“Oh, I’ve got mine too,” pipes up Lewis.
“Lewis came top of computing,” explains Joshua. Of course he did.
“Oh … cool, well done, Lewis!” I try and sound like I expected this on some level.
“Thanks,” Lewis says flatly. I think his expression is somewhere between pity and disdain, but I’m not sure. I don’t think he liked me lumping us together.
“Winners, innit, Toons?” says Tanya. “We’re all winners!” (Is she including me in that?)
“Yes,” I agree. “Well, now that that’s all sorted, would anyone like to see my brilliant picture of our school being run by aliens in the future?” I sound slightly more annoyed than I’d meant to.
“Jess, let’s not go home, let’s go to McDonald’s and get milkshakes!” Nat and Amelia yank me off the bus, even though it’s not my stop. They’re still in high spirits from working on the yearbook, and the excitement of school nearly being over.
I text my mum I’ll be late as we walk along. She’d be annoyed if I didn’t. Ironically, she’d also be annoyed if she knew I was texting and walking at the same time, so I can’t win.
I relax and put my phone back in my pocket. It’s a nice sunny day and it’s great to have fun with a happy Natalie and Amelia. It doesn’t feel like that long ago they were banning me from their clandestine McDonald’s trips. Oh well, water under the bridge.
It isn’t until we join the queue that I remember I don’t have any money. I mean, I never have any money, but it’s only just started to become a bit of a problem. I didn’t seem to need any before. Now that I hang out with Natalie and Amelia a bit more, it turns out that frequent milkshakes and sometimes chips require cash.
“I don’t have any money,” I tell Natalie, feeling awkward, even though this is almost part of a routine now.
“Don’t worry, it’s my turn to get Jessica’s milkshake this time,” says Amelia, opening her Hello Kitty purse. “Oh no,” she says, examining its contents. “I don’t have enough. Can you get it?” she asks Nat.
“I don’t have enough either,” says Natalie, counting the change in her hand. “Don’t worry, Jess, just share mine.”
Even though she’s being really nice, I start to feel mortified. “It’s fine, you guys. I’m really sorry I never have any money. You don’t have to get me anything.”
Am I red? I feel like I’m going red. Stupid money. I feel angry that I don’t have any, and angry that they dragged me in here without a thought for how embarrassed it makes me. I don’t want to be a charity case. Eurgh.
“That’s cool,” says Amelia, apparently quite oblivious to any discomfort I’m in. “I would share with you too, but I’m funny about germs.” Of course she is.
“It’s fine. Honestly,” I say. “Neither of you need to.”
“Of course I’ll share with you, Jess,” says Nat. “You’d do the same for me, wouldn’t you? If it was the other way round?”
“Yes,” I say obligingly. Though actually, I like to think if it was the other way round, I’d be a bit more sensitive than her about it.
“Why should you suffer, just because your family are poor?” adds Amelia. And a lot more sensitive than Amelia is being.
“They’re not, um, OK. It’s fine. I’ll find us a table,” I mumble and exit this conversation.
It’s too difficult to explain that, although my family went on an extended economy drive (Mum refused to buy anything except milk until everything in the cupboards was gone, including out-of-date kidney beans that were “probably fine”), and then we were tightening our belts (Mum refused to buy anything unless it was from the “reduced to clear” section or Super Saver Value brand), actually all that is over and we are back on regular supermarket brand crisps and everything.
It’s just that the possibility of a pocket-money rise is “non-negotiable” until we are more stable and back on our feet properly.
Nat and Amelia join me and I slurp some of Natalie’s milkshake. On the plus side, it is nice and refreshing on this hot day. On the downside, they’re still talking about blimmin’ legacies.
“What do you think you’ll choose, Jess?” asks Nat.
“Oh, um. Well, I guess cartoons is what I do mostly,” I say. Natalie and Amelia exchange a slight look. “What?”
“We thought you might say something like that,” says Amelia, kind of sadly.
