Margo: 6: Finally, the Finale

The door to the post office gave its familiar jingle as Margo stepped inside and headed to the Manley box.  Key in hand, Margo's nerves came alive.  Margo had visited the post office every day for the last two weeks hoping to receive some word about the contest.

Mrs. Chooka, the local post master, had noticed Margo's dependable visits a few days in and had questioned her.  "Margo, dear, are you expecting something important?  You've been here every day for the past three days."

Margo had smiled, nodded her assent, and then quickly left.  The one person in the world she would never share personal information with was Mrs. Chooka.  A busier body was yet to be seen in their small town.  She knew everything about everybody and told everyone she came across everything she knew.  Whether they wanted to hear it or not.

Standing there today, though, Margo said a silent prayer of hope and inserted the key.  A stack of envelopes sat angled in the cubbyhole.  At least there was mail today.  The most horrible feeling in the world was to open the box and see an empty black hole.  Margo grabbed the small bundle and did a quick flip through to see if she had received anything.

Her breath caught.  There it was.  A letter.  Addressed to her from the contest committee.  Glancing over her shoulder, Margo noticed Mrs. Chooka giving her the eye.  She could not open the letter here. What if it was a rejection letter?  Bursting into tears in the post office would be the absolute worst.  Besides the fact her emotional outburst would be spread all over town by midafternoon.  As if Margo needed that kind of attention.

Margo quickly locked the box back up, held the stack of mail to her chest, and made a beeline for the door.  Luckily, a customer walked in needing Mrs. Chooka's help so Margo's escape went unnoticed.

Reaching the side walk, Margo's vision narrowed and her feet moved her forward to safety; her house.  She would open the letter there in the privacy of her own bedroom.  Regardless of the outcome, she wanted to be alone to either rejoice or mourn.  Or wail and caterwaul.

Margo gripped the letter tightly in her hand.  It was a small, white envelope but to Margo it felt as if it were the deed to her very own castle.  Heart pounding, breath coming and leaving quickly, Margo was lost in the moment.  Her stomach turned over and her brow began to perspire.  Feeling a bit light-headed, Margo slowed down a bit and took deep breaths.  The last thing she needed to do was pass flat out on the street and make a scene.

Margo reached the edge of town and the Manley farm was easily seen up the road.  She was almost there.  It had been six weeks since she had mailed off her story.  Six very long weeks of waiting.

At last, she made it up the porch and quietly opened the screen door.  Its usual squeak was only slightly subdued and Margo prayed her mother would not notice her arrival.  She needed to be alone.

Tiptoeing up the stairs Margo entered her bedroom, closed the door, and went to her desk.  She sat for a moment staring at the envelope.  Her mind began to race and her hands began to tremble.  This was it.

Margo pulled out the letter and began to read.  The very first word her brain managed to translate caused Margo to put her hand to her mouth.  It couldn't be true.  Finishing the letter, Margo slumped back in her chair.  She felt as if every bit of energy had simply drained out of her body and she weighed absolutely nothing.

Margo's eyes drifted back to the first word she had read and her face exploded with pure emotion.  'Congratulations.'  She had won.

________________

Mrs. Manley froze.  The pounding of footsteps on the stairs was enough to rattle the entire house. It sounded as though a herd of wild animals had decided to move in upstairs and were coming down for dinner.  When she heard her daughter yelling her name, Della almost died in her dishwater.

"Mama! Mama! MAMA!"

Della had never heard her daughter scream out in such a way and feared something awful had happened to her.  Racing towards the sound, Della called out, "What! What is it?"

Margo's face was lit up like a Christmas tree.  She was waving a white piece of paper around and jumping up and down.

"Margo Manley, you scared the life out of me!  What's all this commotion about?"

"I won, Mama! I WON!  I won the writing contest!"

It took a second for Della to process what her daughter was telling her, but when she did, Della began her own dance of victory.   Hollering at the top of her lungs, she grabbed Margo and spun her around.  They laughed and hugged and pretty much wore themselves out celebrating.

"There's more, Mama. There's more."

Margo began to read, "'We would like to invite you to read your winning story to the entire faculty and student body during the award ceremony and presentation of your scholarship.'  Can you believe it, Mama?  And they invited you and Daddy to come and even sent vouchers for travel."

Della Manley had to sit down.  This was just too much excitement for her to handle.  She flopped down in a nearby chair and began to fan herself.  Her little girl had won!  She was so proud of her daughter.

