My Great Success and Other Failures

by Catherine Wilkins

  “I really must insist I be allowed to have a list of things as my legacy,” says Harriet.

  “No deal,” says Nat. “You have to pick just one.”

  “But I’m so good at so many things, that’s impossible!” cries Harriet.

  Harriet’s sense of her own greatness really winds people up. Including me, even though I try not to let it.

  “Well,” replies Amelia through gritted teeth, “pick the one you think you’re the best at.”

  “You’re not listening to me. I’m equally good at everything I do!” Harriet is incensed.

  “Well, we’ve explained the situation,” says Nat flatly.

  “Why don’t you make your legacy ‘best at everything’?” I joke, dropping my bag on my desk.

  “I know you’re laughing at me, Jessica.” Harriet eyes me critically. “But that’s actually not a bad idea. How else can I encapsulate my Further Maths, Mandarin, grade 6 piano and excellent exam results?”

  Amelia cracks and lapses into sarcasm. “It’s hard, isn’t it?” she simpers. “You have such a plethora of strings to your bow. Maybe you could make your legacy ‘overachieving at everything except Art’?”

  Oooh, burn! This is a sore spot for Harriet. She’s very competitive. Not satisfied with being the best at practically everything, she got very annoyed when Mrs Cooper preferred my set designs to hers, and so kept trying to boss me about (even though she had no authority to do so).

  “I know what you’re trying to do,” says Harriet. “But I’m totally over Mrs Cooper’s ludicrous choices. There’s no accounting for taste. And I totally put it behind me at the time. And I was very supportive of the bad artistic direction the production went in. I should actually add team-building and professionalism to my legacy list.”

  Amelia and I stare open-mouthed at her. I know the VanDerks have a habit of rewriting their own history, but that still really took the biscuit. I mean, it could not have been more opposite of what happened.

  “That’s funny.” Amelia recovers first. “Because I remember it as you getting into trouble for constantly sabotaging us, and then being forced to back down.”

  “Potato potarto,” I quip. “Let’s not split hairs, Amelia. Sabotaging people is practically the same as professionalism.”

  Natalie and Amelia laugh, which I’m glad about, because Harriet is being very insulting to me. Again. Though I do sometimes feel a bit bad when I crack a joke that makes everyone laugh at one person. Even if that one person is mean and deserves it.

  “Yeah, laugh it up.” Harriet turns on me. “Is that your legacy, Jessica? Class clown? The fool, the funny idiot? Enjoy it while it lasts, because I’m sure the only reason Mrs Cooper wanted to use your designs in the first place was to make you feel better for being so rubbish at everything else!”

  I feel like I’ve been slapped. Adrenalin surges through me, and my head is fizzing with righteous anger. How dare she? But I remain outwardly calm and say, “It’s great you really are so over it,” making Natalie and Amelia laugh again.

  “Yeah? Well, at least I’m not a charity case!” Harriet shoots back.

  “Oh, just go away!” Nat shouts at Harriet. “Stop being horrible to Jess.”

  “Fine, I’m leaving,” says Harriet. “I can’t believe you two are in charge of the yearbook. It should have been me. I’d be way better at it.”

  “Hey, don’t listen to Harriet,” says Nat, putting her arm around me. “You’re not the class idiot.”

  “I know,” I say, feeling weirdly defensive all of a sudden. Why did she feel the need to point that out?

  I don’t really think Mrs Cooper chose my designs out of pity. I’m not even that rubbish at other subjects. And why would a teacher do that? It seems very unlikely. Mrs Cooper didn’t choose my designs for the wrong reasons. Definitely. Did she?

  God, you’d think everything would get easier now that school is winding down, but my life is like a roller coaster at the moment. One minute I’m up and excited because I drew a great dolphin cartoon that Tammy loved; the next I’m down in the dumps and paranoid I’m a rubbish charity case, thanks to Harriet VanDerk.

  I wish I could magic it back to this morning again, when I was elated, before I spoke to Harriet. I wish I could un-hear what she said about Mrs Cooper. But I can’t un-hear it, and I can’t shake off the feeling that it could be true.