“It’s just” – Nat pauses, looking like she’s trying to be tactful – “being good at cartoons isn’t really a legacy thing,” she explains kindly.
“Why not?” I say, surprised. “That’s my thing.”
“Well, it’s not a thing,” says Nat.
“It is too a thing,” I counter childishly.
“Jess, and I say this with love, it’s not a proper thing,” says Nat patiently.
“Have you been talking to my parents?” I ask her.
“What? No.” She sounds confused.
“Come on,” I implore. “The cartoon I drew of our school as hell that went round everywhere? The comic I set up with Joshua and Tanya? It’s famous in Year Six – people ask me to draw stuff on their rough books for them. I’m the cartoon person. It’s in my nickname and everything.”
“The thing is,” tries Amelia, “that comic is with three other people. It’s not just yours. And those three people all have other stuff going on as well.”
“Yeah, they all have other stuff they’re good at,” agrees Natalie. (Is the implication that I don’t have other stuff I’m good at? Oh God, do I not have other stuff I’m good at? Have I put all my eggs in one proverbial, if expertly drawn, basket? Are my parents right?)
“Think about it, anyway,” says Amelia, taking another slurp of milkshake. I nod, reeling.
“Isn’t this great?” says Nat happily, waving her hands expansively. “Smell that summer breeze.” (The door bangs open and I can mainly smell petrol, but I think there’s a summer breeze in there somewhere as well.) “And we’ve got our whole lives ahead of us!” she adds delightedly.
I smile politely, but my head is elsewhere. I’m not sure this is so great. For the first time I feel slightly worried about my future and concerned that I’m not actually equipped to deal with it.
I mean, it’s one thing batting off my parents’ concerns. But when their view is corroborated by my peers…? Well, you’d have to be mad not to pay it some attention. What’s going on?
At home I head to the kitchen and find my sister, Tammy, arriving at the back door. “Don’t worry, I won’t be here long,” she tells my aggrieved-looking mother. “I won’t even stay for dinner.”
“You won’t want to, veg-head. It’s sausage and mash and it’s nearly ready,” replies Mum tersely.
“Cup of tea?” Dad enters the kitchen and puts the kettle on. Mum nods gratefully.
Ryan skids into the kitchen on his knees and grabs my dad’s legs. “Gotcha!” he yells at Dad’s trousers. “Die, evil monster! Die!”
“You’ll have to move, Ryan,” says Dad. “I need to use the kettle.”
“Never!” cries Ryan. “And, Daddy? Don’t, whatever you do, tickle me.”
Honestly, kids think they’re so good at reverse psychology, and they’re so rubbish at it.
“Oh, I’ve no intention of tickling you,” says Dad matter-of-factly. “No intention whatso—” Suddenly my dad lunges downwards and starts tickling Ryan, who shrieks with delight and lets go of my dad’s legs. My dad escapes and gets cups out of the cupboard.
“Ryan, get up off the dirty floor,” instructs Mum. “Tammy, go home to your own house. We’re busy. Jessica…” She pauses, possibly realising we haven’t said hello yet. “Hello, poppet. How was school?”
“DADDDDEEEEEEEEE!” Ryan takes another lunge at Dad’s legs.
“That’s enough now, Ryan,” says Dad in his stern voice, surprising Ryan into sitting up, disappointed. “I’m making hot drinks here; it’s not safe. We’ll play later.”
Mildly pacified by the promise of “later”, Ryan g
oes back into the living room to find Lady.
Tammy starts rooting through the cupboard.“I just need to… By the way, why do you have so many plastic bags here? You should be using bags for life and reusing them.”
“Excuse me,” says Mum indignantly. “We do reuse them!”
Tammy takes out a grocery receipt from one of the bags. “Paper,” she declares almost triumphantly. “You know how to tell whether you can recycle it or not, right? You have to— Hang on… Wow! Is this…?” Tammy holds up the receipt, seeming temporarily speechless. “This isn’t from 1982, is it?” (Very temporarily.)
