“Petula, nice to meet you,” said his mom. “I’m Miranda, and this is David.” When we shook hands, I hoped they wouldn’t notice that I’d left my mittens on.
We moved into their living/dining area. David served eggs Benedict. “I’m not much of a cook, but I do a mean brunch,” he said. As we talked, I wolfed down my food, with the exception of one underdone egg, which I discreetly pushed to the side of my plate. No need to court salmonella poisoning.
David said, “I hear you and my son shot a movie starring cats.”
“Yes.”
“It’s so nice to see Jacob making movies again,” said Miranda. “He used to do it all the time with—” She stopped.
I looked up. Jacob’s jaw was clenched. Miranda looked close to tears. David looked anxiously from his wife to his son.
Jacob tossed his napkin on the table. “Come on, Petula. I’ll show you the video.”
“Thank you so much for brunch.” I started to clear my dishes, but David stopped me.
“It’s okay. Leave them. We’ve got it covered.”
Jacob led me down the hallway. “What just happened?” I asked.
“Nothing. I just don’t like talking about the past, and they know it.”
We entered his room. It was like the rest of the apartment, neat and tidy. A massive DVD collection was stored on three bookshelves. Two framed movie posters hung on one wall, one for Inglourious Basterds, the other for The Grand Budapest Hotel. His digital camera sat on a shelf beside a handful of books on cinema and directing.
That was it. There were no photos, no trophies, no souvenirs, no knickknacks.
Jacob pulled an extra chair up to his desk and we both sat down. His laptop was hooked up to a huge monitor, one of two.
We were so close, our knees grazed.
Then I felt his hand touch mine.
Sometimes the body has a response that the mind has zero control over. My mind didn’t want my body to feel like jelly all of a sudden. I didn’t want to have this overwhelming desire to lean into him, to feel his arms around me again.
Still. He was touching my hand. Was he sending a signal?
No.
It was his robot limb. A hunk of carbon fiber.
He had no idea his hand was touching mine.
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 reac
hed 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.
I arrived outside school at exactly 7:55 the next morning. The bagel I’d forced myself to eat kept rising in my throat.
Rachel had texted me back just as I’d been drifting off to sleep: Picnic benches. 8:00 tomorrow morning.
She was already there, bundled up in a thick wool coat and gray-and-white snowflake scarf. I had the same scarf in red and white; we’d knit them together. “Hello,” I said, my voice cracking.
“Hi.” Her blond hair was to her shoulders, and held back with a handmade purple-and-white polka-dot headband, which matched her handmade purple-and-white polka-dot tote bag.
I was wearing a couple of items that Rachel had made for me: a multicolored belt crafted from old ties, and the meant-for-special-occasions-only bottle-cap necklace.
I sat down beside her. It was cool and damp, but it wasn’t raining.
Rachel didn’t say a word. It was my job to get things started. “I like your headband. It’s very Jane Fonda Workout.”
“Thanks.”
“Did you get the idea—”
“From Wendy Russell on The Marilyn Denis Show? Yes.”
“I saw that episode, too. It was a good one.”
Rachel nodded, and we grew silent.
“Might I also say that your dickey is spectacular?”
She glanced down at her mock turtleneck in kelly green. “Thanks. I made it last week out of a piece of old fleece.” More silence. I undid a couple of toggles on my coat and angled myself so Rachel could see the necklace. “Oh,” she said. “That’s supposed to be for special occasions.”
“I guess I thought, you know, this had the potential to be one.”
She looked away.
“How are you?” I asked.
“Good.”
“And your parents?” I omitted the remaining member of her family.
“They’re good, too. How about yours?”
“I honestly don’t know how to answer that.” And suddenly, inexplicably, I felt tears spring to my eyes. Rachel reached out and put a hand over mine, and I saw she was wearing the Miss Piggy mittens I’d made her for Christmas three years earlier. “I’m so sorry, Rachel. You were trying so hard to be a good friend, and I was such an awful one.”
“Truly awful.”
“What I did— What I said—”
“I could have lived with what you did. But the other…”
“I know. I don’t know what to say. I was so angry, I was…spewing hatred.” I forced my next words out. “How’s your brother?”
Rachel smiled. “He’s great. Super excited to start kindergarten next year, talking a mile a minute, very opinionated…”
It felt like my heart was being squeezed.
“Just last week he rode his bike without training wheels….”
I couldn’t help it. I started to cry for real.
Rachel stopped. “I’m so sorry. Oh, Petula, I’m so sorry.” Then she was crying, too. “I still miss her so much. She was such an awesome little girl.”
We let ourselves be sad for a while. “I brought you something,” I said eventually. I rummaged around in my tote bag and pulled out our Little House on the Prairie bonnets.
Rachel started to laugh. “Oh my God…”
We put them on. Then, spontan
eously, we started acting out our all-time favorite scene, when poor Mary Ingalls discovers she’s blind. “Help me, Pa!” we said in unison. “Pa, I can’t see! Hold me! It’s dark! It’s too dark! I’m scared, Pa!”
Kids had started to arrive for school. They stared openly. Koula strode past in her Doc Martens and fishnet stockings. “Freaks!” she yelled.
But I couldn’t care less. It was a seriously awesome moment. Like we’d traveled back in time. “I hate that Nellie Oleson!” I shouted, quoting another of our favorite lines. “I hate that Nellie Oleson!” I said again, waiting for Rachel to join in.
But she didn’t. Her expression had gotten all serious again. She pulled off the bonnet and held it out to me.
“You can keep it,” I said. “It’s yours.”
She hesitated before she stuffed it into her school bag. “I guess I should go.” Her voice had taken on an edge that I did not like.
“Um. I was hoping—”
“Hoping we could pick up where we left off?”
“No. Maybe.”
“Why would you want to be friends with a fat, ugly loser who can’t see that everyone around her hates her guts and thinks she’s pathetic?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You did. But that wasn’t the worst of it, Petula. You also said”—her voice caught—“you said the wolf suit was my idea. You said Maxine’s death was my fault.”
“Rachel,” I pleaded, “I wasn’t myself. I was a mess. I was medicated.”
“I know. I know all that. But it’s not that easy to forget.” She looked at the ground. “What I went through doesn’t come close to what you went through, what you are going through. But you really hurt me, Petula. You made me feel like garbage.”
“You were never the garbage. I’m the garbage.”
The bell rang. Rachel stood. “I’m glad you reached out. Really. Let’s…let’s just see how it goes.” Then she walked away.
I felt like my guts were lying on the pavement in front of me.
I sat there for a long time. I don’t know what I’d expected. I was so shell-shocked I barely registered the red Mazda that squealed up to the curb, fifteen minutes after classes had started. I barely registered the boy in the shiny blue Adidas tracksuit until he sat down beside me and started punching my arm.
Optimists Die First Page 7
