nice blade,” he commented, studying her carefully.

“Thanks. I found it. Nicer wheels than my own pair. Of course, I have two of those.”

“You look like you've had a rough day.”

She looked down at her feet and thoughtfully tapped the bowling shoe and the RoUerblade together. Then she looked up at herself in the convex mirror at the front of the bus: tiny braids on one side, black eye on the other, a smudge of blue-black ink on her cheek.

“Actually, it turned out to be a really good day,” she said, smiling at her reflection.

“Cool,” Jake said, touching her hand. “Totally cool.”

Gary Paulsen is the distinguished author of many critically acclaimed books for young people, including three Newbery Honor books:
The Winter Room, Hatchet
and
Dogsong.
His novel
The Haymeadow
received the Western Writers of America Golden Spur Award. Among his Random House books are
The Glass Café; How Angel Peterson Got His Name; Caught by the Sea; Guts: The True Stories Behind
Hatchet
and the Brian Books; The Beet Fields; Alida's Song
(a companion to
The Cookcamp); Soldier's Heart; The Transall Saga; My Life in Dog Years; Sarny: A Life Remembered
(a companion to
Nightjohn); Brian's Return, Brian's Winter
and
Brian's Hunt
(companions to
Hatchet); Father Water, Mother Woods;
and five books about Francis Tucket's adventures in the Old West. Gary Paulsen has also published fiction and nonfiction for adults, as well as picture books illustrated by his wife, the painter Ruth Wright Paulsen. Their most recent book is
Canoe Days.
The Paulsens live in New Mexico and on the Pacific Ocean.