  I mean, sometimes adults do try and spare your feelings a bit. Like, once my mum put a picture Ryan drew of a rocket on the fridge, and you couldn’t even tell it was a rocket. It was just sort of some red and yellow squiggles.

  Then he spent the rest of that day lording it over me, saying I wasn’t the only artist in the family. When I complained Mum just told me, “Oh, let him have his moment, he’s younger than you.” So adults do sometimes pretend they’re more impressed with kids than they really are, to help their self-esteem. Is that what this was? Was my set design actually my fridge rocket?

  No. It can’t be. But… No, it can’t be. But… Aaaarrgghh. I hate Harriet VanDerk.

  Afternoon lessons on Thursdays are “free time” so people can finish off other projects they’re doing or play about with the graphics packages on the computers. I sit with Natalie and Amelia and help them with the yearbook.

  “Most likely to become a pop star?” suggests Natalie.

  “Yep, good one.” Amelia nods approval and writes it down.

  “Most likely to steal the Crown Jewels?” I say. Nat chuckles; Amelia writes it down. “Most likely to be abducted by aliens?” I offer.

  “You’re obsessed with aliens,” comments Amelia.

  “It’s funny though,” says Nat. Amelia writes it down.

  “Ooh, put most likely to win an Oscar,” says Nat. “That’s me, I’m most likely to win an Oscar.”

  “Can you decide that?” I ask.

  “Of course, I’m on the committee,” replies Nat.

  “The committee of you two?” I query.

  “Yes. But I was just the lead in the school play, Jess.”

  “Oh, were you? I’d completely forgotten; it was so uneventful and you never talk about it.”

  Nat laughs and hits my arm affectionately. “Oi.”

  “Hi, guys,” says Cherry, coming over with Shantair. They’re my friends from the chess club. They’re shy and clever, and get annoyed when I try to talk to them during lessons.

  “We’ve just printed out our yearbook pictures on the computers for you.” Shantair hands them over.

  “Wow, cool picture of you as the Cowardly Lion!” I say to her. “You look great.”

  “Thanks!” Shantair beams shyly. I was concerned she was typecast as the Cowardly Lion, but she really was very good. She does drama outside school.

  Cherry’s picture is of her winning the chess championship cup last week. “You might as well make that my legacy thing too, I guess,” she says.

  “Sure thing,” says Nat, as Amelia takes the photos carefully.

  “Nice one!” I enthuse supportively, while my stomach lurches. I still don’t have a committee-approved legacy. I’m pretty good at chess but I’m still not good enough at it that it’s my thing.

  They head back over to their computer and we go back to trying to come up with more most-likely-to’s. We think we should give everyone a “nice” (boring, normal) one, and a funny one, so that no one can get offended. I rattle off whatever comes into my head (there’s no judgement in blue sky) and soon we have an impressive list:

  Most likely to fall down a manhole

  Most likely to win a hot-dog-eating competition

  Most likely to fall asleep on the bus

  Most likely to sing in the shower

  Most likely to win a Nobel Prize

  Most likely to win X Factor

  Most likely to become a teacher

  Most likely to get caught eating sweets in a lesson

  Most likely to break a world record (for farting)

  Most likely to become a comedian

 
Most likely to win the lottery but lose the ticket

  Most likely to have a town named after them

  Most likely to discover they have a secret twin

  We’re giggling at “most likely to get accidentally locked in a toilet” (which Nat thinks might be too mean to include) when my friends Emily, Megan and Fatimah come over with their pictures. They’re my friends that love messing about in lessons, and love it when I start talking to them when we’re meant to be learning.

  All their photos are really good too. Fatimah’s picture is of her holding a really cute kitten, which makes Natalie squeal with delight. Emily is sitting on a high wall with a lovely blue sky behind her, and Megan’s picture is of her at Harry Potter world, grinning and sticking her thumbs up.

  “Brilliant, thanks. Do you have your legacies worked out?” asks Amelia.