"Well, I think we should celebrate!  Call your father and tell him to come home.  We've got to plan ourselves a trip to Boston!"

Margo squealed and ran to the phone.

________________

The train ride itself was an adventure for the Manley family.  Having never been as far east as Boston, the Manley's were captivated with the scenery passing by their window.  After eight hours of rocking back and forth and stopping as needed, the train pulled into Boston around dusk and a cab was hailed to take them to their hotel accommodations provided by the college. 

The hotel was near the college and Margo had caught a glimpse of the campus in the cab ride over.  Chills of excitement had ran down her arms.

Entering the lobby, the Manley's carried their luggage to the front desk and Mr. Manley began the check in process.  Margo noticed a group of young people piled together nearby.  The clerk at the counter suddenly let out a gasp and a smile filled his face.

"Well, if it isn't the Manley's," he said.  "We have been anxiously awaiting your arrival.  And you must be Margo."  The Manley's stared wide-eyed at each other, then at Margo.  Even hotel clerks knew about their daughter's success.  

The clerk noticed the family's surprise.  "Don't worry, the only reason I knew to expect you was because that group of kids over there have been hanging around my lobby since this afternoon waiting for you to arrive.  They are very excited to meet you." 

After he finished checking them in, the clerk caught the attention of one of the young men and waved him over.  

"The Manley family has just arrived; I know you've been waiting for them."

Margo began to sweat and waited for her parents to finish their polite greetings.  The young man turned to her and stuck out his hand.

"I'm Davey, you must be Margo."

Margo slipped her hand into his and then quickly pulled it out again.  The concept of having to interact with people her own age had not entered Margo's head.  She was not prepared for this. She knew she would have to speak with the contest committee and possibly the faculty, but not with the students.  Her eyes remained downcast and Margo just stood there in awkward silence.  

And then Davey did the unthinkable.

"Margo, my friends and I would really like to get to know you.  We're all literary majors and are excited about hearing your story tomorrow.  We thought we could take you around town and show you the sites.  Give you a good Boston welcome.  If it's okay with your parents, that is."

The Manley's nodded their approval and then looked at Margo.  Davey didn't realize he was asking the impossible.  Margo would barely go visit her own relatives let alone go out with a bunch of people she had never met before.  They waited for Margo's response.

Margo had stopped breathing.  She had absolutely forgotten how to inhale and exhale.  He had to be kidding.  She raised her eyes and looked into his face.  He wasn't kidding.  He wasn't kidding at all.  He really wanted her to join them.  And what's more, he was truly looking at her.  And her looks didn't scare him away.  

Warmth bloomed slightly in Margo's cheeks.  Today had been full of new adventures, why not one more?  This was, after all, the beginning of her brand new start and she was determined to give it her best.  

Margo smiled a bit and shook her head yes.  Davey assured her parents they would have her back at the hotel in a few hours and took Margo's arm to lead her over to his awaiting friends.  

Della's jaw dropped with shock.  Walter could see the words struggling to form in her mouth and he knew if she ever got them to come together, the whole town would hear them.  Not wanting to embarrass his daughter, Walter quickly ushered his wife out of earshot towards their room.  He prayed the hotel walls were thick. 

______________

Margo stood behind the podium, the microphone staring her in the face.  The ceremony had been wonderful so far.  She had been awarded a scholarship as a literary major and the dean of the school had congratulated her personally on her writing ability.  Her story was even to be published in a short story form and available for the public to read.  Margo's heart was completely full.  

And last night had been a night of all nights.  Everyone in the group had been so kind to her; they were genuinely eager to get to know who she was.  Conversations centered around appreciated authors, books, and writing styles.  Laughter was abundant and Margo even caught herself relaxing a bit and cracking a joke or two.  She was having fun.  She was actually having fun.  It had been like a dream.   Margo had prayed she would never wake up.  

Clearing her throat, Margo looked out at the audience and took a deep breath.  She began speaking her thanks to those on the committee, in the audience, and finally her parents, her voice shaking at first but then growing stronger.  Her mother was beside herself with pride, grinning from ear to ear.  Her father had a small smile on his face and his eyes were moist.

Softly, a calm crept over her shoulders.  "My story is about the average and the every day.  It's about all of us, I suppose.  I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.  It is from my heart."  

All eyes were on Margo as she began to read.

