“You’d better get those applications done,” she said. “You can’t be a teenager forever, Tiffany. It’s not a career option.”
“I realize that, Mother.” How dense does she think I am? “That’s where my modeling career comes in.”
“Which is fine for now,” my father said, “but not something you’ll want to do indefinitely.”
“No,” I said. “I also plan to be a famous actress. I truly believe that when God gives you these gifts, you have a sacred duty to use them.”
“Which gifts are you referring to, Tiff?” my mother asked.
“Well, without sounding conceited about it,” I said, “I’m pretty beautiful.”
“Oh, brother!” my brother snickered.
“Beauty is not a talent,” my father said, smiling. “It’s something that happens accidentally.”
No kidding. Not that my parents aren’t cute in their own way. Don’t get me wrong, I love them a lot, but lately it seems like we’re from different planets. I mean, I realize that teaching second grade isn’t a glamorous job, but couldn’t my mother at least wear some makeup? She doesn’t even shave her underarms.
“Any nut can be famous these days,” my mother said. “The important thing now is to get a good education so that you can do something worthwhile with your life.”
And so forth. And it’s true what she said: In the old days you had to actually do something to be famous, like win the Olympics, or a war, or write a book. But now you can get famous just by being really weird, like those kids in Nebraska who ate their parents. “How could they?” Shelby shuddered when we heard the news. “I don’t even like to kiss my parents!”
My father said, “Do you understand what we’re trying to tell you, honey?”
“Of course I do, Daddy,” I said. “What’s for dessert?”
One thing really lucky about me: I can eat whatever I want and not gain weight. My mother says I have the metabolism of a mosquito.
After dessert, my father went into his office to take some calls. He used to own an advertising agency, but now he works at home. He’s what they call an “idea man.” I’m very proud of all that he’s accomplished.
It was my father who came up with the concept for the Television Land subdivisions now sweeping the country, with homes designed exactly like the ones in old shows: the Brady, the Nelson, the Huxtable, the Cleaver.
His latest concept has really taken off: full-service gas stations, where you don’t have to put in the gas yourself. People in uniforms come out and do it and even check your oil and wash your windshield!
But I’m worried about him lately. He hasn’t been the same since Gramma died, two years ago. “Nobody loves us as much as our own mothers,” he’d sigh. “Nobody else ever finds us so fascinating.”
That’s how he got the idea for 1-800-YOR-MAMA, a free public service for people who miss their moms. He hired a bunch of nice old ladies, and people call them up and tell them all their problems. The old ladies make little clucking sounds and say, “That’s terrible, honey. Have you seen the doctor?” or “He shouldn’t talk to you like that! He has no idea how hard you work!” et cetera.
Unfortunately, the old lady on duty tonight phoned in sick, so my father’s taking the calls. He asked my mother to do it but she refused. “I love you, Bill,” she said, “but there’s a limit.”
She said it was my turn to do the dishes, but I explained that I had way too much homework, not to mention all those college applications. But it was hard to concentrate. People kept videophoning me to talk about the FBI raid.
Wally looked really worried.
“You love me, don’t you, Tiff?” he inquired.
“Of course I do,” I answered.
“And you’ll always love me? No matter what?”
“Of course I—Wally, can you hold for a second?”
The Call Waiting was buzzing, and I thought it might be Campbell, who’d probably heard that I was in the raided classroom and wanted to be sure I was okay. But it was Barbie and Kendall, so I said I’d call them back.
“Some pretty weird stuff’s coming down,” Wally said gloomily. “My father’s probably going to kill me.”
“Maybe he’ll just take your car away,” I suggested.
Then he started moping and muttering and I had a heck of a time figuring out what he was saying—but it turns out that Wally’s the one who hacked into the Defense Department!
He’s scared to death that the FBI will find out and send him to juvie or jail, and that his dad will have to pay for all the damages: the FBI’s salaries, Mr. Brewer’s broken glasses, new bombs, et cetera, et cetera.
