The Meaning of Maggie Read Online Free Page B

so far I was the only member so I had to represent every country at the same time. Of course I didn’t have time for love! I mean, what did love even feel like? Sure my pulse was all over the place but that seemed normal for the first day of school. And my palms did sweat when I saw him but maybe that was because my hands were super excited for my new school year pencils. I didn’t know if I felt like I was in love. Yet I didn’t have any scientific evidence to the contrary. What was I going to do?
    I thought about all the great love stories throughout history. Romeo and Juliet. Peanut butter and jelly. Mom and Dad. All of them fell in love when they were young just like me. My parents met when they were sixteen, which was only five years older than me and I was a mature eleven too. I took vitamins and read the paper and I owned stock.
    Maybe it was time for me to take a gentleman friend. But I had a lot of work ahead if I was going to make this happen. There was no way a cool kid like Clyde would like a girl like me. Sure, you could call me a lot of things: Gifted. Presidential. Genius. But I was far from cool. To be honest, being cool had never really interested me. But now, I needed to get cool FAST. And there was only one person I knew who could make me cool: Dad.
    Dad and I had only talked about boys once before when he said something about birds and bees and thenhe told me it was just natural and I asked what was just natural and he said s-e-x and I’d freaked out, run to my room, slammed the door, and watched PBS for three hours just so I could feel wholesome again. Hopefully, the conversation about Clyde would go better.
    So just as the five o’clock news ended and just before the six o’clock news began, I walked into the living room, cleared my throat, and swallowed my fear.
    â€œDad?”
    He answered without looking away from the TV. “You can’t have any money.”
    â€œI don’t want any money.” I took an Oreo from the stash next to him, twisted it open, and gave him half. It was the cream side too—our favorite.
    â€œThe cream side? This must be serious. What’s going on, Mags?”
    I confessed how I thought I
might
be in love with this new boy named Clyde who looked like an Outsider, cute like Ponyboy, but mysterious like Sodapop. Who scribbled pictures of guitars and airplanes in his notebook and on his tennis shoes. Oh and he was really into Neil Young, just like Dad. Or at least into Neil Young enough that he would write his name on his shoe. Why would he do that? Mom would kill me if I wrote on my shoes.
    Dad interrupted. “Whoa whoa whoa. Maggie, you’re breaking my heart—”
    He understood!
    â€œI know! I can’t believe it either. I’m in love!”
    â€œI can’t believe you don’t understand why he’s into Neil Young.”
    WHAT!
    â€œDad! You’re totally missing the point!”
    â€œCalm down, I get it. But first things first. Push me over to my records.”
    I locked his wheels in front of the stereo and handed him a giant stack of records. He thumbed past a naked lady holding an airplane, past a blimp on fire, past a “Greetings from Asbury Park” postcard, and finally stopped on a sun behind the words
Harvest Neil Young
. His fingers were sleepy, so I pulled the record from the sleeve, set it on the turntable, and lowered the needle. There was a loud crackle, a pop, and a few more rice krispy noises. Then an acoustic guitar met a harmonica and made music.
    As we listened, I felt my heart rate lowering and before I knew it my head was bobbing with Dad’s. That night, I understood Neil Young. I understood why he was on the bottom of Clyde’s sole. And I’ll never forget when he sang softly about being a miner searching for a heart of gold.
    On the third song, Dad turned Neil down and lifted my chin up. “Okay, Maggie. Number one. Keep that chin up. Boys like