"'Her face was unfortunate.  Bland and bleak in all its descriptions, it was a face only a mother could love....'"

THE END

Margo: 5: Worry & Waiting

Dinner was delicious and dessert devoured.  Margo excused herself after helping to clean the kitchen and retreated to her room.  She had to get down to business.  She had to start writing.  Ideas filled her head and she wanted to write them all down before she forgot them. 

Knowing she had two months to send off her story was not a comfort to Margo.  She gave herself a new deadline.  Two weeks to write the draft, one week to edit, and another week to forget about it and take a breather.  Margo found it always helped to lay aside her writings for a bit of time and allow her mind to wander away from the story line and its characters.  Reading a story after a resting period never failed to show Margo errors she had made and it gave her a good distant perspective on the quality of the read.  No sense in submitting a story that bored herself.  The last month would be her safety net.  Margo wanted to make sure her story was mailed and received weeks before the actual deadline.  

Today was Thursday.  Her two weeks of drafting would begin tomorrow morning bright and early.  School would be an inconvenience she would fit in around her writing schedule.  Margo's brain slipped into a devious gear.  She wondered if she could fain sickness for the next three weeks.  Her father would probably fall for whatever ailment she concocted but she knew she wouldn't get past her mother's sixth sense for more than a day.  Being sick in the Manley house included either having a fever or vomiting.  If her mother didn’t have either one of those to go on, well then, sickness had obviously been imagined.

Margo quickly gave up the idea of faking sickness.  It would be too much trouble to worry about and her focus had to remain on her story.  Holed up in her bed all day trying to write would be extremely difficult.   Like always, school would have to be endured.  

____________________

Four days into writing, Margo's brain did the unimaginable.  It went completely blank and for two long days, writer's block took over.  Margo would begin to write, but before she got halfway through a paragraph the topic would dissolve.  It was as though she had summed up the entire thought in two sentences and no more could be said about it.  Margo could and had written pages and pages about the most insignificant things; words had never left her.  Never.  Until she needed them!

The few pages she had written were read over and over again, with hopes that the rhythm of the words would somehow kick her brain back into proper functioning order. It did not help.  She stared at her bedroom walls.  Shot wads of paper into a waste basket.  Read through her thesaurus.  Nothing was helping and Margo began to panic.  By day three of her 'blackout', Margo was a bundle of anxiety.  She had to get help.    

The evening was quiet and dinner had been over for an hour.  Margo knew that by now her father had settled into the den, his quiet sanctuary.  Settled in a back corner, the den was probably the quietest place in the house.  The floor, covered with thick rugs, offered insulation against noises and noise makers.  Della Manley topped the list of noise makers.  Bookcases lined one wall while a love seat and one reclining chair occupied the opposite.  A small lamp and radio sat on a table near the chair.

Margo stuck her head in the den and looked at her father.  Settled in his recliner, the day's paper in hand, Walter Manley was in his own blissfully quiet world.  This is often how Margo pictured her father: slippered feet in the air and a large white square of the daily news shielding his head and torso.  His hands were the only thing you could really see of him.  Once coarsened with manual labor, his hands had softened a bit over time.  After eighteen years of cleaning and stocking shelves at the local co-op, Walter gladly accepted a management position six years ago.  It was an achievement the whole family was proud of.

Margo loudly cleared her throat.  She hated to bother him during his quiet time but she was desperate.  Lowering the paper a tad to peak over, Walter looked to see who was seeking his attention.  He smiled at his daughter.  She queried if she could join him and his assent led her to take a place on the love seat.

"What do you have there?"  Margo had her writing materials in hand and an anxious look on her face.  

"Papa, you know I'm writing a story.  It's what I have written so far."  The look on Margo's face betrayed her worry to her father.  

"So why do you look like you have just been asked to make a speech in front of the entire town?"   

Margo wobbled out a small smile and explained her fears.  She was already behind her writing schedule and if she couldn't finish her story, she had no chance to win the scholarship.  Her shoulders were tight with the heavy burden she had placed upon herself.  

Folding the newspaper and returning the recliner to its original position, Walter Manley leaned toward his daughter and frowned, a concerned look on his face.  "Well, that sounds serious now, doesn't it?"

A tear slipped from Margo's eye and she sniffed as she wiped it away.  His daughter's display of worry was troubling.  Realizing she had come to him for help, Walter would do his best to save Margo from the dreary cloud that hovered so closely.