I reminded Wally that his father has tons of money and besides, it might be covered by his homeowner’s insurance. “He really should check that out,” I urged. But nothing I said seemed to comfort him.
“I didn’t mean to screw things up!” he insisted. “I just wanted to see if I could get inside the system! I was just having fun!”
I’d never seen him so hysterical. This was worse than the time his new Game Boy was stolen.
“Please don’t tell anyone it was me!” he begged.
I would never betray Wally. I mean, we’ve gone together for ten months. But I cannot—will not—tell a lie. Too bad he left all those “Dolfins Rule!” messages. And he made so many spelling mistakes! Which, of course, got pointed out on the national news, making Hiram Johnson High and our educational system—not to mention Wally—look pretty silly.
I guess boys just mature more slowly than girls.
He said, “Promise you’ll still love me if anything happens!”
“Nothing’s going to happen,” I said. But I can’t help thinking: If poor Wally goes to prison, who will escort me to the Homecoming Dance?
I assured him that everything was going to be fine; then he had to hang up because the FBI was there.
I called Barbie and Kendall and they got all freaked out, afraid I might be charged as an accessory. Which reminds me to wear my black dress to school tomorrow, with the little silver heart necklace Wally gave me.
I explained to The Girls that I had no idea what Wally had been doing. Yes, he had mentioned the Defense Department, but I thought he was talking about a video game. That’s all he ever talks about lately!
“Maybe you should tell your parents what’s happening,” Barbie suggested.
“No,” I said firmly. “Everybody’s overreacting. It’s time for cooler heads to prevail.”
But it might not be such a bad idea to call Marcy Richmond at Channel 7 and give her an exclusive interview, or maybe hold a press conference. Just to clear things up and set the record straight.
In fact, I’ll give her a buzz right now. It’s the least I can do for poor Wally.
Chapter Three
I miss Wally. It’s like they say: You don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone.
The FBI didn’t press charges, but Wally’s dad decided to send him to a special school for criminally gifted teens, in Jamaica or New Guinea, I can never remember where. We thought it was going to be like Club Med—Wally used a tanning booth before he left—but it turns out this place is like a cross between the Boy Scouts and San Quentin! They won’t even let him wear his earring!
Needless to say, as soon as I learned the worst, I organized a lunchtime protest, rallying our classmates to his defense: “Give me a W! Give me an A! Give me an L-L-Y! What’s that spell? Now bring Wally home or we’ll raise H-E double L!” et cetera. But it didn’t do any good. Wally’s father wouldn’t change his mind.
What hurt me most was that one minute Wally was tonight’s top story; the next minute, nobody cared anymore. He was yesterday’s news. It was shocking. None of the TV talk shows even returned my calls! I guess they’re too busy interviewing psychotic hillbillies and kids who eat their parents. Why do the jerks always get the attention?
Which reminds me: I have got to write Wally a letter.
It’s just hard to know what to say to
him. I mean, here I am at home, having fun, driving my car and going to football games—we absolutely squished Sequoia—while poor Wally’s marching all over the jungle, eating coconuts for lunch.
And how can I tell him about Campbell and me? That will break poor Wally’s heart. He might even try to climb the electrified fence again. In his last letter, he said, “My dad says I might be home in six months. Wait for me, Tiffany.” Then he said a bunch of stuff about the importance of ironing your own clothes and respecting authority, which didn’t sound a bit like Wally. Maybe they were holding a machete over his head.
Will he really be back in six months? Can I wait that long? Senior year will almost be over by then.
It’s not that I don’t love Wally anymore. I do. I miss his crunchy smile and his crinkly red hair. He’s like one of those cute little Rice Krispies elves! But I realize now that what we had was puppy love, a childish infatuation.
