My Great Success and Other Failures

by Catherine Wilkins

  “Well, well, well,” says Harriet VanDerk, strolling into the form room.

  OK, so they can get worse. Maybe things can always get worse, and that’s the life lesson here – never think things can’t get any worse.

  “Bog off, Harriet,” says Natalie.

  “Oh dear, oh dear,” simpers Harriet gleefully.

  “Are you deaf as well as ugly?” asks Amelia.

  Harriet ignores them, preferring to give me a slow handclap instead. “Brilliant!” she proclaims. “Oh, how the mighty have fallen. I thought it was a bit suspicious that you might have had a good idea. But now we know – you hadn’t. Nothing original has ever come out of your mouth, has it?”

  “Just leave, you weirdo,” says Nat, annoyed.

  “It’s fine,” I say resignedly. This is now so awful it’s almost funny. Almost. “Let Harriet get it out of her system. I don’t care.”

  “Oh, the irony,” says Harriet. “Everyone’s been acting like you’re some kind of child prodigy, and you’re actually a two-bit criminal.”

  “Yes, yes, very good,” I say dryly.

  “So is thief going to be your legacy for the school yearbook, Jessica?”

  “No, because I haven’t stolen anything,” I say tiredly. “Is that it? Not very witty, Harriet. I thought you might have at least planned my take-down a bit.”

  “Harriet, if you don’t get out of our form room now, you will regret it,” says Natalie forcefully.

  “Probably not as much as Jessica regrets getting caught,” comments Harriet.

  Natalie jumps down off her desk, and Harriet takes a step back.

  “I didn’t steal anything,” I say flatly.

  “Bit of a coincidence though,” says Harriet. “Surely? Or do you really expect us to believe that an insurance company copied an eleven-year-old girl?”

  Natalie advances another step.

  “I was going anyway!” Harriet waves a hand dismissively, then turns and stalks out of our form room.

  “Thanks, Nat,” I manage to say, but my head is buzzing with the implications of what Harriet just said.

  “Any time, babes.” Nat puts her arm around my shoulder and gives it a squeeze.

  But all I can think is, what if? What if they did? As incredibly unlikely as it sounds, what if an insurance company did steal a dolphin cartoon from an eleven-year-old girl?

  Am I crazy, I wonder as I ride the bus home. Have I actually lost my mind? I can’t even tell. (Would you worry you were crazy if you were crazy?)

  Tammy’s always saying you can’t trust mega-corporations because they have no morality and don’t care who they squash to get ahead. But stealing a cartoon about dolphins?

  “The paper called again,” says Dad as I enter the kitchen.

  “Really?” I ask tentatively. It’s probably unrealistic to hope I will be getting my old job back.

  “Yes, they’re interested in your side of the story,” he says.

  “Oh, OK,” I say.

  “They said,” Dad squints at a bit of paper in his hand, “they’ll start with your apology, and then you could talk through the reasons you did it, and what you were thinking at the time.”

  “What?” I blurt. “I thought you meant I’d get a chance to defend myself.”

  “Doesn’t look like it,” says Dad. “They said they’re particularly interested in any school or peer pressures that might have motivated you.”

  “But I didn’t copy it,” I say. My own words are starting to sound hollow and meaningless now.

  “That’s what I told them,” says Dad. “I said Jessica maintains she didn’t copy anything and I for one believe her.”

  I feel a warm rush of gratitude towards my dad. “And what did they say?”

  “They said they’re only interested in an apology story, so you have to admit culpability or they won’t print anything.”

  “Right, OK then,” I say dryly. Of course.

  I start to feel angry. I’ve been so unjustly and shabbily treated! It’s not fair.

  Tammy joins us for dinner and I’m worried she will say my misfortune is karma for selling out and doing an evil advert. But actually she’s really nice. Not only that, she’s kind of on the case.

  “OK,” says Tammy, over Mum’s minestrone soup. “I’ve looked into a few things. First, I’ve checked all the dates. The cartoon that I submitted to Newsworth predates any online versions by the insurance company by at least a week.”