  “Oh, uh, yeah, all right then,” says Emily. “How about this?” And with that, she sticks her whole fist in her mouth.

  Amelia gapes at her. Natalie says, really slowly, “Wow!”

  I’d forgotten Emily could do this, and I can’t help but chuckle at Amelia’s reaction. I know this is not the kind of thing Amelia finds impressive, as she’s still a little snooty, and I’m sure that she’s finding it somewhat uncouth.

  “You want … that to be your legacy?” Amelia queries.

  “Yeah. Is that not the kind of thing you mean?” asks Emily. “I bet no one else can do it.”

  “That’s true,” says Megan. She and Fatimah immediately start trying to fit their fists in their mouths, and I join in for good measure.

  “Itsssff fthrilly harrrd,” I garble, removing my fist again.

  “OK, if you’re sure,” Amelia says politely, and makes a note. “What about you two?”

  “I’ve got the neatest handwriting,” says Fatimah.

  “And I won the hundred metres on sports day,” beams Megan. “I even beat the boys. My legacy is speed.”

  “Those are all such good legacies,” I say with awe.

  “What’s yours?” Emily asks. “Inventing the would you rather game?”

  “Ha, I wish,” I say. “I didn’t invent it; I played it somewhere else and then brought it to our school.”

  “You could have popularising the would you rather game?” Amelia looks up from making notes.

  “OK, everyone!” says Mrs Cole. “If I could have your attention, please. Start finishing off what you’re doing and logging off your computers.”

  “Ooh, gotta go.” Emily, Megan and Fatimah swiftly head back to their work terminal to log out.

  “Are you seriously still not letting me have cartoons?” I ask Amelia and Natalie. “Emily’s legacy is fitting her fist in her mouth.”

  “Well, as she said, she is the only one that can do it,” points out Nat. “Lots of other people can draw cartoons.”

  Un-be-lievable.

  I think I might have sighed so much on my way home that I sprained my oesophagus.

  And I sigh again as I open the front door, and then feel slightly cheered up by Lady, who lies at my feet, blocking my way, trying to convince me to tickle her tummy. So I do.

  I really don’t see why Natalie and Amelia can’t just let me have cartoons as my legacy. I know I haven’t won a prize for them, and I can’t be empirically proved the best or whatever (like Cherry with her chess championship cup) but I’m the one that likes cartoons the most. Surely that should count for something?

  I think they’re just being pig-headed and don’t want to back down now. The pig-headed … pigs. (Yeah, I went there.)

  “You did what?” I hear my mum shout from the kitchen.

  “Calm down.” This time it’s Tammy doing the placating, not my dad. Where’s my dad? He’s going to need to make my mum an all-calming cup of tea immediately. Stat.

  “Cup of tea?” I hear his voice. Phew.

  Well, the ceasefire didn’t last long. I wonder if I dare to enter the kitchen and find out what happened. But it turns out I don’t need to.

  “You had no business putting the recipes I gave you on a public blog for all the world to see!” Mum exclaims.

  “But it’s to help people!” Tammy seems incredulous. “You’re an expert at feeding a family healthy food on a shoestring budget. Loads of people would love to know how to do that. Don’t you want to share your experience with the needy?”

  “Why didn’t you ask me first?”

  “I didn’t think you’d object!”

  “I don’t want a bunch of weirdos on the Internet knowing my business; it’s not safe!”

  “Tea’s on its way!” Dad interjects, trying to sound cheerful, but actually sounding a bit strained.

  “Yeah, it’s so unsafe,” shouts Tammy sarcastically. “Especially since I put your name, address and bank details up there as well.”

  “What?!”

  “Obviously I’m joking.” Tammy quickly backs down on that one. Even she can see there’s no point pushing Mum over the edge.

  “Tea!” My dad’s triumphant yell finally drowns them both out. “Why don’t we have a nice sit down and talk about this sensibly.”

  I hear the kitchen chairs being scraped across the floor and decide it’s safe to go in.