Walter turned on the radio.  The sweet rhythmic sounds of the blues filled the quiet room.    The crooner's voice, slow and mellow, sang about his woes and how he would leave them all behind him.  Margo listened to the music and felt a bit of tension leave her body.  She would never understand the power music could have over a wearied soul.  It was like ice slowly melting under the warmth of the sun.  

"May I have this dance?"  Her father had stood up and reached his hand out to her, waiting.  

Margo's eyes widened a bit and she looked up at her father.  He was serious. A smile was on his face and his hand was already reaching for hers.  She stood slowly, smiled sweetly, and put her hands into her father's.  Dancing was not an activity the Manley's did often so their father-daughter dance was more of a sway back and forth.  It was enough. 

"Margo, you have got yourself all worked up over this story.  You need to just breathe for a minute.  You don't know what the future holds."  Walter knew his daughter's hopes were in more than just winning a contest.  He quietly reminded her where her hopes should belong.

"The Lord knows, Margo, the Lord knows.  You just need to trust Him."

Margo's head dipped forward, resting lightly on her father's chest.  Her shoulders dropped low releasing days of pent up tension.  Her father was right.  She had worked herself into knots over this story, placed her entire future into its success.  No wonder her brain had hit the off switch.

The song ended and an announcer started pitching the latest advancements in hair regrowth.  For the first time in days, Margo laughed and then her father joined in.  The conversation at dinner that evening had been centered around their banker's surprising new head of hair.  Toupees should never make a sudden appearance.  They are disarming and create either fits of inappropriate laughter or the most awkward eye-averting conversations.  Della's quip for the night had been, "Go bald or go home!" 

Margo hugged her father and thanked him.  Gathering her story in her hands, she quietly left the den as he father returned to the paper.  All was well.

___________________

Standing in front of the mailbox drop, Margo's hands began to sweat.  This was it.  It was time to send off her story.  The last few weeks had flown by so quickly.  She was truly happy with the final results; the story just seemed to flow together once her writer's block had ended.  

Margo slipped the envelope into the slot, exhaled deeply, and opened her hand.  Dropping into the blue metal bin of the postal service, her story began its journey.  All Margo could do was wait.  

Margo: 4: Nonsense

Della Manley was a good, God-fearing woman.  As faithful as the sunrise, Della believed in being a Christian all the time, not just when it was convenient.  As members of the full-gospel church for generations, the entire Manley clan were proud pillars of the assembly.  Church attendance was not an option.  Come Sunday, the whole family took their pew.

Sunday's were busy for Della.  She was either up early cooking for a potluck held after service, whipping up a cake for a bake sale, or devoting her afternoon to special music practice.  And did Della love to sing.  Her loud and booming voice would bounce off every wall and ceiling tile in the small church creating a cocoon of sound.   The choir director, Brother Landers, thanked the good Lord every day that Della could sing on key.  To try and overcome a roaring caterwaul would have been more than his nerves could handle.

As spirited as Della was at home, her flair for life was often magnified at church.  Especially when the Spirit got to moving.  The full-gospel church believed in movement and Della liked to move.  Heaven help the errant child who should stray from their mother's side to crawl under pews and land near Della's shouting shoes.  Watching out for possible victims of Della's worship was a burden the entire church silently took on themselves.

The pastor's sermon last Sunday had struck a chord with Della.  The message had concerned a man named Korah who had decided to rebel against Moses' leadership.  God didn't take too kindly to anyone messing with Moses, the leader He had put in charge, so He took care of Korah and the hooligans that followed him.  Fire from heaven came first and later the earth opened and swallowed them whole.  And if that wasn't enough, God sent a plague that wiped out thousands more.  It was apparent to Della that the Lord didn't put up with nonsense.  Della figured if the good Lord didn't have to put up with it then neither did she.

Which was why she was now hollering out her front door and giving out a most descriptive blessing.  Della would never curse at her enemies, but she definitely believed in blessing them.  She would bless them into bankruptcy, a cast, or into the next state with a job transfer.  God had slayed thousands of Israel's enemies. As long as Della didn't kill anyone, surely God would be on her side.

"You're a scoundrel! And dishonest!  I don't know how you show your face around this town!"  Della was in rare form.  Face flushed and mouth trembling, Della looked as though she were about to fly out of the house and put a whipping on the Schwan's delivery man.

