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Maureen is three.
As is the case with many three-year-olds, she has a deep affection for all that is either pink or shiny. Or both, which seems to be her absolute preference. But Mommy and Daddy, who are, after all, upper-class, aren't as amused by their daughter's latest obsession as she is. In fact, they wonder if perhaps she should already begin what Maureen calls "grown-up stuff" – in this case, learning her letters and numbers. Maureen can read, yes, but in her frenzy to get "the answer" right, she runs into trouble translating what she reads into words. Far from uncommon, particularly in children, this is a condition that ought not to be so scorned by Mommy and Daddy, but nonetheless, the Johnsons aren't the most communicative family. Maureen seems the oddball in that respect, in her hurry to express every word that pops into her mind.
In a family where people don't talk to one another, Maureen needs something to do, so she sits and plays with her dollies and stuffed animals and things that are pink and shiny. When ideas pop into her head, like the time she thought maybe it'd be cool to drink some of the colorful stuff in Daddy's glass bottles that taste like soda, only stronger, Maureen acts out her stories with dolls first. Then, after the happy ending – but never before – comes Maureen's daydreams about herself being the princess, and eventually, she'll just get up and do whatever it is she acted out with her dolls, even if the happy ending seemed forced and not really plausible in the Johnson world.
Maybe it's a mercy and maybe a curse, but for Maureen, anything can happen. Cliché as it is, the girl loves a good story, and little girls with dolls and time for themselves aren't really known to differentiate between fantasy and reality.
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Maureen is four.
She is forced one day into a frilly periwinkle dress, shiny white shoes, and a hair bow that makes her whole head hurt. She explains her problem to Mommy, who merely shrugs and says that nobody can be comfy all the time. Maureen pouts exaggeratedly, which of course causes that funny stuff on her lip to smudge all over her chin. Annoyed, Mommy reaches over and swipes at it hastily before turning back to the front seat of the car. In a sing-song voice, Maureen asks where they are going. Daddy replies that they are attending a brunch at the country club, and Maureen, satisfied that the afternoon will be completely dull and unpleasant, kicks his seat.
She isn't spoiled, per se, although it'd be far from shocking if she was. No, Maureen is simply unused to having to socialize. So when Mommy and Daddy unload the three children from the car, it is the youngest that is pouting, arms crossed over her chest, dress wrinkled and smudged with that icky lip stuff Mommy put on her. Immediately, she sets off at a run towards the shiny building that is the country club, which is unwelcoming but sparkly all the same. Of course, the nearly-entertaining appearance of the building dies down immediately when Maureen runs head-on into a silver-haired woman with a haircut taller than Maureen's whole body, almost. A huff and scoff later, the woman is gone, and Maureen sitting on the steps leading to the big double doors that Mommy and Daddy need a key to open.
Not everyone appreciates the little princess that is Maureen, apparently, and some days, it seems like nobody does.
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Maureen is five.
The best part of kindergarten, she finds, is that the classroom has more possibilities for dress-up than either home or the country club ever had. Delighted, she takes to experimentation. She tries on such things as fairy princess dresses and superstar outfits. It is the latter that she prefers, immensely so; at home, she has more than her fill of princess time, and to be perfectly honest, she finds it rather dull.
Another thing she enjoys about kindergarten is that, for the first time, she has the opportunity and the ability to socialize with children her age. Her siblings Lia and Gareth, being much older and far less pleasant than she, do not count, nor does two-year-old Wendy. But soon enough, Maureen finds that her classmates aren't little rays of sunshine either. After all, five-year-olds tend not to take too well to being hoarded by a pink-wearing little girl who takes charge in games of dress-up and never lets anybody else play the fun parts.
Maureen, however, is perfectly content with her status as the class outcast, because in all the movies Mommy and Daddy and Lia and Gareth have ever watched with her, never once did a person with the unhappy ending seem so bubbly as she does. As far into the future as Maureen can see, there doesn't seem to be any point of unpleasantness.
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Maureen is six.