You should see Campbell in his track shorts! I sit in the bleachers and watch him practice, and every time he runs by, he waves at me! Shelby thinks she’s going to get him, but she’s out of her mind. For one thing, she already has a boyfriend—even though he’s an idiot—and he’s not in Jamaica. And for another, she’s not Campbell’s type. He’s really smart. He’s in the Chess Club. He’s applied to Stanford—I might go there, too. Dean Schmitz said something about a deadline?—and he plans to be a doctor.
“That’s wonderful,” I said as we sat in his car today, drinking diet iced tea and discussing our futures. I told him about an article I’d read that said that in the years ahead, our country will be facing a critical shortage of qualified plastic surgeons. “You know,” I said, “for people like my parents.”
“I’d never be a plastic surgeon.” Campbell scowled.
“Why not? They perform a valuable service,” I insisted. “Some people get their faces burned off. Or get in wrecks. Or get really wrinkled.”
“I’m going to be a gerontologist,” Campbell explained. It turns out he really loves his grandma and grandpa, so he wants to be a doctor to help old people feel better. I reminded him that people feel better when they look better, and he laughed and said, “You are too much, T-Rex.” What the heck is that supposed to mean?
I mentioned that I really love old people, too. After Gramma died, Grandpa lived with us for a while until he started banging on the bathroom door and shouting, “I have an urgent message for King John!” whenever we were in there, and getting lost all over town. So now he lives in the nursing home, and I visit when I can, but those people are scary.
“No, they’re not,” Campbell insisted gently. “They’re just old.”
So true. The more I see of Campbell, the more I know that he is the one for me. The Girls say I hardly even know him, but they don’t understand that when you’re soul mates with someone, words aren’t necessary. You just know what the other person’s thinking.
I’ve asked Campbell if he wants to go to the Homecoming Dance with me—I know we’ll be elected King and Queen—and he said, “That’s very flattering, Tiffany. I’ll get back to you.” So I bought the dress today. It’s darling.
But I can’t help feeling guilty about poor Wally. He’s the only boy I’ve ever let kiss me. The first time we made out, our lips got so puffy we couldn’t go home until the swelling went down. The night we decided to go steady, we exchanged class rings and gave each other matching hickies. Which I’ll never do again: It looks so tacky. Wally and I have really grown together. He’ll live forever in my memory.
I’d better write him right now before I forget.
Dearest Wally,
I am fine and hope you are, too. You know what I mean: Under the circumstances. I think of you in that place and can’t believe it. How could your father be so mean?
Thanks for the picture of you with the shovel. It looks like you’re getting a good tan!
Well, all’s fine here. I was in the Macy’s fashion show the other night: Gowns for the Holiday season. I wish you could’ve seen me.
Another great thing: We beat sequoia! I mean creamed them! I came up with this great new skit; we do a bunch of cheers, then form a human pyramid, with me on top and shelby at the bottom. After all, she’s the biggest. My dad took pictures. I’ll send some if they turn out good.
School’s fine. Things have not been the same since you left. People talk about you a lot. Do you think you’ll be back for graduation?
Well, that’s about it for now. I love you, Wally. We’ll always be friends. Remember, life is but a lesson to be learned, then we move on, like beautiful butterflies spreading our wings.
Please write back when you the time.
Friends Forever,
Tiffany
Stop the presses! I just had a brilliant idea! Now I know how Einstein felt when he did whatever he did!
This journal isn’t going to be just for Miss Jones and my future grandkids. It’s going to be the story of my life! So that later on, when I’m a famous actress, people can see all the difficulties I went through to get successful, and become inspired.
Some people (like my mother) don’t know what it’s like to want to be special. You’d think she was never young. She’s always wanting me to do ordinary stuff like pick up my clothes or take the leaves. What’s the point? They’ll just fall down again! She says, “Tiff, why is it so important to be famous? Don’t you have any other plans in mind?”