Poor Mr. Needly.  Having been the Schwan's delivery man for the past twenty-seven years had mostly been a pleasure for him.  He enjoyed traveling around his state and getting to meet all kinds of people.  Sure, every once in a while there would be folks who were upset or had a problem, but Mr. Needly's slow and gentle manner was usually enough to ease the situation and calm all upset parties down.  Except there was no pleasing Della Manley.

Mr. Needly walked back to his truck, shook his head, and waved farewell to the Manley house.  He would definitely not be returning.

Margo stepped up behind her mother, who was still giving the poor man a tongue lashing, as Mr. Needly drove off.

"Mama, what in the world is wrong?  What happened?"

"What happened?  I'll have you know we've been deceived for months!"  Della slammed the front door and marched into the kitchen.  Whenever she was upset or agitated, baking seemed to calm her down.

Margo followed her mother, knowing instinctively there would be a fresh dessert for dinner tonight.  

"But that's Mr. Needly. He wouldn't hurt a fly."

Della stood gripping the kitchen sink.  She began taking slow breaths to calm herself; the last thing she needed was her blood pressure to start acting up.

"Then why for the last six months have we never been able to get a jar of honey from him?"

Mr. Needly delivered Schwan's frozen goods for several counties.  His extended route took him near Pritchard's Chicken and Honey Bee Farm.  Mr. Needly had managed to work out a deal with Ed Pritchard.  He would carry the Pritchard's goods with him on his delivery route and sell what he could for a small percent of the profit.  It was a good plan for both parties and had general success.

"I'll tell you why!"  Della was still red faced.  "Mr. Needly just informed me he changed his route about six months ago and now his first stop coming into town is always at the Fulgate's farm.  That Amy Fulgate makes a point to buy every one of his jars of honey.  She knows full well our house would be the next logical stop on Needly's route and that I have always bought my honey from Mr. Needly.  She does it for spite and he just lets her bat her little eyes at him and he hands over every jar he has.  It's a bunch of nonsense!  Well, I let him know what was going on and gave him a piece of my mind about it.  He had the nerve to act like he didn't know what I was talking about.  Men!"

Margo had to hide her smile.  Amy Fulgate was rather a temptress.  Her husband worked on their farm from dawn to dusk while she tended house and their five children.  Any male who happened to stop by their farm ended up on the receiving end of Mrs. Fulgate's advances.  Attention was what she was after and she had schooled herself well in how to receive it.  About a year ago, while in town, Della Manley had loudly rebuked Amy Fulgate for flirting with Mr. Manley.  That was all it took to drive a wedge between the matrons of the two farms.

Margo could not reply to her mother's logic or argument.  It would do no good.

Della exhaled loudly, shut her eyes for a minute, and whispered words came from her lips.  Prayer changes things and it always managed to change Della.  Opening her eyes, she smiled at Margo and asked what kind of dessert Margo wanted for dinner.  Just like that, the tirade was over.  A spring tornado moved slower than the moods of Della Manley.

Margo grinned and suggested chocolate cake.  "Guess what, Mama?"

"All this guessing you have me do.  You would think I could see the future.  What?"

"I know what I'm going to write about!  It came to me upstairs a minute ago.  I'm nervous though.  I really want to win."

"And you will.  So, what are you going to write about? Knights of the Round Table?  The Spanish Armada?  Little green men invading the supermarket?"

"I was going to keep it a secret.  Not tell anyone.  Just in case I lost."

"Well, whatever you think is best.  I know whatever you come up with will be excellent."

The screen door let out its usual screech.  Mr. Manley was home.  Margo and her mother both smiled and their shoulders noticeably dropped, relaxing a bit.  Somehow, the quiet, peaceful demeanor of Walter Manley could infiltrate the entire house.

Margo: 3: Average is Good

Margo clomped up the stairs to her bedroom, the wooden steps announcing her whereabouts to the rest of the house.  Her room sat at the west end of the hall, her window perfectly aligned with the sunset.  Margo's favorite way to end a day was to stand in front of the window and watch the parade of colors dip into the horizon.  She imagined it was how God said goodnight to the world.  She liked His style.

Tossing her school books on the floor, Margo flopped on her bed and stared at the ceiling.  What a day.  What a wonderful exciting day.  Margo rolled onto her stomach, feet kicked up behind her, and held her head in her hands.  Her mind was full of one question.  What in the world was she supposed to write about?  It had to be the perfect topic, the perfect story line, the perfect everything.