  “Oh my God! This proves I didn’t copy it, right?” I cry, excited. (Why has no one checked the dates before now? I suppose because it seemed so unlikely, but still.)

  “Pretty much,” says Tammy. “I took screen grabs of everything too. It’s amazing how quickly things can go missing when people start asking questions. Then I emailed the insurance company and asked them whether they’d like to explain themselves.”

  “Oh, blimey, OK,” I say.

  Tammy takes a slurp of soup and continues. “I’ll give them twenty-four hours max to respond, then I’m taking the story to the activist online community. This is outrageous. An eleven-year-old is being bullied at school and losing her reputation as well as paid work because some adults wanted to make some money? It’s a scandal.”

  I guess it is. Though part of me doesn’t want to cause a fuss. Even though I’m angry. It’s confusing.

  OK, the dust has sort of settled a bit now. Tammy (amazingly) got to the truth. Apparently some new guy at an advertising company saw my dolphin cartoon online and didn’t realise that anyone “owned” it. So he submitted it, along with a bunch of other ideas to their client, the insurance company, and it got picked.

  The insurance company and the advertising agency are saying they had no idea where the cartoon came from and are blaming it all on the advertising guy. He says he didn’t realise it would cause a problem, and that he didn’t mean to cause trouble.

  Tammy says she doesn’t buy this story for a second, because even unscrupulous advertisers have codes of conduct and know what “intellectual property” is. She says they steal other creatives’ ideas all the time, and get away with it by just changing things slightly.

  She says this guy didn’t even bother to change the cartoon but that the company probably thought they could get away with it because I’m eleven. (But apparently, legally this is just “conjecture” as Tammy can’t actually prove anything.)

  Tammy also thinks the guy is a coward, because when everyone noticed that the cartoons were the same, he should have come forward and admitted what he’d done, but he didn’t. He let everyone think I was at fault, and let me take the rap for it. He claims he didn’t know anyone was getting any grief because of what he did but even I’m not sure if I completely believe that.

  The “media” (our local paper and some bloggers) have all calmed down a bit now, and there’ve been a few articles about how ownership of ideas is a thorny issue in the digital age.

  Tammy says it’s amazing that everyone was so quick to judge me and give me a hard time, but the real culprit seems to be getting away with it.

  Dad says that might be because the man has apologised loads and gone on record saying how awful he feels about it, whereas I never apologised. But then, I hadn’t done anything!

  Something good has come out of it though. The insurance company were so embarrassed (and terrified of all the bad publicity) that they’ve offered to make a donation to the charity of my choice. I’ve chosen Green Fortis, the environmental charity where Dad works. This has also helped Tammy calm down too.

  It’s so great being cleared and not in trouble any more. The relief is amazing.

  The newspaper feels so bad that they just assumed I was guilty that they’re bending over backwards to make amends. I’ve got my old job back and the editor-in-chief rang me to apologise personally and says they would like to run a story on “My World” so I can give my take on everything that’s happened to me. I told them I’d think about it. I’m just not sure I need any more publicity right n
ow.

  “I mean, my hits are good, don’t get me wrong,” Mum is telling Tammy at our kitchen table over a cup of tea. “But they seem to have plateaued a bit.”

  I pour myself a glass of orange juice, managing not to trip over the dog, who appears out of nowhere halfway through this procedure.

  “Well, that’s good though,” says Tammy. “You’ll probably find they stay the same for a bit, then go up again, then stay the same, then go up a bit. You’re moving in the right direction.”

  “I know,” says Mum. “Just part of me wishes I could get a little push, you know?”

  “Of course,” replies Tammy. “It’s really difficult to get and then keep awareness high. That’s what makes campaigning so difficult.”

  And suddenly I have an idea.

  “Oh, wow! Look! There’s my blog!” cries Mum as our family crowds round the local paper.