Disciplinary troubles are not uncommon, per se, with first-graders, but with Maureen, Mommy and Daddy practically expect the first phone call home. They grow more and more skeptical and suspicious as November rolls around, and still no phone call has been placed to their home. At last, on November the eighteenth, Mommy leaves work early to pay a visit to Maureen's school. Sure enough, she discovers that the six-year-old has been wreaking havoc upon the class by pulling hair, fighting with the bigger boys (definitely a cause for concern; it takes a lot to get these boys into fights, considering the fact that their mommies all tell them never to hit people, especially girls), and calling out. It is, explains the teacher, definitely a plea for attention.
"Maureen gets all the attention she needs at home," Mommy insists, but Maureen would disagree, and Mommy even knows it. Lia, Gareth, and three-year-old Wendy soak up any attention that their parents have to offer, which admittedly isn't much; so little is left for Maureen that is hardly a surprise she craves attention so much. With a sigh, Mommy shifts in her seat and inquires, "What do you suggest I do?"
The teacher then goes into great detail, describing the many "simple but effective" ways in which parents can nurture their students' needs. "I understand that you're very busy," she tells Mommy calmly, "so much so that you weren't able to respond to my calls – "
"Calls?" interrupts Mommy. She knows for sure that she didn't have any calls from the teacher. Or did she?
The teacher sighs deeply. "You mean to tell me that the number Maureen gave me to reach you isn't correct?"
It certainly seems that way. But by the time Mommy gets home, the little girl is already asleep, and the issue forgotten by morning. Miscommunication of this sort surely does not make for a healthy relationship, but Mommy decides that sometimes it's best to just sigh and grumble one's way through things rather than making them more unpleasant; with that, she considers the subject officially dropped. For now, anyway.
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Maureen is seven.
She decides that when she grows up, she wishes to pursue a career in singing. In fact, the impatient child desires not to wait until she is an adult, but to begin her training as a vocalist immediately. A smirk on his pale face, Gareth informs her that he'll let her know when every other room is soundproofed, and then she can begin her singing. Maureen pounces on him then, and they have a playful little wrestling match that becomes less playful when Maureen's knee digs into a soft spot that "I kinda need if I'm ever gonna continue the Johnson line, little sis, so – off!"
So alone, Maureen makes her way up to the room she shares with Wendy, who is now four and sweet enough to sit on her bed calmly and listen to Maureen croon her way through the scales. In fact, croon isn't quite the appropriate word – squawk would be more fitting, because as a singer, or at least an aspiring one, Maureen is sadly lacking. She briefly considers acting instead when her song drives pregnant Mommy to tears, but shrugs it off upon hearing Daddy and Gareth's cackles.
Wendy buries her face in her pillow, desperate to just not hear it. Maureen, who by now is beginning to suspect that this whole thing is hopeless, merely stands in the center of the room and contemplates. If I can't sing, what's left? she wonders, and it's really unfortunate that all the good jobs have already been "taken" by her siblings and parents. The only thing left, she thinks, is a teacher, and as good with kids as she may be (considering that she is one), Maureen in no way wishes or is permitted to spend her life explaining to a group of children that one plus one is two, and two minus one is one, and d-o-g spells dog. Those are the educational basics Maureen has mastered at this point, and it seems silly to just go on to teach them to more kids when they won't know them until second grade anyway.
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Maureen is eight.
She realizes one day that most kids love – or at least like – their siblings.
It takes Maureen a moment to realize that this most definitely does not apply to her. Eleven-year-old Gareth, twelve-year-old Lia, and five-year-old Wendy are nice enough, but in no way does Maureen like them. And she definitely doesn't like the new one, Mommy's last (according to Daddy), barely three months old. They all make too much noise, especially three-month-old Danny, who wakes Maureen up in the middle of the night with his crying. Wendy, too, makes an inordinate amount of noise, and Gareth pokes people, which Maureen deems unacceptable unless she herself is the poker.
Lia is the only one who even remotely merits Maureen's attention, and only she because her hair is shiny, a liking that Maureen has still not gotten over, and she sometimes gives Maureen money for extra snacks in school. Plus, Lia is one of those people who smiles a lot, even when she doesn't like someone, kind of like Maureen herself except that Maureen's smiles make it really obvious when she dislikes somebody. Lia isn't like that, and Daddy says that's why she's probably going to be a lawyer someday. (Maureen asks him one day what she'll be, and Daddy tells her to ask again in two years. She marks it on her five-year calendar draped over her wall, displaying a picture of a purple unicorn for this bright month of May.)