  Lady follows me, then sits down and yawns loudly. My mum, dad and Tammy are now sitting at the table in front of the laptop.

  “Why don’t you have a look at the blog before you dismiss it out of hand?” Tammy is saying.

  I hear my mum mutter something that sounds like “living end”, but she sips tea and looks thoughtful.

  “Oh, there she is!” Tammy says excitedly, spotting me. “The woman of the hour!”

  “What have I done?” I ask suspiciously, not sure I want to look so much like Tammy’s ally when Mum is still annoyed with her.

  “Your cartoon has gone viral, you little beauty!” Tammy sounds absolutely delighted, all righteous anger forgotten. “I knew you could do it.”

  “What do you mean it’s ‘gone viral’?” I ask.

  “It’s the number-one thing on Newsworth.”

  “What on earth’s Newsworth?” asks Mum, getting ready to be concerned about my online safety.

  Tammy rolls her eyes. “Must I always be the one dragging this family kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century? It’s a user-generated website for entertainment and news links. Votes promote stories to the front page. So only the most popular stories and links get the attention. Over a million people a month use it. Jessica has just made thousands of people more aware of climate change!”

  “I… I have?” I think I need to sit down. I mean, what?

  “You’re famous!” Tammy beams. “On the Internet.”

  “No, no, no,” says Mum, shaking her head. “Jessica is far too young to be famous on the Internet.”

  “Don’t worry, you’ll be famous too, once I get this blog running properly,” says Tammy, missing the point.

  “You know that isn’t what I mean,” says Mum tersely, as she sips more tea.

  I sit down. My head is spinning. My cartoon has been shared on the Internet? Loads of people have seen it? They’ve seen my work? That’s incredible. I thought it might end up on a few flyers or something, but … the Internet!

  “Yeah, good, sit down. I’ll show you in a sec,” says Tammy. “I’ll just show Mum this first. Right, so this is the page.”

  “Oh, really?” Mum sounds more pleased than angry now. “That’s quite pretty. I like the colour scheme.”

  “Good.” Tammy smiles. “I’ve called it Budget Family Food Made Simple,” she continues.

  “I like how you’ve done the letters a bit swirly,” says Mum.

  “Great.” Tammy tries not to look too pleased with herself, like a parent that has just tricked an infant into eating their greens. “There’s three recipes up there now.”

  Tammy goes through everything with Mum, who is actively delighted with most of it. But she’s a bit embarrassed that Tammy has revealed her “top tip for budge
t buying”, which is knowing exactly what time the food gets reduced at the supermarket and waiting till then to buy it.

  “But that’s genius,” insists Tammy. “It’s maybe sad that it’s necessary in today’s climate,” she adds, “but you shouldn’t be embarrassed. It’s the fat cats who’ve caused the crisis who should be.”

  “Always with the fat cats,” comments Dad.

  Tammy ignores him. “Right, wanna see what your superstar eleven-year-old has done?” she asks.

  I step round the table so I can see what she’s clicking on. It’s my cartoon! Online! With some information about the climate-change campaign it’s supporting and the fact that it was drawn by an eleven-year-old from our town.

  There are a couple of comments underneath, and they say things like, “LOL! So true,” and “I can’t believe this was drawn by an eleven-year-old!” I can’t see any others. I’ve heard bad things about “the bottom half of the internet” but this all seems very positive so far.

  Oh my God, I’m online. I’m making people LOL! People outside my classroom. This is amazing. This is everything I ever dreamed of. I have achieved my life’s goal at the age of eleven. I can retire now. I don’t want to sound big-headed or anything, but bloody hell, I’m amazing!

  Everyone is speechless for a moment as we look at the screen. Then my dad says, “I’m very proud of you, Jessica.” It makes me feel strangely emotional. So I figure it’s not the time to make a cheap shot about how they told me to stop drawing, and how wrong they were.

  “We’re all very proud of you,” agrees Mum. She’s a lot more relaxed now that Tammy has explained that she hasn’t put my name anywhere and no one can get in touch with me.