“No,” sighs Mum. “Whatever the problem is, I’m sure we’re very sorry, now can you please—”
Tammy pauses and looks awestruck at my mum. “Wait… How did you spend this little on a weekly food shop for a family of four?”
This receipt must be from either the economy drive or the belt-tightening extravaganza.
“Oh.” Mum appears as blindsided by this question as Tammy was by the receipt discovery. “Well, I cook a lot of meals from scratch,” says Mum, thinking, “and I shop carefully.”
“Mum,” says Tammy seriously, looking at Mum in wonder. “I never thought I would say this, but I need you to teach me how to cook.”
Everyone stares at each other in shock.
“But I thought food was ‘just fuel’, and cooking was a pretentious, bourgeois activity?” says Mum, partly enjoying this turnaround and still partly – I think – incredulous.
“Yeah, yeah,” says Tammy. “Get it out of your system.”
“Your words, Tammy,” says Mum reasonably. “I believe that was one of your parting shots as you left home for university almost a year ago.”
“Yes, well, I’ve had almost a year of eating wholemeal pasta with ketchup to think about it,” says Tammy.
“And?” says Mum teasingly. “You don’t mean…”
“Yes,” says Tammy. “I don’t say this very often, but I may have been wrong.”
“I think that might be the first time I’ve ever heard you say that,” says Dad.
Mum folds her arms and looks at Tammy. “So,” she says, “you’re interested in bourgeois, tasty cooking?”
“No,” says Tammy firmly. “I’m interested in how to be economic. That’s a genuine skill, Mum. Especially in these hard times.”
Weirdest. Dinner. Ever. Tammy makes herself a Marmite sandwich (because she’s still vegetarian) and joins us at the table. Then her and Mum just keep chatting about how to make shepherd’s pie from scratch, while Tammy makes notes on our telephone pad.
Mum and Tammy rarely communicate this positively. Mum actually seems a bit torn. I think part of her is flattered, but it’s also putting her slightly on edge.
It’s putting me on edge too. I feel way more secure when everyone is shouting at each other. You know where you are with people then.
“Lamb is a delicious meat,” Mum is saying.
“Well, I’ll have to use Quorn or soya,” replies Tammy, scribbling away.
“That definitely won’t taste as nice,” I comment.
“Shhh,” Tammy hisses at me. “Stop interrupting.”
“There’s ways to get extra flavour in,” says Mum. “The secret ingredient is curry powder.”
“You put curry powder in shepherd’s pie?” I blurt out, surprised.
“Just a tiny bit, not too much,” Mum replies.
“I said, stop interrupting!” Tammy snaps at me.
You know the world has gone mad when Tammy is snapping at me and listening to Mum. I mean, what next? A green sky and blue grass?
“How are you coming along with my cartoon, big mouth?” Tammy asks me then.
“Big mouth?” I’m offended. “I have every right to express surprise at the unexpected presence of curry powder in my tea,” I say huffily.
“Have you finished it yet?” says Tammy.
“Nearly,” I lie. “I’ve got a bit more to do after dinner.”
“Great.” Then she goes back to quizzing Mum.
“Why is Tammy suddenly so into cooking?” I ask my dad later as he washes up, while the rest of the family sit in the living room drinking tea.
“Oh, you know,” says Dad evasively. “Sometimes, when you’re that blinkered, you find the obvious amazing.”
“Dadddddeeeee!” Ryan runs in and grabs Dad’s legs, giggling. “Don’t tickle me!”
“Everyone out.” Mum and Tammy enter the kitchen, looking purposeful. “I’m going to show Tammy how to make a shepherd’s pie.”
Why did I say I’d nearly finished? I berate myself as I sit at my desk later, still feeling clueless about what to draw. And why is everyone else so down on cartoons?
I can’t believe Natalie and Amelia’s attitude in McDonald’s earlier. Or Mum and Dad’s yesterday. I mean, I expect that kind of thing from my mum, sure. But it seems very hypocritical of my dad to join in.
