by Laura Ruby
Tippi Hedren says, “I don’t like to be handled.”
I put my hand into the cage and she snaps at my fingers, but she’s not serious about it. She’s never chomped down hard enough to hurt me. I pop her onto my shoulder, her favorite perch. She puts on a show of flapping her wings but then begins to groom my hair, combing through the strands. “You don’t love me.”
“Love means never having to say ‘I love you.’”
“I’m just something you’ve caught. Some kind of wild animal you’ve trapped.”
“You got me there.”
I sit at my computer with Tippi still on my shoulder. Even though I just spent two hours editing the episode with Rory, I still want to see it again. I go to the MTV website where Rory uploaded it. And there it is: Riot Grrl 16, episode 8.
We lied to Joe. We used some of the footage that Rory took with his camera, the stuff with Gina screaming at me in her slurred Latvian swear speech. It had that weird, grainy look that made the show feel more realistic but surreal and dreamy too, just like a life spiraling out of control would look from the outside. Gina will be pissed, but she’ll get over it once she sees the show, once the comments and video responses come pouring in. She’ll see that it was the right thing to do.
Joe will also be pissed, but for longer. I can’t worry about that anymore.
My cell buzzes.
“Are you watching it?” Rory says.
“Yeah.”
“Awesome, huh?”
“Yup.”
“Tell me we’re going to win that contest.”
“We are going to win that contest,” I say.
“That will be $4.29.”
“What will be $4.29?”
“I’m not talking to you. I’m at work.”
Work is Rory’s parents’ video store. “What are we renting tonight?” By “we” I mean any person who risks going to Rory’s parents’ video store, World of Video, which is a dump and a fire hazard and a repository of strange and mysterious miasmas.
“Nothing good,” he says. “Have a nice day, ma’am.”
“Ma’am? A hottie, huh?”
“She’s had about nineteen face-lifts,” he says. “She looked like the Joker in a wig.”
“Glad to see that you’re respectful of your elders.”
“She rented something with Denzel Washington in it. I wanted to tell her that just because Denzel Washington’s in a movie doesn’t mean the movie’s any good. But the ’rents are still freaked out about that Robin Williams thing and told me that I should feel free to keep my opinions to myself.”
“That’s because you wouldn’t let anyone rent a movie starring Robin Williams.”
“Nobody should rent them,” he says. “I’m trying to save lives here.”
“And because you kept suggesting Evil Dead instead of Night at the Museum.”
“Evil Dead’s a classic, man. Sam Raimi directing before he went all emo with Spider-Man.”
“Spider-Man isn’t emo.”
“He’s so emo he should wear a bra. Hey, I’m working on a new list for the Jumping Frenchmen MySpace.”
Jumping Frenchmen is the name of our production company. The full name is the Jumping Frenchmen of Maine. Another thing my mom came up with. She was always our biggest fan. She says she still is, but I don’t know how that’s possible.
“What’s the list?” I say.
“Top-five fight scenes.”
“Too easy,” I say.
“For me,” he says. “For the rest of you butt heads, not so much.”
“Yeah?” I say. I’ll let Rory ramble on. He lists before he thinks, which is just one of his problems.
“Five is Fight Club. Edward Norton kicking his own ass.”
“Obvious.”
“That’s not obvious at all! It’s, like, all quirky and stuff.”
“It’s obviously quirky.”
He ignores me. “Four, Who Am I? Jackie Chan. All the cheesy acting and amazing fight sequences you can handle.”
I fake a yawn. “Did you say something? I was napping there for a bit.”
“Three: The Matrix. Carrie-Anne Moss in wet leather.”
Being a fan of chicks in wet leather, I say, “Okay, I’ll go with that one.”
“Next, the Bourne movies.”
“That’s only ’cause you have a crush on Matt Damon.”
“No, he has a crush on me. Dude won’t stop calling.”
“What’s number one?”
“Drumroll, please: Enter the Dragon. Bruce Lee.”
I don’t say anything.
“Well?” he says.
“As usual, you missed the interesting stuff.”
“Like what?” he says.