Gareth, Daddy says, will grow up to be a doctor; Wendy will probably become a scientist, with her uncomprehensible liking for the chemistry set Maureen got for some birthday and never opened. Lia, again, will be lawyer, and Daddy suggests playfully that one day Danny may become an opera singer. Maureen only tugs on Daddy's sleeve and wants to know if she can be a singer, and as gently as possible, Daddy reminds her that Maureen can't exactly sing.
So middle child Maureen Johnson, talentless in her own mind, sits sulkily among a future doctor, lawyer, singer and scientist of suburban Long Island. And envy, blooming early in a child but just on time for a middle child, is why she does not like her siblings.
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Maureen is nine.
It isn't her decision to go to the city with Lia, but rather an obligation. Lia, being thirteen, wants to consider attending a high school in Manhattan, oblivious to the horrors of commuting from Long Island to Manhattan and back daily. Mommy and Daddy are of the opinion that should she go to the city with a sibling, they will not need to tag along, and Gareth immediately opts out in favor of a soccer tournament. Wendy is far too young, of course, and this leaves Maureen. Lia presses thirty dollars into her sister's hand, plucks the train tickets out of Mommy's fingers, and ushers Maureen out the door.
The train ride is uneventful; it is the actual arrival in the city that fazes Maureen, unsurprisingly. Her nose pressed against the glass, she gets her first glimpse of the New York City skyline and demands of her sister, "What is this?"
Laughing, Lia informs Maureen that it is Manhattan, and no, it isn't available for sale – that if it was, Mommy and Daddy's hands would be on it for Lia's birthday present before anyone else could so much as blink. With a laugh, the two sisters brush their way off the train, shouldering passengers with luggage and briefcases and avant-garde mobile phones. The minute Maureen steps outside, however, she sits on the curb, gazing out at the cars as they pass, sitting on her knees with her feet behind her with typical suburban concern for her safety.
"I'm gonna live here one day," she promises Lia. Big sister merely laughs and informs Maureen that she doesn't doubt it.
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Maureen is ten.
Maureen, whose fantasy-themed calendar has long been replaced by one featuring kittens, has by no means forgotten her father's promise two years ago. On the exact two-year anniversary of that day when she was eight, Maureen saunters down the stairs from her bedroom into the basement, where Daddy's mini-office is located. It is summertime, so, prepared for the worst, Maureen brings along a water bottle. Her hair loosely tied back in a ponytail, she considers herself perfectly relaxed and serene as she steps into Daddy's study. No pressure.
"Dad-dy," Maureen sing-songs, "what am I going to be when I grow up?"
Edward Johnson has never claimed to know everything. Certainly, his actions imply it at times – such as his inopportunely-timed negative comments with regard to just about every person's performance in their career – but never has he spoken his suspicion out loud. That is to say, although he may believe that he is all-knowing, he has never actually said it, and therefore it does not count. When the bubbliest ten-year-old he has ever seen asks him what kind of corporate drone she will grow up to be, Daddy is utterly bewildered. But he promised his daughter an answer, so with feigned certainty, he replies, "A producer."
Maureen sinks dramatically into one of the room's leather chairs. "But Daddy," she wails, "I don't wanna."
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Maureen is eleven.
The school is hosting a talent show, as all schools eventually do, and, convinced that she is the only sixth-grader among the masses of tap dancers and future lawyers that actually has talent, Maureen scrawls her name on the sign-up sheet, taking up the majority of the page. She has an "autograph" now, a signature practiced for the day when she is "famous." (Although Daddy has not yet relented in his insistance that Maureen should and will grow up to be a producer, she takes no heed of his words and continues singing in her bedroom, forcing Gareth to scream at her to please, please take the "dying animal" elsewhere.)
After creating an elaborate costume out of a golden leotard, rhinestones and sparkling "diamonds" intended for arts and crafts, Maureen sits on a stool in the bathroom as Mommy does her hair and Lia her makeup. When Maureen's caramel-colored curls fall around her shoulders beautifully and her face shines like the gold of her leotard, she is deemed ready for the performance. She briefly hugs her sister for what may be the first time in months before dancing onstage.