Hero or heroine?  Adventure?  Mystery?  Margo realized the decision would have to be a calculated one.  Grabbing a notepad and a pen, Margo began a list of all the possibilities.  Romance was definitely out.  Margo had zero frame of reference to even think about writing a romantic story.  She knew any story she came up with would just be a repeat of what she had read in a novel.   Drama and adventure were out too.  She loved reading books that were filled with excitement, but she also knew all great stories had a ring of truth to them.  There was no way she could pull off exciting.  Embarrassment and humiliation, yes; excitement, no. 

Margo sighed.  This might be harder than she thought.  Her mind was full of ideas.  Her creativity in good working order.  Once she settled on a storyline and topic she was confident she could weave a web of blissful imagination.  She had to capture the judges' attention with the first few lines and make them want to read more, to become lost in her tale of fiction. 

The sun began to cast its rays into her room creating long, warm avenues.  Margo was happy God chose the color gold for sunbeams.  It was such a radiant glorious color.  Eyes dancing around her room, Margo began to look at her surroundings.  Her room had the usual posters of the current celebrity, awards received from grades long since completed, and books and diaries piled into corners.  Furniture handed down throughout the years filled wall space: a chest of drawers, a vanity with a large oval mirror, a wooden hope chest, mostly empty but filled with timid hope.  It was familiar and comforting.  And dull.  Margo frowned.

Rising from her perch, Margo went and sat at the vanity and stared at herself.  She was rather dull too, she thought.  But she certainly didn't want to be.  She blinked at herself and began to take inventory.  Her hair color was brown.  A decent enough color for it to be, she supposed.  It could always be worse.  Thin and stick straight, her hair fell a bit past her shoulders.  It was long enough to pull into a low ponytail, her style of choice.  Eye color, brown.  Again, it was a safe color.  Her forehead was flat and wide, her hairline starting a little higher than seemed natural.  Margo pursed her lips and gave her hairline a good hard stare.  What was it so afraid of that it had to run away from the rest of her face?  Hmm? 

Her nose was thankfully small, pert, and freckle-free.  She wrinkled it at herself in the mirror and was comforted when it returned to its steady consistent state on her face.  Noses were dependable like that.  God loves noses.  The only improvement on her nose would have been if her cheekbones weren't so lacking.  Flat and shallow, they were practically invisible.   Margo was thin with no extra flesh to fill in her cheeks, but she often imagined rosy plump cheeks.  She wondered if gaining weight would help.  Margo made a mental note to remind Mama to make her famous Death by Chocolate cake.  Might as well gain weight with deliciousness.

Margo's eyes dropped to her lips and frowned.  Never were seen such poor, thin lips.  Maybe if her mouth wasn't so wide her lips wouldn't seem so narrow.  Bunching her lips together, Margo made a kissy face in the mirror.  Minimal improvement.  And she looked like a duck.  Her classmates didn't need any more help with names to call her and she wasn't about to provide them with a farm animal.  Margo opened her lips and bared her teeth. Vertically, her teeth were straight, nary a snaggle-tooth in sight.  Horizontally, however, they were crowded and tightly packed as though she somehow managed to get more than her fair share.  Her two front teeth and canines were the mighty victors of the dental war, pushing in front of their weaker neighbors.  They reminded her of a cast of characters in a play, each one trying to gain the spotlight.  Her teeth were vain.  Some of them, anyway.

All in all, her face left a lot to be desired, but Margo knew there was more to who she was than just her face.  She had a creative mind, a generous heart, and a quiet spirit.  She pursued peace; keeping her mouth shut in silence rather than being confrontational.  Confrontation was her greatest fear.  She would rather die a thousand deaths than be caught in the middle of conflicting wills.  Admittedly, Margo knew that was the reason she let her peers treat her so rudely.  Rebuking them would be to confront them and that would lead to a discussion.  The discussion part she could handle.  She was sure her vocabulary and creative expression would not fail to perform.  It was the actual speaking of the words that terrified her.  Her "leave me alone!" speech would not be very effective whispered or even worse, said through an avalanche of tears and hiccups.

