Chapter 5 Maggie
MAGGIE
I’m originally from California, but even after all this time living in new places, I still don’t know where I belong in the world.
Could I actually move abroad? This is one of those moments when I wish I had normal parents so we could discuss it, weighing the pros and cons.
Thankfully, I’ve always had friends like Declan and Etta Jo to stand in, but she’s all but bought my plane ticket. I don’t want to bother Declan with my woes because I know he’ll drop everything to help. He’s at the height of his career—I can’t ask that of him.
I open the messaging app and scroll past The Declan Printz as he so aptly typed when I last got a new cell phone—over five years ago now. Yes, my device is a relic.
My finger hovers over the thread between my parents and me when my phone chimes with a message. My stomach does an excited little tumble when I see who it’s from. Declan’s best friend-in-need sensors must’ve been going off—or he’s bored between meetings.
The Declan Printz: Would you rather take a pirate ship to Spain or a sailboat to France?
Maggie: Sail to France for sure.
The Declan Printz: I’d take my jet. Or the yacht. That would work.
Maggie: But that wasn’t the question you asked.
I knew about the plane, but did he text to brag about a new yacht?
The football bros must not only be competing on the field but with ostentatious purchases, considering, according to Giselle, Garrison owns the Riptide’s Playbuoy.
I can only imagine what Declan named his vessel. Dismay makes my shoulders sag.
The Declan Printz: When have I ever followed the rules?
Maggie: Ha ha. Here’s one: If you were offered a job overseas, would you take it?
The Declan Printz: Like a football job or something else, like lounging on a beach in a speedo, or what I like to call a mankini?
Maggie: That doesn’t sound like work to me.
The Declan Printz: I’d take it very seriously.
Maggie: But you said yourself, you don’t follow rules.
The Declan Printz: Speaking of, I’m traveling abroad soon, unfortunately.
Maggie: Don’t get deported.
The Declan Printz: I’ll do my best, but know exactly who I’ll call if I’m only allowed to make one.
Maggie: Wait. What is a mankini? Never mind. I probably don’t want to know.
A sigh escapes when my screen goes dark.
Etta Jo and Giselle break the conversation mid-sentence and their eyes land on me.
“What was that?” Etta Jo asks.
“What was what?” I ask, eyeing the chip crumbs and remaining frosting streaking the bowl.
“The sound you made.” Giselle demonstrates with a swoony sigh.
I shake my head. “Must’ve been distracted. I didn’t hear it, nor did I register your question.”
“But you made the sound.” Etta Jo’s eyes narrow as the corners of her lips lift in a smile.
Pointing at myself, I look around. “Me? I didn’t make a sound.”
“You did,” they both say at the same time.
“Didn’t,” I croak. Had a noise like that come out of my body, I’d know. Right?
“Ya did,” Etta Jo says in her southern accent, which almost convinces me she’s right.
“Well, I don’t remember.”
“You said you were distracted,” Giselle says plainly.
“I was texting with Declan and thinking about the job offer. Thank you, by the way. It’s a really big deal, so—” This time I puff an exhale. “So, there’s a lot to think about.”
Etta Jo’s head turns subtly from side to side. “So much makes sense now.”
I get to my feet and tidy up our chips and frosting feeding frenzy. “Maybe we’ve had enough sugar for one afternoon.”
Etta Jo holds up three fingers. “I’ve observed three reactions after you’re on your phone texting.
One is the non-reaction, which I can only assume is something mundane like a reminder to go to the dentist. Two, the slightly irritated with a side of sadness reaction, which I imagine might have something to do with your parents, whom we all know you don’t discuss.
I respect that you have your reasons. Then three, there are occasions when you get off your phone and it’s like you’re walking on clouds. On cloud nine. Much like right now.”
I wave my hand dismissively. “I’m not walking on clouds anywhere between here and cloud nine.”
“Totally blissy,” Giselle says, agreeing with Etta Jo.
“Swoony, after you texted with who we now know is none other than the one and only Declan Printz.” There, Etta Jo goes again with her eyebrows.
I flop back on Etta Jo’s plush, blue velvet couch. “Nope. This is what I imagine lying on a cloud is like. Those big, puffy cumulus ones.”
I sink a little deeper and close my eyes. Falling into the fountain flashes there like a high-definition recording. I imagine staying here for a while, letting my little inner troll take over and go full goblin mode, or some other fairytale beast with poor hygiene and a fierce chocolate cake habit.
When I blink my eyes open, they’re both staring at me.