Well, Maureen is no better at singing onstage than she is at home, and Gareth, outfitted in a suit and seated in the fourth row, has to scrunch up his face in order to block out the horrible sound. Although Maureen goes where no sixth-grader other than her has yet – and remembers all the lyrics to her song – there is still the failing of the high note at the end. Although assured by Wendy that it sounded great yesterday, Maureen manages to crack on it. She does not even bother running backstage when this happens, and merely leaps off the stage and scampering into the bathroom. With a sigh, Lia follows, knowing that to comfort one's sister in such a situation is just about the best thing someone can do. Wendy comes along, but her words of "You did great" can not even compare to Lia's comforting words, promising other, better performances, where Maureen's leotard will be completed with a swirling skirt around it, billowing around her like an aura. Sufficiently lightened, Maureen returns to her seat, make-up smudged but no less delighted when she recieves an honorable mention.
It isn't the same as the first prize she had been aiming for, but it is something, and besides, she has Lia.
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Maureen is twelve.
Lia is having a sweet sixteen.
This is deeply offensive to Maureen, who has always been slightly biased towards the idea that only she should have elaborate birthday affairs, or just affairs in general; although Lia is nice and sweet and sometimes a pretty decent sister, Maureen feels that her having a party is just annoying, and four years in the future, it'll hinder Maureen's ability to be "original" when planning her own sweet sixteen – assuming she has one. Gareth, equally irritated by this whole thing, offers to take Maureen out for the night, stay over at a friend's house who has a sibling Maureen's age, and return in the morning. Mommy, Daddy, and Maureen agree, and Lia is greatly relieved, having long since feared that Maureen would interrupt the party with another attempt at singing. Wendy and Danny, however, are forced to stay for the party, and Maureen pressed her video camera into Wendy's hands, telling her to "use it well."
It is on this particular evening that Maureen realizes that she has never really spent quality time with her brother before. Danny, certainly, she has spent time with, often unnecessarily, and Wendy and Lia are prominent figures in her life. Gareth, however, has always seemed so focused on whatever he does holed up in his room that involves blasting music and stomping. Over dinner, which is paid for by Daddy's credit card (a temporary reward for Gareth's agreeability when it comes to taking care of Maureen), Maureen tries her best to get Gareth to divulge the secrets of his bedroom. Eventually, after consuming an inordinate amount of sugar, Gareth confesses his secret: that in the privacy of his room, he plays music and he dances.
Maureen could not be happier, and she explains to her brother what she does in her spare time: act. When he looks at her questioningly, an excited Maureen elaborates, "I used to sing, but now I do a little of that and most of the time, I act. Like I pretend to be a princess, or a witch, or an orphan on the city streets, or whatever. It's juvenile, but it's awesome."
Gareth grins at his sister, shrugs, and hands Daddy's credit card to the waiter. "What do you say we go back to Mike's and we try out this make-believe thing of yours?" he offers.
Maureen beams so brightly that, when Gareth blows out the candle on the table, the table remains brightly lit. The siblings depart, leaving Maureen with the warm feeling that is the residue of an evening well spent.
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Maureen is thirteen.
Okay, so sometimes she wants things that are a little hard to get.
When the eighth-grade prom rolls around, she has mixed feelings about it. Of course she wants to go, wants to wear the beautiful, sparkly dress that Mommy and Lia picked out for her, but she doesn't think that anybody likes her enough to want to attend with her. At least, nobody she knows. So the Sunday before the big event, she goes out walking, not just in her suburb, but in the neighboring town-that's-really-more-like-a-city. She sits in a small café, watching people enter and exit with coffee in their hands – ready to face the world.
A group of teenagers (plus one adult) exits from a building across the street and enters the tiny establishment that is Glen's Café. They station themselves at a table very close to Maureen's, enabling her to hear the conversation that leads her to understand that the group is a support group for homosexual, bisexual and questioning adolescents. On the way out, a single boy remains briefly, for just long enough time for his eyes to meet Maureen's and for her to pray that this kid is either bi or questioning, because he's just so good-looking. Even gay people can still like girls sometimes, right? When they're really, really good looking?
Maureen sidles up to the boy, shirt tight enough around her "assets" for him to know what he's dealing with. "This chair empty?" she asks with a smile.
