by Douglas Wood
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Even though making lunch is supposed to be her sister’s chore, Maggie kicks off her boots, ditches her rain slicker and heads straight to the kitchen. She’ll have to cook the macaroni today.
She fills up the big pot with water, only spilling a little bit, and sets it on the blue flames. Pinch of salt. Then she climbs up on the sparkle-white counter, up to the cabinet’s top shelf to grab the rattling box of macaroni. She jumps to the floor, the chocolate-colored school uniform parachuting around her legs. She opens the flaps, digs out the cheese packet. Sets out the butter and milk. Everything is lined up, neat.
On tiptoes, she stares into the pot of cold, still water.
For Maggie, waiting is the hard part about macaroni.
Before she realizes, she is muttering the words as fast as she can, so that they spill over each other, just like Mother Conway taught them to do in school:
“ONE! You-shall-have-no-other-gods-before-me. TWO! You-shall-not-bow-down-to-any-carved-image-nor-nor-nor…any-likeness-of-anything-in-heaven-in-the-earth-nor-in-the-four-waters-surrounding-the-garden. THREE! …”
Maggie got an eighty-one on her Twelve Commandments memorization this morning. She and her best friend Sandy tied for highest grade in the class, but still, Maggie hates that eighty-one. She doesn’t have to take the retest on Monday, she wants to.
“…SIX! You-shall-not-kill-a-man-of-God. SEVEN! You-shall-not-commit-sexual-sins.”
On the test, Maggie got ahead of herself and did the ‘killing’ after the ‘sexual sins,’ instead of before. A stupid mistake. Stupid. She doubles back—
“SIX! Man-of-God. SEVEN! Sexual-sins. SIX! Man-of-God. SEVEN! Sexual-sins.”
Her skinny sister Lindsay stomps in, plops down at the kitchen table and flings a shoebox filled with markers, crayons, colored pencils, a small scissors and craft paper. Her blond bangs hide her face, dusting the page. She rubs and scrubs the crayon until waxy, magenta flakes form.
Lindsay got a forty-three on the test, lowest in their class. If she doesn’t pass the retest, she’ll have to give sacrifice over it. If she doesn’t pass by the end of third grade, it goes on her official California Ecclesiastical Record. And God reads that. (Satan reads it, too.)
“Forty-three percent? It’s shameful.” Mother Conway said. “Your father was on the TV last night reciting verse after verse, giving his all so he could get to be one of the Redeemed. But you can’t remember your commandments? Honestly, if you don’t do better everyone will think you’re just a little who-er. Is that what you want? Answer me.”
Lindsay’s face turned cherry red, her mouth trembled and Maggie thought her sister would lose it. But Lindsay didn’t cry. She shook her head and stuck her tongue out when Mother Conway turned her back.
If Mother Conway ever gave her the “Little Who-ers” speech, Maggie would definitely cry, but Lindsay just got mad. Maggie adds ‘getting mad’ to her list of ways they’re different. Sometimes people don’t even know the two of them are sisters, much less twins. Maggie’s five inches taller, with darker, curlier hair. And she’s older by seven important minutes.
“Mother Conway was saying it for your own good, to inspire you.” She hops up to sit on the countertop and checks for the first sign of boiling. Nothing.
Lindsay crumples up her paper and starts over.
Maggie says, “You just gotta remember: ONE! God is number one, so it’s ‘No gods before me,’ right? Okay. So, you’re not supposed to imagine two gods: Two! ‘No carved images.’ Two carved images, but what are their names? Three! ‘Name in vain—’”
“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” Lindsay rips her paper and sneers. “You’re so, so smart.”
Maggie leans over, stares into the steaming water. A few quiet minutes go by.
Lindsay’s the pretty one—that’s another way they’re fraternal. Maggie’s the big-old, smart one and who wants to be a smart girl? Nobody in the whole Nation Church.
The bubbles get bigger and come faster. Maggie watches until the pot boils and boils and boils. In one dump, in goes the boxful of pasta.
Whoosh! The water calms instantly. Like a miracle.
To a nine year-old Bookist Orthodox girl, there are miracles all around.