“Oh, I don’t know, all of it. Lord of the Rings movies. Jet Li movies. Anything directed by Sam Peckinpah, John Woo, or Martin Scorsese. Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. Kung Fu Hustle. The Princess Bride, where Inigo Montoya has a sword fight with the man with six fingers and keeps saying, ‘Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.’” I even do Inigo’s overblown Spanish accent, just to rub it in.
“The Princess Bride is—”
I cut him off. “And what about Aliens, where Ripley beats up the bug queen wearing that big metal suit? And Jaws.”
“There’s no fight scene in Jaws.”
“The last forty-five minutes of the movie is one long fight scene with the giant shark. And you also missed Monty Python and the Holy Grail. King Arthur and the Black Knight. ‘Look, you stupid bastard. You’ve got no arms left.’”
There’s silence on the other end, which means that Rory’s kicking himself for that one.
“Office Space,” I say.
“WHAT?!”
“The nerdy office drones kick the crap out of the printer? While the gangsta rap is playing in the background? Genius.”
“But…”
“And if you’re looking for the typical fight stuff, what about Kill Bill, Vol. 1? There are so many scenes to choose from: The Bride vs. Vernita Green. The Bride vs. O-Ren Ishii. The Bride vs. Gogo Yubari. Say it with me: Gogo.”
“I’m not saying anything.”
“You know you want to: Gogo. Go. Go. Have I mentioned her schoolgirl outfit? Her kneesocks?”
“All right, all right,” he says. “Just go, Gogo.” And he hangs up.
I win.
As always.
I turn back to the website MTV set up just for the contest. This is how it works: anyone between the ages of eighteen and twenty-two could enter a short film or pilot. MTV execs picked the top twenty and put them on their website. Every week for twelve weeks, everybody in the top twenty, Jumping Frenchmen of Maine included, is required to upload a new video. Just like on YouTube, anyone can go and view the videos and vote on them. The five production companies that get the highest votes will be on an MTV reality show where they’ll compete for $250,000 and a production contract. The show will be called The Producers.
I’m going to be on that show. I’m going to win that contract.
I watch the new Riot Grrl 16 episode again. Even though Rory just uploaded it, the comments are already starting to pour in. Five stars, five stars, five stars, four stars (excuse me?!!), five stars. I scan the list of comments:
Love it!!!!!
Riot Grrl rocks so hard!!!!
Riot Grrl, will you marry me?
And then this:
Oh, look, another vast conspiracy of the brain-free. Come on, people! This is a total piece of crap. Lonely Girl rip-off, anyone?
“It’s not a rip-off, bonehead; it’s a satire,” I say out loud. “Look it up.” Everyone loves Riot Grrl 16. Except for this moron. I laugh when I catch his name: the Tin Man. Ha. More like the flying monkey. There’s always a few of them in the comment sections, yammering on about saving the dolphins or peddling porn or just trying to inject a little excitement into their own pathetic lives by bringing everyone down.
“I think you’re a louse,”
Tippi Hedren squeaks.
“You tell him, Tippi.” I read somewhere that birds don’t know what they’re saying when they say it, but I’m not so sure about that. Tippi has her own birdbrained way of thinking about things, but most of what she says is vaguely prophetic, like spam.
I get up from my computer and go downstairs to forage for food. My dad isn’t so good at the food thing. He works a lot and late, so there’s never much in the house, and what there is goes to feed Tippi Hedren. If I’m lucky, there will be a can of chickpeas floating around a cabinet somewhere. If my dad’s lucky, I won’t die of scurvy.
I walk into the kitchen.
And see Meatball sprawled next to the kitchen table, a fork stuck in his gut. There’s red smeared everywhere.
Tippi squawks.
I gasp.
I drop to my knees and shake him. “Meatball! Are you all right? What happened? Meatball!” I pull out the fork and send it skidding across the tiles. I put my hand on his heart to feel for a beat and then I grab his wrist to check for a pulse. I shake him again. “Meat! Wake up! Please, wake up! Who did this to you?”
“I guess that’s where everyone meets Mitch,” says Tippi Hedren.
