The Unraveling of Maggie Rose (Part One)

    You ask me how to describe my hometown, and yet all you need to know about it is already engraved in its name: Grischutes. It’s French for Gray Falls, and gray is how I would describe it. Boring. Monotonous. It wasn’t a place of happiness or sadness, a place of prosperity or failure, but simply a town of morose being. The sky wasn’t blue very often, and when it was, the thick, spindly trees would somehow conspire amongst each other to keep the town in a dank, perpetual darkness. The people weren’t much better either.

     Of course, I never spoke much to the locals. My family largely kept to themselves, for reasons that I’m sure you’re now aware of. We were the oldest family in the town, which was largely evident due to our French last name and looming mansion at the top of pic d'étoiles, named for its view of the night sky. Of course, if this wasn’t evidence enough, one only had to look at our extensive family graveyard to agree that our family was the first settlement at Grischutes. My family always adamantly stated that we were American through and through, but they always grimaced in distaste at the things that the very common locals of Grischutes enjoyed, so I was never allowed to talk to them much. You now might begin to understand what it was like to grow up with these people. They were all hypocritical, manipulative dictators, and yet, I have barely even scratched the surface.

     I can read your expression. Yes, I did hate my family. I still do. Of course I love them in the way that one can only love the people that made them, but beyond that, I hate them. They are the reason why I’m sitting in your chair today. Well, not really. I walked myself in here of my own free will, as you know. I like to think I’m sitting here for justice, because I believe that there is still good in the world-and, inside of me. Really though, I just want to tell someone else. Maybe it will lighten this terrible, terrible burden of knowing.

     It happened when I was seventeen, a long time ago. I was a stupid teenager still, but I suppose this time around my rebellious nature did me some good. It allowed me to meet one of the most beautiful people I’ve ever met in my life. Her name was Maggie Rose.

     You’re about to ask a question. The story is already painful enough without you stopping me every second to grill me with questions. Please just let me tell you what happened. Now then, where was I.

     Maggie Rose was by far the greatest thing that had happened to me in my entire life. I can still remember what she looked like the first day I saw her. I was at the Public Library; a place I was forbidden to go, but one I still regularly went to anyways.

     Sometimes I wonder if my life would have been better if these events hadn’t taken place- if I had just stayed home and obeyed my parents, if I had never gone to that library at all-but I realize that a life without seeing Maggie would be no life worth living.

     That day she had her strawberry blonde hair pulled back at the nape of her neck. She was reading something, and her dark green eyes were focused intently on the words in front of her. Her friends sat beside her, talking excitedly about something or other. They were all dressed in the maroon shirts and khaki skorts of the Grischutes school uniform. I don’t remember their names. I just remember wishing the girl with her small freckled nose in her book would look at me with that type of interest.

     I wasn’t handsome by any means, but I wasn’t ugly either. I was, however, too socially awkward (as most teenagers are) to approach a pretty girl who was surrounded by her friends. I had given up on my chances and sat down with a book when they approached me.

     My family was very reserved; this meant, that however much my family disapproved and disliked the locals, we became a sort of urban legend amongst the folks of Grischutes. We became known for two things. We all had the same platinum blonde hair and gray eyes, and none of us were ever seen in the town. So visiting a small town library where everyone knew everyone, a stranger with platinum blonde hair and gray eyes could mean only one thing.

     I hate my naturally white blonde hair. I’ve dyed it several different colors over the years. I guess it was a way of trying to erase my lineage. I should be grateful to my stupidly platinum colored hair though, because, in a way, it brought me Maggie.

     “You’re one of them, aren’t you?” These were the first words that she spoke to me, and I regret how true they are every single day.

     “What do you mean?” I responded, trying to keep calm. I had never actually spoken to any of the locals, except to check out library books, and the librarian was a kind old woman of few words and a nervous disposition, so it worked out splendidly for both of us. She didn’t ask questions about my family, I didn’t ask her about her day. So when Maggie stood before me with her giggling school friends, it took all my willpower to not immediately turn tail and run.

     “I mean, you have the looks. You’re from pic d'étoiles, aren’t you?” Mother would have said she had good pronunciation.

     “Good pronunciation.” I spoke unthinkingly. Maggie crossed her arms in front of her.

     “Of course I’ve got good pronunciation. I’ve lived here my whole life, just like you.” She began to turn away, and I realized I had offended her.

     “Wait!” I hastily stood up from my chair. She turned around, still eyeballing me in distaste. I tried to recover. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just that my mother’s big on pronunciation, so it was the first thought that popped into my head.” I realized I was blabbering like an idiot, so I sat back down in my chair. My face grew hot. I didn’t expect her to come back, but she sat down across from me and put her chin in her hands.

     “Apology accepted.” she said. She twisted my stack of books that I had set in front of me around so she could read the titles. I, confused and slightly nervous, simply sat there awkwardly until she looked back up at me. Her friends eyed me like I was an artifact in a museum, but less like I was a cool historical relic, and more like I was a stuffed animal head.

     “So,” Maggie began, “What’s it like up there?” I stared at her from across the table, slowly wishing that I had stayed at home and away from pretty girls.

