Mr. Herbert flipped on the lights. “When I told you I wanted you to adapt a portion of the novel, I didn’t mean I wanted you to make a mockery of it.”
It was Monday afternoon. Jacob and I stood at the front of the class. I’d decided to embrace my weirdo status and wore cat-themed clothing for the occasion, including my wire cat earrings, my cat hat, and a kitten T-shirt, which I’d found in the dollar bin at the Goodwill and bedazzled with rhinestones. Jacob was more understated in his off-white fisherman’s sweater and jeans.
Ours was the last presentation. We’d already sat through a few poorly acted scenes, a dull “inner monologue,” and a long, boring poem. Our Cataptation woke everyone from their stupor. The class—minus Mr. Herbert—had laughed in all the right places.
Jacob had done an amazing job. His shots, combined with his editing skills, somehow made the whole thing work. He’d managed to make Moominmamma as Heathcliff look genuinely tormented when calling for Catherine at the window (she’d actually just been yawning), and Ferdinand as Lockwood appeared truly startled when the ghost of Catherine grabbed his paw. Even the lighting worked, and my sets looked better on-screen than they had in real life. Jacob had added sound effects and music and end credits. I felt a flutter of pleasure when I saw Written by Petula H. De Wilde, followed by Directed by Jacob S. Cohen.
“We didn’t make a mockery,” Jacob said. “We did what you asked for. We were creative.”
“I’m not sure that it falls into the realm of creativity. All right, next class Carla and Shen will present first—”
“I’m sorry,” Jacob interrupted. He was smiling, but I could see the muscles around his mouth tightening. “I take exception to that. What Petula and I did was very creative. We thought outside the box.”
“And made a trite piece of fluff.”
“It wasn’t trite. Funny, yes. Trite, no. Comedies always get short shrift. Happens at the Oscars all the time. Because it’s funny, people mistake it for being easy.”
“That’s enough, Mr. Cohen. You and Ms. De Wilde will take your seats.”
Jacob’s face darkened. He clenched his flesh-and-bone hand.
“But, sir,” I said, “everyone else loved it.”
Our classmates started clapping and hooting, including Alonzo and, I noted with a stab of delight, Rachel.
“See?” I said. “The people have spoken.”
“The people as a collective aren’t known for their good taste,” said Mr. Herbert. “Hence billions still served at McDonald’s. Hence high ratings for shows like Keeping Up with the Kardashians and Real Housewives.”
“Wow,” said Jacob. “I think you just insulted the entire class.” There were angry murmurs of agreement.
“Enough!” said Mr. Herbert. “Sit down, both of you.”
Jacob strode back to his seat, taut with anger. I let my impulsiveness get the better of me, because suddenly I shouted, “Those who can, do! Those who can’t, teach!”
The class erupted with laughter.
And I was sent to the office.
“That was not a nice thing to say,” Mr. Watley said to me ten minutes later. He was trying hard to look stern, but his whole body shook with barely suppressed laughter. I’d just shown him the video, which I had on a USB stick.
“You’re right, sir.” I sat across from him in my favorite chair. “It wasn’t. And to be fair, most teachers can. I’m just not sure Mr. Herbert is one of them.”
“We’ve talked about your impulsive behavior, Petula. Apologize to him for your outburst. And try to control yourself from now on.” Mr. Watley stood, signaling the end of our meeting.
“That’s it?”
He shrugged. “The two of you made an excellent film. Unfortunately, I’m not the one who will grade you.”
I stood up.
“Oh, and one more thing. I’m glad your partnership with Mr. Cohen worked out so well.” He looked at me with a very smug grin.
“Is that your way of saying ‘I told you so,’ sir?”
He patted his comb-over. “Yes, Petula. Yes, it is.”
Classes had already been let out by the time I left Mr. Watley’s office. I grabbed my coat from my locker and headed outside. It was a decent early-February day; I’d even seen a snowdrop poking its head out of the earth on my way to school. It was almost enough to fill a pessimist like me with a sense of renewal and hope.
I spotted Jacob standing on the sidewalk, his orange parka over his arm. He was surrounded by a group of kids from our English class. Popular kids. Including Rachel.
You could join them. Just walk over there right now. Go. Go now.
But my legs wouldn’t move.
I was no longer one of them. And maybe a sick part of me had hoped Jacob wasn’t one of them, either.
But he wasn’t like me. He was still an outgoing, gregarious person.
I knew how it would play out. He’d still be nice to me. He’d say hi in the halls. But after a while he’d have a hard time remembering my name. Eventually he’d start calling me Petunia again.