Especially since he was, until recently, living up a tree, like some kind of irresponsible lunatic. (He had a sort of mini mid-life crisis and joined Tammy on a protest to save the forest.)
Incidentally, while he was “dealing with some issues” (as Mum put it) he was actually very positive about me following my dream of becoming an artist. He kept saying life was too short not to. Now he’s got back into being all sensible and into keeping the lawn neat instead.
Which is pretty rich of him, because (a) our lawn is still covered in daisies and dandelions, and (b) while up the tree, he met like-minded people, one of whom offered him a job. And now he has practically his dream position working for the charity Green Fortis.
He’s much happier than he was at his old job. And there are some really great perks – free Fairtrade chocolate for one. The car is a downside, obviously, but you can’t have everything.
The car is a bright, luminous shade of lime green, and it has a slogan on the side in big yellow writing, saying “Living the electric dream!” I’m sure it’s green to represent the environment, but the choice of colouring does make it feel more like an advert for a fizzy lemon and lime drink.
Dad’s transition was kind of like a lesson in not caring about materialistic things, and then being rewarded. So it seems hypocritical to encourage me to get a “good” job that will most likely make me as miserable as he used to be. Though to be fair, he is still more enthusiastic about creativity than Mum.
Eugh. Anyway. What can I draw that’s funny for a political campaign…? It’s got to make people think about global warming and climate change in a whole new way. Oh God, this is hopeless. I lean my head on my desk and moan quietly. No. Come on, you can do this.
I sit up straight again. OK. OK, so, how do people think about climate change now? Well, according to Tammy, they “can’t be bothered to engage with it”. So I guess it doesn’t seem real to them.
But it won’t become real until it’s the future, and you can’t draw the definite future, you can only guess at it. (Like how I guessed that aliens will run our school in the future – it could happen.) So I could draw the future, where everything will be mostly under water. And that isn’t funny, it’s sad. Unless you’re a fish. Hey… Unless you’re any animal that can swim. Then, not only is it fine for you, but there are fewer humans actually trying to eat you. Hmmmm.
I sit and think a bit more, and let pictures of all kinds of marine life fill my mind. Are they happy? Are they wistful? Do they miss the humans? Is the sea too crowded if no one goes hunting and fishing? Surely it would be a paradise for them?
Maybe there’d be a new idiot animal that’s replaced the humans? Maybe jellyfish would be the next most annoying creature, and everyone would bully them. Suddenly I’m full of ideas. But I can’t use them all, and they’re not quite right yet. I love brainstorming.
As I let my mind free-fall, I realise I had been coming at the cartoon from the wrong angle. It’s not what’s funny about flooding, it’s kind of the opposite. Comedy is tragedy plus time. Or something.
Fina
lly I settle on an idea I like. Two dolphins are in the sea, talking to each other. One of them says to the other one, “I remember when all this was fields.”
I think, hopefully, it strikes the right note. It’s a twist on that annoying phrase adults say when they’re a) pointing out how old they are, and b) complaining at the changes modern life has made to where they live. (My dad says it whenever we drive past the new housing estate that was built recently over the countryside at the edge of town.)
The twist is that it’s not houses that are covering the fields, but water, because humans didn’t look after the environment properly. Hopefully it’s funny without being too dark, and the surprise of the juxtaposition will make people think about climate change in a new light.
Phew.
Tammy loved the cartoon! God, I feel so much better as I ride the bus to school the next day. I can’t believe I let everyone bring me down with their negative attitudes.
Sure, cartoons aren’t for everyone. But let the people that like them get on with their lives. Honestly. All this legacy nonsense. Who cares about leaving a legacy? I’m doing this for me and because it’s fun. I don’t need outside validation. (Except from Tammy, it seems.)
Anyway, I really don’t care if they all argue with me again. I’m making cartoons my legacy, or I’m not having a legacy, and that’s fine with me. Idiots. Haha.
I arrive in my form room to find Harriet VanDerk arguing with Amelia and Natalie.
My Great Success and Other Failures Page 2