Margo laid her head down onto her crossed arms and tightly shut her eyes.  Something had to give.  She wanted to be happy and lighthearted all the time, not just in the safety of her home.  The world was a big place and she wanted to see as much of it as possible.  Her thoughts traveled back to the contest and its accompanying opportunity.  A scholarship to college.  A ticket to a brand new beginning.   A chance to move on, start over, and wash her hands of small minded people who rated worth solely on physical attributes.  Colleges were created for the mind. It sounded like the perfect place for her.

What in the world was she going to write about?  Mrs Thurmond often said the phrase, "Write what you know."  Margo knew average.  Was it possible to write a story about an average life and it be enough to win?

Margo softly laughed out loud.  Wouldn't it be something if the story that won was simply about an ordinary, average day?  Margo grabbed some notebook paper, a pencil, and her favorite dictionary.  If it could be done, it would be done by her.  She finally knew what she would write about.

A commotion downstairs caused Margo to jump from her chair and race to the stairs.  Margo could see her mother standing at the opened front door.  She was on a very loud and very colorful tirade, her apron wielded in her hand like a limp sword.  Margo shook her head and said a prayer.  Lord bless whomever was on the receiving end.  If words could kill, her Mama needed to be rounded up and carted off to prison for the awful slaughter currently unfolding on their front lawn.

Margo: 2: Mother Dear

Margo marched up the wooden steps to her house, school books dragging behind her in their bag.  An old farmhouse built decades ago, it was worn and tired looking, as though a whole lot of living had been done in it.  It was Margo's haven of solitude.  Being on the outskirts of town and settled in the middle of a wide acreage of land, the old home was close enough to town for Margo to walk to school, but far enough away that schoolmates didn't parade past the front lawn.  Margo loved it.  Country living was quiet and peaceful and acted like a calming balm over her roughened spirit.

The screen door let out its usual screeching wail of protest as Margo opened it and stepped into the house.  Wham! The loud smacking of wood against wood as the screen door settled back into its comfort zone.  Sounds of home were not always quiet.  

"Margo! Is that you?"  Margo's mother was one of those not-so-quiet sounds.  Della Manley had the voice of a barking master sergeant.  Her fog horn volume coupled with her indifference to polite public etiquette sometimes made for uncomfortable situations.  Margo once made the mistake of straying from her mother's side during a trip to the grocery store.   It was as if the whole world stopped rotating and everyone froze to stare at her mother, hollering for her missing daughter.  Red-faced with humiliation, Margo rejoined her mother and made a vow to never leave her mother's side in public again.  Ever. 

"Yes, Mama!"

"Get in here.  I need help."  Her mother was in the kitchen standing on a stool trying to reach something in a top cabinet.  Barely five feet, Della was a contrast of characters.  How could such a small body produce such a fierce volume of sound?

"What do you need?"

"I'm trying to get that old cast iron skillet down so I can make some cornbread.  I saw a recipe in the Ladies Journal that said the only way to make real cornbread was in an iron skillet."  

Margo smiled, shook her head, and jumped up on the stool, replacing her mother.  Leave it to her mother, who had baked cornbread ever since Margo could remember, to change how she cooked based on one magazine article.  

Grabbing the skillet, Margo passed the heavy beast down, and hopped off the stool.  She watched as her mother prepared ingredients and could only look at her with fondness.  Quirky and confident, her mother was a lively spirit.  Margo envied her devil-may-care attitude about life.  She seemed fearless and brave and willing to try anything and everything new.  

"Guess what, Mama?" 

"What's that?"

"Mama, you know my English teacher, Mrs. Thurmond?  She told me about a contest.  A writing contest.  The prize is a scholarship to a literary college."  Margo was excited as she spoke; a rare emotion for her.  The tone of Margo's voice had stopped her mother's movements and she had turned to look at her daughter.  Margo's eyes sparkled.  

"Well, now.  That sounds interesting.  And where is this college?  I reckon it's not in the next county."  

"In Boston."  Margo whispered the words.  Boston was a half day's travel by train from their small town.  Attending college was not something many folks did anyway, let alone a woman.  To admit the desire to attend college, especially one that was so far away, was a bold move for anyone.  The fact that Margo was making it was rather shocking.  

Della knew her daughter had had a rough time in her few short years.  Margo's classmates were mean and hateful to her sweet daughter.  Della made a point to tell them off every chance she got.  If Margo wouldn't stand up for herself, by golly, her mother certainly would.  She looked at Margo now, and put a smile on her face and brave words in her mouth.