She doesn’t understand that if you’re alive but nobody knows it but your family, you might as well be invisible; it doesn’t count. Let’s face it, who do you see on TV, in the movies, on the covers of magazines? The famous people. And they’re not raking leaves; they’re not doing something boring. They’re giving interviews; they’re getting awards. Which is not to say that all the unfamous people in the world aren’t important. They are. We all have our roles to play on the great stage of life. Without the audience, there couldn’t be stars.
I think this journal—My Journal, Journey of a Journal—I’ll have to come up with a good title—will really open some eyes.
Chapter Four
“Get out of here! Will you just get out?”
“It’s the Tiffany Spratt Show! Starring Tiffany Spratt!”
“Get out!”
“Featuring tonight’s special guest star: Tiffany Spratt!”
“Mommmmmmmmmmmm!”
Sorry for the interruption. I was just sitting here, minding my own business, when my brother barged in.
Before I forget: Having reviewed last night’s journal entry, I have got to remember to tuck in that tummy. Especially after dinner.
He is such an idiot.
But I think including episodes like that will give people some idea of the hardships I went through and encourage them on their own paths to success.
Besides, in all the celebrity autobiographies I’ve ever read, the stars talk a lot about their families, and how much their loved ones helped and encouraged them or, in certain cases, nearly drove them crazy.
My childhood falls somewhere in between. My parents love me a lot and have given me tons of stuff, like they paid for my modeling and acrobatics lessons and sent me to cheerleader camp. And in junior high, when I played softball and soccer, they were always in the stands, cheering me on to victory. Many times I saw the mascara sliding down my mother’s cheeks and had to wonder, was it rain or tears of joy?
They’re really good parents, and I know I shouldn’t complain but lately they seem so, I don’t know, out of touch. They met in the Peace Corps. What can I say. Every night when my father watches the news, he practically has a nervous breakdown. “What’s the world coming to? Can you believe this?” et cetera. It hurts me to see him suffer.
No matter how successful I get, my parents will always be number one in my book. Someday I’ll buy them a brand-new house or at least get the kitchen cupboards refinished. They’re covered with all these gummy fingerprints.
Have I mentioned that my brother was born?
I’m
kind of having trouble concentrating tonight because, while I’m recording this, I’m watching the Home Shopping Network and they’re showing this incredibly fabulous purse that has so many compartments, the compartments have compartments, and if I don’t order now, they’ll all be gone, because the little number on the screen keeps clicking off how many thousands have already been sold.
I’m back. They said to allow four weeks for delivery. The other thing that’s really bugging me tonight is the nasty trick Shelby played on me today. I’m beginning to wonder about her. I think she thinks she should be the leader of our group, not me, even though I’m the one who got voted Head Yell Leader. And who came up with The Cannibals idea? Now everybody at school wants to be a Cannibal. And that’s the other thing that’s ticking me off: Some people have even made fake Cannibals shirts! The Girls say that just shows how popular we are, but what good is it if everyone’s a Cannibal?
I went up to Lisa Keene in the hall yesterday and said, “Where did you get that sweatshirt?” She said, “At the mall.” I said, “You can’t just wear it around like that.” “Why not?” she said. “Because you’re not in our group,” I told her.
Lisa, that brat, laughed right in my face and said, “I hate to tell you this, Tiffany, but you don’t own the word.”
Or did she say “world”? At any rate, it’s probably too late to get it trademarked.
Like I was saying, Shelby played this really mean trick on me today and why the other Girls didn’t stop her, I’ll never know. They were probably scared to death she’d sit on them or something.
Anyway, being a Saturday, we decided it would be fun to dress up in our nighties and PJs and put our hair up in those old-fashioned curlers and take our teddy bears and drive by the football players’ houses. So we took Shelby’s car, because it’s a convertible, and drove by Bobby’s house, and boy, did he blush when he saw us!
We drove around for a while, just waving to everybody and honking the horn, then suddenly Shelby says, “I don’t think the brake lights are working. Tiff, would you get out and check?I don’t want to get another ticket.”
The Cannibals Page 2