Molly McGinty Has a Really Good Day

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.