Hey, she can hope, can't she?
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Maureen is fourteen.
It comes in a burst of her newfound adolescence; a talent, which has up until this point been a severe failure of hers, is now among her strengths.
Singing.
At first, the change is gradual. She loves singing, and always has; never before has she allowed her lack of skill in the area to dampen her enjoyment of it. So in her own mind, while belting out the words to the latest pop single, she is whatever singer makes the song famous, she is that person, and her voice is equally so. Even in her knowledge that yes, her voice cracks, and yes, she has trouble with high notes, in the heat of the moment, as she sings, Maureen barely notices any of it.
She doesn't notice it at first, but slowly, a breathy undertone creeps into her voice. Deep and soulful, it makes her words all the more meaningful, allowing Gareth to leave his bedroom door open while Maureen sings. After a whopping two weeks, her once-horrendous voice has blossomed into that of a real singer's, and, overjoyed, all Maureen can think to do is sing.
That's it. To celebrate, she doesn't steal a bottle of champagne from the fridge downstairs, or go out for dinner with her family. No, it isn't that kind of an occasion. All it calls for is a little display of her talent, and so she performs a little concert. Gareth, Wendy, Danny and Lia sit themselves down on her bed, and Maureen just sings.
Three hours go by before the first individual recognizes that she has somewhere to be, followed by two more, but Gareth stays the longest. Concluding her concert, Maureen wonders, "Where did that come from? How did I get so… good?"
Gareth shrugs. "Maybe you just had it in you all along."
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Maureen is fifteen.
Lia was once an artist, Maureen remembers. She would paint in her room and keep her creations in a locked drawer. But when college applications roll around, the paints are set aside – ignored are the colorful tools of Lia's self-expression, replaced by a stack of papers, a pen, and college insignias spread randomly around the house. Maureen learns them: Harvard, Yale, Brown, Princeton, NYU, Berkely, Boston… it seems Lia is aiming high. Her grades have always been above average, but when the acceptance letters start coming back, Maureen wonders if there might be something more important than grades that Lia has never noticed before.
As she finds that she is accepted to more and more colleges, Lia becomes more irritable, not at all like the cheerful disposition she usually possesses, and might be expected to possess even more of considering her status as an accepted college applicant. But no; rather, she is grumpy, and upon Maureen's frequent, perfectly ordinary requests to be taken into the city, Lia snarls at her sister and points out that there are things more important than going into Manhattan – like college, perhaps? Maureen, stung, seeks out the company of Gareth and Wendy instead, but keeps an eye on the sister who was so much more beautiful and pleasant before she sold out.
When Lia at last leaves for college, Maureen and her siblings breathe simultaneous sighs of relief, but it is short-lived; Gareth is up next, and being the brooding dancer he is, his behavior is unpredictable.
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Maureen is sixteen.
High school has always been dull. This is something that she merely knows, something she has understood since birth and never questioned. But when sitting with thirteen-year-old Wendy, whose goal is to be admitted into a school that'll just give her easy work until she graduates, Maureen finds that there's something more to life than just being bored all the time. Gareth, whose attitude toward life has improved significantly since he has been taking dance lessons (paid for with his own money, due to his fear of Daddy finding out and scorning his passion), is a prime example of this, as is Lia, who is back to her cheerful self now that she has human rights courses to entertain her during the day, and parties and clubs at night.
"I'm leaving," Maureen tells Danny one day, voice devoid of emotion. "I'm going into the city, and that's it." She has always adored drama, and merely leaves her younger brother in utter bewilderment as she scampers up the stairs to retrieve her long-packed bags. At her door, she meets Wendy and Gareth, each holding a bag and wearing a look that conveys something vaguely resembling pride.
"Hi," she greets them. "Look, I guess you've figured out where I'm going, 'cause nobody leaves Long Island to go anywhere but the city. Why? You must know that too. When? Right now." With an almost apologetic smile, she wraps a single arm around Wendy. "I'll call," she promises her sister, and plants a kiss on Gareth's forehead before promising him the same. "See you."
With that, she departs, and is never seen or heard from in Long Island again. A single note, left on the kitchen counter, is all the evidence of Maureen Johnson's presence in the upper-class Johnson household, and a few days later, even that is gone as well.