  “This is great publicity for climate change,” enthuses Tammy.

  “Lovely mention of Green Fortis,” agrees Dad.

  “And Lady looks brilliant in her picture,” says Ryan.

  I decided to do the “My World” story for the local paper, on the condition that everyone I care about got to plug their projects. So now “Jessica’s World” is a whole page, full of pictures and promotional info. And all I had to do was agree it was horrible when everyone (except my family and friends) thought I was a liar.

  So there’s a mention of Mum’s blog and how well it’s doing; Tammy’s climate-change charity (it was the least I could do, seeing as she cleared my name); more publicity for Green Fortis; a proper mention of my Hellfern comic, with pictures and how we launched at Comic-tacular; and finally a little mention of Ryan’s “dog-training” and a picture of Lady from when we drew the Homer Simpson heads that time.

  It feels really nice to use my “fame” for good, though I’m not sure it’s all it’s cracked up to be. It’s really scary how quickly people can believe the worst of you. But helping other people has made me feel like I’ve taken back some control over the situation. And for once I don’t mind being a springboard for everyone else. In fact, it’s way more fun when it’s collaborative anyway.

  Like I always say, I’m still totally grounded and down to earth. Maybe my legacy can be that I have given everyone else a leg-up, because that’s how awesome I am. Haha, nah. My legacy is still my awesome cartooning.

  “I’m going to wear some black,” says Natalie.

  “Sure, but don’t forget it’s summer. You might be hot in black,” replies Amelia.

  “Yeah, but at night-time,” says Natalie. “It will get cold eventually.”

  “But we’ll be dancing – you’ll still get hot,” counters Amelia. “I’m not saying don’t wear black. I’m just saying, be aware of black.”

  I’m sitting under the big beech tree with Natalie and Amelia, and they’re discussing what to wear to the school disco. I think they might choose black.

  I look down at the tree root I am sitting on, and wonder if it’s the last time I’ll ever sit on it. Nat and I have played around this beech tree the whole time we’ve been at Hillfern Juniors.

  When it rains, muddy water collects in the gaps between the roots, and we used to pretend we were witches and they were our cauldrons. We’d get sticks and stir them, and pretend we were mixing potions for spells. We’d chuck in dead leaves, pretending they were magic ingredients.

  I think I’ll miss this tree, actually. I hadn’t really felt that sad about leaving primary school, but now I get why some people have been a bit melancholy about it. I’m never going to make a potion in the beech-tree roots again. It’s funny the things that bring home something is really happening.

  “I have to tell you both something,” says Amelia suddenly.

  “Sounds serious,” comments Nat. “Fire away.” She smiles.

  “I’m…” Amelia pauses. “I’m not going to Hillfern Seniors.” (Natalie’s smile slowly fades.) “My grandparents have offered to pay for my education so I’m going to St Clement’s Girls on the other side of town.”

  “When were you going to tell me?” cries Nat.

  “Well, now,” says Amelia. “We can still––”

  “How long have you known?” interrupts Nat.

  “Not long,” says Amelia. (I’d wager she knew the day we got the key rings though).

  “I can’t believe this!” Nat shakes her head despairingly.

  “We can still hang out loads, like all the time. After school and at weekends,” says Amelia.

  “It won’t be the same and you know it,” says Nat.

  “No, it won’t be the same.” Amelia looks at her sadly.

  There was a time when this news would have been music to my ears. I’d have been delighted to be shot of Amelia and have Nat all to myself at secondary school. But I feel genuinely aggrieved too. I finally just start liking the girl and she disappears? I feel cheated.

  “I can’t believe you’re abandoning me,” says Nat.

  “At least you’ve still got Jess,” says Amelia. “I’ll be completely on my own at St Clement’s. I won’t know anyone. You’ll know loads of people.”

  “So don’t go. Come with us,” says Nat.

  Amelia sighs. “The thing is, I do actually want to go there. It’s a really good school. It’s the right place for me. I’m looking forward to making new friends. And you know, you will too.”