The beginning of the end of our friendship was unfolding before my eyes.
Jacob waved me over.
I pretended I didn’t see him and headed toward home.
It was easier this way, for both of us.
I hummed “All by Myself” by Eric Carmen as I walked. Dad and I had listened to that schmaltzy song dozens of times. When I was a couple of blocks from the Arcadia I heard footsteps coming up fast behind me. I tightened my fingers around my keys and whipped around, fist poised, knee at the ready.
“Don’t even think of kneeing me in the balls again,” Jacob said, out of breath. We reached a stoplight. “I was waiting for you outside. Didn’t you see me waving?” He glanced both ways, then started crossing the street on a red light.
I grabbed his arm. “Please don’t do that!”
“Petula, there’s nothing coming. Not a car in sight.” But he waited with me until the light turned green. “You were amazing in class. I’m just sorry you got sent to the office. What happened?”
“Nothing, really. Mr. Watley thought the short was awesome too.”
Jacob laughed. “It is awesome! You should’ve heard some of the compliments we got. Including from Rachel.”
“You can stop now,” I said.
“Stop what?”
“This. The assignment’s done. You don’t have to hang out with me anymore.”
He stared at me for a long time. “Wow. I knew your self-esteem was in the toilet. But this is a new low, even for you.”
“This isn’t about self-esteem. It’s just life.”
“You ever see the Debbie Downer sketches on Saturday Night Live?”
“You’re comparing me to Debbie Downer?”
“You have some great qualities, Petula. But this maudlin, self-pitying, ‘the world’s going to hell in a handbasket’ thing you’ve got going on is definitely not one of them.”
Ouch!
“And while we’re at it, can I just say that Rachel seems like a great person? A forgiving person. So why not just man up and talk to her?”
“Because I’m not a man?”
“Then woman up. Say you’re sorry. You actually have the chance to make amends here, because she’s still alive. Which is more than I can say for my friends.” And on that note, he turned and walked away with his giraffelike stride.
“I am not maudlin and self-pitying!” I shouted after him.
Feeling very sorry for myself.
I stomped into the apartment and tore off my coat. Mom was already home; her red boots were next to the bench. A bunch of the cats surrounded me, meowing in greeting.
“Have the cats been fed?” I called.
There was no answer.
“Mom?”
Still no answer. I headed down the hall to her bedroom.
The blinds were drawn. Ferdinand and Stuart Little were curled up like sentries at the top of the bed. I could just make out a lump under the quilt, and tufts of wavy chestnut hair. Even though I’d been through this a handful of times before, anxiety still rose in my throat like a hard rubber ball. “Mom?”
“Hi, Tula,” came her muffled response.
I let myself exhale. I hadn’t really believed she was dead, but still, it was a relief. “You okay?”
“Think I came down with something at work.”
I felt her forehead. It wasn’t hot.
I fed the cats. I vacuumed. I threw in a load of laundry. I uncovered another of Anne of Green Gables’ stealth turds and cleaned it up. I made dinner. I tried to get Mom to eat, but she wasn’t hungry.
Dad wouldn’t be back for hours, which was good. It upset him when she got like this. By the time he came home it would just look like she’d gone to bed early.
I lay down next to Mom and spooned her. She held my hands against her heart.
“She was such a lovely little girl.”
“She was. I’m so sorry, Mom.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for. No one blames you. You know this.”
Except I don’t.
When I knew Mom was asleep, I got up and went to my room. Jacob’s comments started tumbling through my head again. I tried to feel angry. But a part of me knew he wasn’t entirely wrong.
I tried to read, but I couldn’t concentrate, so I searched online for articles for my scrapbook.
Boy Gets Pogo Stick for Birthday, Dies on First Jump
A ten-year-old boy in Auckland, New Zealand, has died after receiving his dream gift from his parents. “He’d begged them for a pogo stick,” a saddened neighbor said. The boy tried to jump on the pogo stick and fell off, hitting his head on a rock…
Man Killed by Falling Air Conditioner
Forty-three-year-old Kent Tremay was on his way to his girlfriend’s house to propose to her, say friends, when a loose air-conditioning unit became dislodged from an apartment window and fell eight stories, hitting Tremay…
But I didn’t print them because I knew Jacob would say my scrapbook fell into the Debbie Downer category.
“You don’t know me,” I muttered. I always had much better comebacks when my conversations were one-way. “You have no idea what I’m capable of.” To prove it, I picked up my phone and wrote Rachel a text.
Can we talk?
This time, I pressed Send.