Chapter 66
MY NAME IS MARGARET, OR MAGGIE, IF YOU LIKE
Go ahead, Kooks,” Flatso says as she hands me the microphone. “Tell them how it is.”
I’ve been standing on the grass and listening for about an hour, and I somehow drifted into the speaker’s line. I didn’t mean to. Well, I don’t think I meant to.
Did I mean to?
Tebow notices my hesitation, and says, “You don’t have to,” in this really gentle way that kind of makes me want to hug him and burst into tears at the same time.
I nod and hand the microphone back to Flatso, but I also walk out to the center of the stage, so I guess my brain and body are still not quite in synch. I’m a little worried about what might happen next.
“Can everyone hear me?” I ask.
“Yes,” the crowd choruses. “Louder!” someone shouts from the back.
“Um, hi. Hello. I’m, uh—I’m—” What’s my name? I think. For some reason, I don’t want to say, I’m Cuckoo.
I look out at the crowd. Nobody shouts anything. Nobody boos.
And then my eyes light upon Winnie. He’s standing at the center of the crowd, but the sunlight is shining on his hair and it’s like everyone else melts away. He’s the only person I can see, and he’s smiling. I remember him telling me that I could talk to him, if I ever needed to.
Just pretend you’re talking to Winnie, I tell myself.
“I’m Margaret,” I say. “Maggie. And I want to thank everyone for showing up today. We”—I look over at the Freakshow—“we really didn’t expect it.”
And then someone in the crowd shouts, “We love you, Maggie!” A few people clap. Not even my friends—just people.
“I love you, too,” I say. My eyes seek out Winnie, and he nods. “And I know that sounds crazy, but it’s true. Look, I’ve lost a lot this year. My mom left. I had to go to a mental hospital for a while. My foster mother died. My friend… got sick. And that was really, really terrifying. For a while, I was barely holding on. But Brainzilla—Katie—had this idea that we should try to make other people happy. That it would make us feel better to help others. So this whole year, my friends and I have been trying to bring the Nations together. Brainzilla, Zitsy, Flatso, Tebow, Eggy—all of us—we just had this cool idea that maybe school didn’t have to suck,” I say.
The sun is really getting hot now, and I feel my tongue drying out. Zitsy hands me his water bottle. I take a grateful swig.
“Anyway, we came up with this idea—this Operation Happiness. And we tried to bring everyone a little closer, you know? And it was a complete fail on every level. For months, it was fail after fail.” I look out over the crowd, and I can actually feel the energy. I can feel everyone listening, straining to understand. And just that—just everyone listening—makes me feel light and happy, like I’m a balloon that might just sail away over the trees and into the clouds.
“We failed on every level,” I repeat, my voice stronger, “until today. And I just have to say this: I love all of you! Sorry if that sounds cheesy, but I really do. I love everything we share. Now that people are being brave enough to speak out, and brave enough to listen, I can see just how much we have in common. When you stop and think about it—it’s a lot. Nobody here has it easy. Nobody. There’s a lot more that binds us together than there is that drives us apart.”
I step back. I forget to say, “Scream if you can hear me,” but it’s okay. We don’t all have to scream. Some of us can whisper.
Winnie waves to me, and I wave back.
Are people supposed to cry at rallies? Not really sure, but lots of kids are doing it. Even one of the guy gym teachers is boo-hooing up a storm. So, if we are gauging the success by the level of tears, I guess this rally is a triumph.
It’s at least a start.