  Nat sighs. But she can’t really argue with that. Part of me has been expecting her to storm off at some point, but instead she decides to be very grown up. “Well, then I’m happy for you. If that’s what you want,” she says stiffly.

  But then she bursts into tears. So not that grown up, I guess. Amelia starts crying too, and they hug each other under the beech tree.

  “Um, I’m not really in this,” I say, extracting myself awkwardly. “I’ll let you guys have a moment.”

  And I traipse back to the school, to my form room. I don’t look back at them. I want to remember the beech tree as the place where I was a witch mixing potions, not the place where Natalie and Amelia bawled their eyes out because everything was changing.

  I hear Tanya’s voice as I approach my form. “Here she is now,” she’s saying.

  “Hi, guys,” I say cautiously.

  “Ta-da!” Tanya thrusts a piece of paper in my face. “Surprise!”

  “Thanks – what is this?” Flustered, I take the paper from her and hold it where I can see it.

  “It’s your own yearbook,” says Tanya proudly.

  Sure enough, I read the brightly coloured letters on the front, which proclaim “Jessica’s Yearbook”.

  “We wanted to cheer you up when all that cartoon-stealing stuff was going on,” explains Joshua. “And say thanks for promoting the comic in the paper.”

  “It’s the story of us,” elaborates Tanya.

  “Told in comic form,” adds Lewis.

  “Open it,” advises Joshua.

  Inside is a comic strip about our lives.

  “That’s how we met.” Tanya points to the first picture, which is of me and her in English. There’s a speech bubble coming out of Tanya saying, “Oi, cartoon girl, draw me as a cartoon.” Then the next picture is the Tanya-as-a-Cadbury-Creme-Egg that I drew.

  “This is amazing,” I whisper. The comic strip goes all through our trials and tribulations: Tanya asking me to draw the school as hell, Joshua saying, “Let’s make a comic” – even us at the comic convention, Comic-tacular, selling copies. The last box just contains the words “To Be Continued…?”

  “Oh my God, this is the most amazing thing I have ever seen!” I laugh. “It’s incredible!”

  “So did we cheer you up?” asks Tanya, grinning.

  “Yes! Thank you. This is awesome!” I’m genuinely touched.

  This really seems like such a lot of effort to go to, just for me. It really makes me feel special and appreciated.

  “I knew you’d like it,” says Tanya, looking pleased with herself.

 
; “Tanya got the idea for it sitting under the beech tree,” says Joshua. “It just took us a little while to complete.”

  “It’s my thinking spot,” explains Tanya. Wow, that beech tree really is all things to all people.

  “We’ve all got a copy of the comic strip too,” says Joshua. “Something to remember everyone by.”

  “It’s our origin story,” explains Lewis.

  “We felt we wanted to commemorate what we did here,” adds Joshua. “I really enjoyed working on this with all you guys.”

  “It’s been such brilliant fun,” I agree. “You know, between the arguments and stuff.” They chuckle.

  “We’re only human,” says Tanya happily.

  “That’s why I put To Be Continued at the end,” says Lewis. “I mean, we’re all going to the same school next year.”

  “You in, Toons?” Tanya asks me.

  “Hell, yes!” I reply, without even pausing.

  Tanya claps me on the back. “Good man, that woman,” she says. Which doesn’t make sense to me, but there you go.

  It is at this point that Natalie and Amelia arrive at the form room, red-eyed from crying.

  “What happened to you?” asks Tanya tactlessly. Then, eyeing Amelia suspiciously, “Was it you? I knew Toons forgave you a bit quickly. You’re trouble, you are. Back on the bullying, are you?”

  “No, no,” I intervene quickly, remembering how little love there is between Tanya and Amelia. “Nat is sad because Amelia isn’t going to the same school as us.”

  “Oh,” says Tanya, seemingly confounded as she ingests this. Obviously she could only understand delight at that news. “Well, where’s she going?”