Maxine by Claire Wilkshire Page A

little groomed loop up in the trees, in Pippy Park. Have you been up there? I might be going up there this weekend as a matter of fact, if you wanted a ride. You can rent skis or snowshoes.
    Maxine leans on the counter and then away from it. She shifts her weight fromone leg to another so her torso tips fromside to side like an erratic metronome. She scratches the back of her neck and then wants to unscratch it.
    When Maxine turns down onto her street, she can see Barb popping the trunk on the little black Mazda. Barb waves her over. Maxine can feel the snow compressing under her boots with every step. What has Kyle told her about karate, Barb wants urgently to know.
    Nothing.
    On Boxing Day a man was mowing his lawn farther down the street. Since then, it’s been two blizzards a week and the snowbanks are taller than Maxine. The roadways are narrow, with snow piled high on either side.
    I’m going to move him to a different programme, Barb says. That sensei is a nitwit. Kyle should have had his brown belt a long time ago. Dave doesn’t seem to care that he’s not advancing. I don’t think he’s getting enough one-on-one.
    How many kids are in the group?
    When a child in your class has a gift, you pay attention. You develop it. Kyle is an exceptional boy.
    Barb’s trunk has cardboard boxes to prevent the groceries from rolling around. She hands Maxine four plastic bags.
    Would you mind? Since you’re here. Barb hauls two big handfuls of bags up and out of the car. They climb the concrete steps together and set the groceries at the top. Barb opens the screen door. Thanks, Maxine. Coffee?
    Oh no, thanks, I actually have to—
    You know, I hardly see you these days. Barb locks Maxine in place with iron green eyes. I’ll have to kidnap you, she says, and drag you over for a glass of wine sometime soon.
    Sure, says Maxine, pushing the hair back off her face and ducking down the steps. Great. Bye, Barb.
    Sometimes it wouldn’t take much to give Barb what she wants, but she can be so pathologically single-minded thatMaxine sometimes feels she should be resisted on principle. Kyle is smart and funny and he knows plenty. He’s a nice kid, but he doesn’t strike Maxine as a genius. Barb clearly believes it, though, and not just about karate. She’s said other things. She wanted to have special testing done and the teacher said not to bother. Barb was furious. Maybe it’s something all parents have to believe, a Darwinian thing: my child is more interesting/creative/intelligent etcetera than the others and therefore I will ensure that he gets special attention. If Kyle were starving in a famine, Barb would step on other kids’ heads to get to the front of the rations line. This would probably not be excusable even in the circumstances, but if there is no famine—if Barb just thinks Kyle might want a hotdog, say…Sometimes Barb tells Maxine about an argument she’s been in with a teacher or another parent. She smiles that smile that means she knows she’s done something bad and she’s proud of it. Behind the adult Barb, Maxine can see a two-year-old who’s poured a glass of milk over the kitchen table, grinning at her mother in a way that says I told you I didn’t want it.
    Kyle: OK, so how many words does your book have? I’ll look at the rules.
    How many words do I need, O Extreme Researcher?
    How many do you have?
    Quite a few.
    How many.
    Not telling.
    Kyle sighs and straightens his arms, rolling his chair backwards from the table and pulling himself forward again. He does this a couple of times as he reads the screen. Well, he says, a million words would be good, I think.
    A million ? Let me see that.
    Actually, it doesn’t say that. That’s how many I thought would be good.
    Je—um, Jeesh. How many does it say you have to have?
    Maxine lies back on the couch using the armrest as a pillow. She closes her eyes and waits for the