“You can’t tell me there isn’t an itty-bitty—” Etta Jo starts.
“Teeny tiny,” Giselle adds.
“Sliver of attraction between you and Declan?”
I frown. “Swoony? Blissy? I don’t know what you’re talking about. No. That’s a ridiculous question. As for the first two text reactions, Etta Jo, you’re probably right, but the third is silly. “For the bajillionth time, Declan and I are only and always and forever friends.”
“Mmhm. Sounds like famous last words.”
“Speaking of famous. Guess who just messaged me?” Giselle flashes her phone and we squeal at fifty-seven’s text to Giselle about wanting to tackle her with strawberries and whipped cream.
With the spotlight off me for a moment, the word famous lodges in my chest and has a hard time going down, because Etta Jo is right about my response whenever I text my parents.
I go from a seconds-long high of elation like a little kid on the edge of the pool saying, Mom, Dad, watch me, to the plunge into the frigid water of our non-relationship as I remember where I stand in their lives.
Forget cloud nine, I’m at the back of the line as far as they’re concerned.
I haven’t seen or spoken to them in months, or has it almost been a year?
Usually, texting them is better because they’re so busy.
In fact, for my last birthday, their assistant phoned to wish me well on their behalf.
They were traveling, so they couldn’t connect.
Likely story. Still, I feel the need to do so.
There’s probably a deep psychological explanation for my desire to be seen and have their approval.
For a relationship. A family. That’s not too much to ask, is it?
While Etta Jo and Giselle discuss Garrison’s text, I type up a quick summary of the job opportunity in Concordia, asking my parents what they think. Then, in a fit of annoyance at myself for caring about their opinion when they’ve made no effort to involve me in their lives, I delete it.
From across the room, Etta Jo whispers. “Quick, scroll away. Scroll away. Don’t let her see it.”
“But it’s gone viral. She can’t avoid it,” Giselle hisses back.
“It’s bad enough that some creepy kid pulled her into the fountain. So, embarrassing. She doesn’t have to relive it along with millions of viewers.”
Forget clouds of bliss and elation. Nope, I just dropped through them and am in a free fall. Of course, my friends have the best intentions to shield me from the video. But the fact of it remains, and will forevermore, on the internet. A strong sense to flee rushes from my head to my toes.
Then I freeze in what feels like midair. If millions of people have seen my disastrous drop into the fountain, that means Declan will too. Perhaps he has.
Perspiration beads across my forehead. Could this get any more humiliating? I’m actually shocked he didn’t tease me about it in our brief text exchange—he and I tease each other about everything. It’s the nature of our friendship.
Sadly, the Orlando area is practically at sea level, so there isn’t a cave for me to hide in or a rock for me to hide under. Rumor has it, Space Mountain is the highest point, but no way am I heading back there. An overwhelming desire to run seizes me.
Thumbs hovering over the miniature keyboard on my phone, determination shoots through me and I tell my parents where I’m going, instead of asking for them to weigh in.
In the split second that I click send and the message goes from a white box to blue, a dense and foggy sense that I just sealed my fate and altered the course of my future flies through me like fast-moving clouds.
What does that look like? I don’t know.
Where is it? I’ve never been there.
Is this a huge decision? For sure.
But if Cinderella taught me anything, it’s time to be bold and daring as I leave today’s defeat behind me and persevere for my future.
I already had my dream stolen from me. There’s nothing else to lose. I’ve felt aimless since Sly drove off with my future, leaving me in the dust. It’s a cloud of humid dust that I can’t seem to wash from my skin.
I’m not elated like I’m on cloud nine, as Etta Jo suggested when I was done texting Declan. She’s been inhaling too many paint fumes. Rather, I’m resolved to take this leap into the unknown.
Wheee!
Here I go. Hopefully, my landing isn’t like plunging into a cold pool—or as hot as Orlando.
I tuck my phone in my pocket. No sense in waiting around for a reply from my parents—it might take another year. Not that they care.
“Of course, you should go with him on a scenic tour in a helicopter to the Florida Keys,” Etta Jo says.
“I’m not a big fan of flight,” Giselle says. “I prefer two feet on the ground.”
Interrupting, I say, “I’ll take the job.”
She and Etta Jo do a double-take.
“Really?”
“Seriously?”
“Yes,” I nod, feeling a little fluttery with nerves, but unwilling to go back on my decision.
Over the next few days, this is only reinforced when I call my parents and they don’t reply while I tie up loose ends and pack—not that I have much left and certainly nothing else to lose, especially now that the Cinderella Spill is officially viral.