     “Up where?” I said, and then, realizing my mistake, said, “Oh. No, wait.” She and her friends laughed, and I sank down farther in my chair.

     “Well, you’re not the brightest then, are you? Or am I just making you nervous?” She teased me. I stiffened, and yet, I couldn’t get my shaking legs to move.

     “I’m not used to talking to people, especially not when they’re looking at me like I’m some kind of science experiment.” I said, turning my pile of books back around to face me in one cold, crisp motion. I picked up my books and stood up from the table to leave. I glanced at Maggie’s stunned expression before turning to check out my books.

     The librarian had just handed me my books when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around to see none other than the freckled girl who had questioned me earlier. I felt myself flush. She opened her mouth to say something, but I cut her off.

     “Please leave me alone.” I turned around and walked out of the library. I had barely made it down the sidewalk before I heard the girl yelling from behind me.

     “Wait! I’m sorry! Please come back!”

     To this day, I’m still not sure why I turned around.

     She stood several feet away from me. It only then occurred to me to notice how tall she was. She was taller than I was, and, although I was short, she still seemed shockingly tall. Her long legs quickly spanned the gap between us.

     “Hey,” she said, and put her hands in her pockets, “I’m sorry about that back there. I was just teasing you. I didn’t realize I’d actually offended you.” Her apology was genuine, and I suddenly felt the desperate need to keep her around.

     “I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did. I’m just not used to talking to people outside of my family, really.” I peered over my stack of books at her. She smiled at me, and I found myself smiling back.

     “Say, what’s your name then?” she asked, and I told her.

     “My name’s Maggie Rose,” she replied, then looking at my huge stack of books, asked, “Hey, you want some help carrying those?”

     I didn’t, but I didn’t want her to leave. I said yes. Taking about four of the books, she turned towards the direction of my house. She turned around after she realized I hadn’t moved and gave me a questioning look.

     “We can’t go that way,” I said, “But I know a shortcut through the woods-”

     “Shortcut through the woods?” She raised her eyebrows. “That’s not creepy at all.” I blushed, realizing what she meant.

     “No-I mean,” I took a deep breath, “I’m not really allowed to come into town, is all. So I take a shortcut through the woods, so Mother and Father don’t find out. You don’t have to come if you don’t want to, I just can’t go that way.” Maggie Rose stared at me for a long time, and I didn’t realize until the next day that she was pitying me. She finally shrugged.

     “Nah, I’ll go with you. Got nothing better to do, anyways. So, where’s this shortcut?” Relieved, I led her behind the library to the wall of forest trees. She followed me to a small, overgrown path, that hadn’t been used for many years.

     “This is it.” I said. She looked at the path in concern.

     “This is your shortcut? How haven’t you gotten bit by a snake or something yet? It’s practically part of the forest.” I laughed when she said that.

     “I don’t know,” I replied, “Luck, or something?” We walked in silence for a little ways.

     “So your folks,” she began after a while, “They’re pretty strict, right?” I grimaced at the inevitable topic of conversation.

     “Sure,” I said sarcastically, “You could say that.” I heard her laugh behind me.

     “Wow, that bad, huh?” she said. I smiled thinly, but appreciated her humor.

     “Yeah.”

     The path slowly inclined, and we had to work harder to maintain our pace. We were both out of breath by the time we got to the top.

     “Wow,” Maggie Rose said as she stretched her arms, “That was a workout. So, this is the infamous mansion, huh?” I nodded, catching my breath.

     “The back of it, anyways. The stone wall was only a few feet away from the trees, and ivy crawled and creeped across it as if it were apart of the wall itself. My bedroom window was large and high up, but a thick tree branch was close enough to it that I could climb it and enter without having to go through any doors. That was the method I always used when I would leave to go see Maggie.

     “Hold on one second,” I said, and handed her my books, “I’m going to have to go up first so we can bring the books up.” I quickly scaled the tree and crawled across the branch and through my window. I then dropped down a basket that I had attached to some old bedsheets of mine.

     “Put the books in there.” I told her, and she did. I pulled them up and inside my room, a skill I had gotten remarkably good at. Setting the books on my bed, I stuck my head back out the window. I had forgotten how I was going to get Maggie Rose up into my room.

     “Can you climb the tree?” I asked her. She shrugged.

     “I don’t know,” she said, “It’s getting kinda late. I should probably get back home.” My heart sank, and she must have realized this, because then she said, “Maybe tomorrow though!” I immediately began grinning like an idiot.

     “Can you make it back through the path on your own, or do you need me to walk you back?” I called down.

     “I can do it,” she said, “Hey-see you at the library tomorrow?” I nodded.

     “Tomorrow!” I yelled down. She turned back into the woods, but I stood at my window for a long time after she left.

     I’m not answering any of the questions that you’re burning to ask me, I know. I realize that I’m telling this story slowly. I just need you to understand-please, please try to understand-how much I loved her. She was the light of my life in every single way. I just need you to understand why I have to tell the story like this. It’s not for you. It was never for you. It’s an explanation to her.