Meatball opens his eyes. “Who’s Mitch?”
I stop shaking him and shrug. “A character in Hitchcock’s The Birds. She loves to quote The Birds.”
“Yes,” he says. “But I’ve never heard Tippi say that before.” He sits up. “I’ve been waiting a long time for you.”
Matthew, aka the Meatball, has been doing a lot of dying. As his only brother—half brother, if you’re being picky—it’s my job to find and then revive him. The blood is a new thing. Up till now he’s done the bloodless stuff: heart attacks, cancer, old age. I wonder if the special effects are a sign of something. “I didn’t know you were here,” I say. “How’d I do?”
“Not too badly,” the Meatball says. “Except for the waiting. If someone had really stabbed me, I would have bled to death, you know.” He nods at the red mess splattered all around him. “Tomato paste. I thinned it with some water.”
“Nice trick,” I say. “Have fun cleaning up.”
“But really, you should have been quicker to get to me.”
I help him to his feet. “Like I said, I didn’t know you were here.”
“And maybe you could have told me that you didn’t want me to die.”
“I’ll remember that,” I say. Even though he doesn’t like it, I ruffle his hair. Today he lets me. “Where’s Marty?”
“He’s in the den watching TV. We brought you food.”
“You did?” I fling open the fridge. “Food, glorious food!”
“That’s a reference from the movie Oliver!” the Meatball says. He’s only nine, but most of the time he sounds like a professor. He even looks like a professor in one of his favorite button-down shirts and round glasses.
“I know it’s from Oliver!”
“I enjoyed that movie. I especially enjoyed the character of Nancy, the character of Fagin, and the character of Bullseye.” As he’s speaking, he counts things off on his middle finger, ring finger, and pinky. He’s that kind of kid. A middle, ring, and pinky kid.
In other words, he’s a meatball.
“Bullseye,” he’s saying, “is the dog that belongs to the bad guy.”
“Yes, I know,” I say, loading up on cheese and meat and mayo and lettuce with the full intention of making a sandwich bigger than my head.
“Mom liked that movie. It’s a very old movie from her childhood.”
“I know that, Meat.”
“She’s going to call on Saturday,” he says.
“Mom calls every Saturday.”
“I’m going to ask her when she’s coming back.”
“Okay,” I say. I used to tell him not to ask her that, but he’d get upset and pound his head with his fists. Now I just let him ask her whatever he wants to. She’ll have to deal with it. It’s the least she can do.
The Meatball cleans up his bloody mess while I construct my sandwich, which, I must say, is a work of art. Marty shambles into the room, looking a shamble, as usual. He’s my mother’s ex, the second one, my father being the first. Even though the Meatball is legally Marty’s, me and Marty and Dad pretty much share him.
Let’s just say we’re an unusual family. Or we’ve become one.
“Hey,” Marty says.
“Hey,” I say. “When did you guys get here?”
“Been here for a while. Figured you were upstairs glued to your computer. How was the shoot today?”
I say, “Great.” And then I think of Gina and say, “Great.”
Marty opens the fridge and fishes around inside. “So was it great or was it great?”
“Great.”
“Great,” he says.
I take a huge bite of my huge sandwich. “How’s work for you?”
Marty comes up from the fridge empty-handed. Work is a sore subject. It would be for me, too, if I photographed babies for a living.
“Well, I’ve spent the last two months doing an insect series,” he says. “Dressing the little ones as butterflies and bumblebees and dragonflies. That sort of thing. Very cute. I’ve even got a little snail.”
Since when is a snail an insect? “Wow. A snail.”
“Anyway, I’ve been working like a dog to get this calendar ready and then I find out a certain someone is doing her own insect calendar this year.”
“Pam Meddes,” I say.
“Pam Meddes,” he says. “That witch.” But he says this last so mildly that you know he doesn’t mean it. Marty is just too nice to think anyone is a witch, even his arch-nemesis, Pam Meddes, a baby photographer who has published nine best-selling photography books, a gagillion different baby calendars, and just launched her own line of maternity clothes. Thing is, the woman is knock-you-flat-on-your-back hot. Hard to hate a woman like that, even if she’s filthy rich with houses in New York and Tuscany and your living room carpet still stinks of the old cat that died eight years ago.