"Boston!  I was thinking the other day about Boston and how they really needed another amazing writer.  You would be perfect!"

Margo let out a girlish giggle and dipped her head.  A knight in shining armor would be no match for the valor inside of her mother.

"Oh, Mama! I have to win the contest first.  Who knows how many others will be trying to win too?"  

Margo flew out of the kitchen, a bounce in her step.  The smile Della wore on her face for her daughter's sake faded.  She clutched a kitchen towel to her stomach, wringing it with nervous hands, and sank into a chair at the table.  Boston.  Her baby girl was going to leave her.  

Her mother knew she would win that contest.  

Margo

Her face was unfortunate.  Bland and bleak in all its descriptions, it was a face only a mother could love.  A wide forehead gave way to flat cheekbones which, in turn, surrounded a small pug nose.  The blessed smallness of her nose was an anchor of hope for the young girl.  It was the one thing on her face least noticeable.  Noses are not usually the beauty mark of any face, but for her, it was her candle in the darkness.  Her lips were thin and stretched along her very wide mouth creating a deep horizontal mark across her face.  Smiling or frowning made the mark worse so she did her best to remain neutral at all times.  Neutral.  Boring, safe neutral.  But, when it's your lot for a such a face as hers, neutral is to be expected.  The glamorous rarely have unfortunate faces.

Today, Margo sat in the back of the classroom.  A huge mistake.  The back of the class equals farther away from the teacher and being surrounded by all the riff raff who would rather be smoking cigarettes or picking their nose than be in school.  Her seat is usually one towards the front, if not in the front row, but her tardiness forced her to the back.  It would be a long class period.  She prayed it would go fast.

Her mind began to wander from the confusing algebra being taught.  Numbers could never hold her attention.  Daydreaming had become easy for her.  She enjoyed her alternate realities far more than her present one so writing had become her way to cope with her gloomy life.  Diaries sat stacked in her room, filled with the outpourings of a hurting young girl.  Needless to say, her pre-teens were not a bed of roses.  As a high school senior, the diary writing had given way to story writing.  The diaries held her fears, hurts, and anger, the stories held her hopes.  She preferred her stories.

The bell rang.  Class was over and Margo realized she had been doodling on notebook paper the entire period.  Her name, written in a loopy font, was scrawled all over her paper.  Margo Manley.  Manley as in manly.  Could life be more cruel?  As if her boorish face wasn't enough, her parents had to have the last name of Manley.

She was the complete package.  Every jock, jerk, and even the nerds in school realized she was prime fodder for jokes and cruelty; as if heaven had opened and sent them a sacrificial lamb.  The nerds were most thankful for her; with Margo around, they received far fewer wedgies and abrupt close encounters with their lockers.

Shuffling through the hallway towards her next class, Margo kept her head lowered and eyes downcast.  A successful class change was one that included getting from point A to point B without being made fun, pushed, or even spoken to.  It was not to be.

Hearing her name called out, she timidly peaked up hoping beyond hope it was one of the very few people who treated her with kindness.  She didn't necessarily have any friends, but there were a few students and teachers who were at least kind to her.  It was her English teacher, Mrs. Thurmond, calling her name.  She sighed the sigh of ten thousand warriors who had just defeated an army of one million.  She made her way to Mrs. Thurmond and was automatically curious of the excited look on her teacher's face.

"Yes, ma'am?  You called me?"

"Margo, I wanted to show you something.  I received a letter in the mail today about a contest. A writing contest.  I think you should enter it.  The prize is a scholarship to one of the world's best literary colleges.

"Uhm," Margo stuttered.

"Please say you'll do it.  You have two months to write a short story about anything you want.  I know you write at home and the work you turn in to me is wonderful.  I think this would be a great opportunity for you."

Margo struggled to connect her brain with her mouth.  "Sure. I'll do it."

"Great! Here's all the information.  See you later."

Margo turned and headed to her next class, reading the sheet of paper she held in her hand.  Write about anything you want.  Two months.  Scholarship.  A small spark ignited in Margo during that long walk to her next class.  So focused was she on the potential in her hand, she never even heard the cruel remark said by someone as they passed her.  If she could win this contest, she could change her life.  She knew she could.  For once, she wouldn't be judged on what she looked like, she would be judged for who she was and what she could do: like a book appreciated for what it contained instead of the fancy cover slip surrounding it.

She had to win.