“Pam Meddes is always copying your ideas,” I say. I take another few honking bites of my sandwich.
“I photographed babies in flowerpots first,” Marty says. “So why was her book a best seller and not mine?”
“I don’t know.”
“Celine Dion wouldn’t even take my calls, but she lets Pam Meddes take her baby’s pictures.”
I wonder about making another sandwich.
“What is that about?”
I shake my head. “Life isn’t fair.”
“You always say that.”
“It’s true,” I tell him.
Marty is silent for a minute. “He looks more and more like you every day.”
He’s talking about the Meatball, who’s quietly scrubbing the tomato paste from the floor. “Yeah,” I say. “Maybe.” What we don’t talk about: Marty is my mother’s second husband and the Meatball’s father, but the Meatball looks nothing like him. He looks like me. And I look like my dad. Some days it’s hard not to wonder exactly who the Meatball’s father really is. It’s hard not to wonder if Mom stepped out on Marty with Dad, her first husband. And then she stepped out on all of us.
Tell me you don’t think we should have our own reality show.
“Are you still hungry?” Marty asks me as I stuff the last bite of my sandwich in my mouth.
I smile. “Always with the dumb questions.”
After my second sandwich, the Meatball informs us that he needs more tomato paste. Even though it’s late, I volunteer to get it. If it involves driving, I’m your man. I have a black, gas-guzzling Ford Explorer that Gina’s parents have informed me is destroying the ozone, and I practically live in it when I’m not at home. I’ve got extra everything in there: lights, camera, clothes. You never know when you’ll get a good idea. You never know when you’ll get a good shot.
I put the Meatball and Marty in charge of Tippi Hedren—or maybe it’s putting Tippi Hedren in charge of the Meatball and Mart
y; I’m convinced that bird is smarter than all of us—and jump in the Explorer. Nothing like driving dark roads with the wind whipping through the windows. A lot of people like to blast music, but I like the quiet, when the only sound is the disgruntled purr of the engine.
I’m taking the long way around so that I get in more driving time, sometimes ducking into small developments and looping back. It’s dark out, but that not very dark kind of dark, like the sun is pressed up just behind it, the light bleeding through the skin of the sky. I think about how it might look on video. My mind wanders to the idiot online, the one who said Riot Grrl 16 was a rip-off of Lonely Girl. I bet he was one of those guys who believed Lonely Girl 15 was real. I bet he was one of those guys who fell for the whole thing. We knew Lonely Girl 15 was bull the first time we saw it.
“Of course she’s lonely. Look at that stupid hat,” Rory had said, sneering.
“I Googled the religion she keeps talking about,” said Joe. “Couldn’t find it. She made it up.”
“Or someone did,” said Rory.
I said: “This stuff’s been edited. She has some skills.”
“Or someone does,” said Rory.
“This has got to be a teaser for a movie or a TV show or something.”
“Doesn’t look like that, though, does it?” Joe said.
We watched video after video. Way more interesting than the show, which was supposedly a fifteen-year-old girl’s whiny vlog, were the comments. People really bought the whole thing. There were heartfelt video responses; there were heartfelt responses to the heartfelt responses. They wanted Lonely Girl to get back together with her boyfriend, they wanted her to leave her boyfriend, they hated her parents, they hated their own parents, they totally understood where she was coming from because it was exactly where they were coming from and wasn’t it amazing that they all came from the same place, blah blah blah.
I thought it would be funny to do the same sort of vlog but with a whole different kind of girl. A punk girl. A riot girl. Someone who didn’t necessarily hate her parents but didn’t necessarily care about them either. Someone who lived as if she didn’t even have parents. Someone who acted as if she were a whole lot of Courtney Love with a nice pinch of Johnny Rotten. A tactless, lawless, shameless girl. An anarchist, a hedonist, a Satanist, a you-name-it-and-she’ll-try-it-ist.