My Great Success and Other Failures

by Catherine Wilkins

  We had to get into pairs, (I went with Keshma) and each pair was given a famous person to defend, and say why he or she shouldn’t be chucked out of the balloon.

  Keshma and I worked really well as a team. We came up with loads of great reasons why our person, Florence Nightingale, should survive. The best of these was how useful her medical skills would be in the event of a crash landing. She totally made it as a survivor, thanks to us. Result.

  “I love it here,” I proclaim to Natalie and Amelia at lunch time, as we were walking aimlessly around the grounds, finishing our ice lollies. (Ice lollies, thank you very much! This school sells them for 20p! Even I can afford ice lollies!)

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” says Amelia.

  Amelia and Natalie had to be Steve Collins, the unpopular X Factor judge, in the balloon debate. He was kind of hard to defend. They only survived being chucked out because another team had to be boy band MBlaze and it turns out our new class collectively really hates MBlaze.

  “Don’t worry about the balloon debate,” I tell them.

  “I’m not, thanks,” says Amelia defensively. “Hopefully we can have some proper lessons, that actually matter, this afternoon.”

  It is at this point that some older boys run past, shouting, “Stupid Year Sevens!”

  Natalie looks absolutely shocked. “Do you think they were talking to us?”

  Well, yes, obviously, I think. But I decide to make light of it. “Well, no, because technically we’re not in Year Seven, so they can’t have been.”

  “They were,” sighs Amelia. “This school is full of brutes and idiots.”

  “And ice lollies,” I add. “That’s not a terrible trade off.”

  “It is,” says Natalie, looking worried.

  Natalie and Amelia seem on edge for the rest of the day, and don’t perk up again until we’re in McDonald’s. And that’s when I perk down a bit because I’m embarrassed I can’t buy my own milkshake. Again.

  As I ride the bus to school the next day, I suddenly realise why Natalie and Amelia seemed so bothered by those boys. I can’t believe I didn’t work it out sooner.

  At Hillfern Juniors, Natalie has led quite a charmed life. She’s always been popular and cool and pretty and charming, where as I used to get “stupid chess club” shouted at me sometimes by mean boys.

  That all stopped when Tanya started calling me “Toons” and handed out photocopies of my satirical cartoon of our school. Then people stopped calling me names when they were bored and I became a kind of cool(ish) oddball.

  But on the inside, I still expect to get shouted at a bit. That just seems normal. And it doesn’t bother me that much. A bit, obviously. But it doesn’t ruin my day. I guess I’m just more used to the idea that not everyone will like you. I can be quite good at ignoring it (sometimes) or sticking up for myself (sometimes). You have to take the rough with the smooth.

  But Nat and Amelia, they’ve always been top dogs, so they’ve never had to learn those skills. And there’ll be a whole new pecking order at secondary school, with Year Sevens right at the bottom of it.

  I sense a weird atmosphere as I take my seat outside the library for the next comic meeting. I wonder if it’s because they’re intimidated by me now that my article has come out? I should probably find a way to reassure them I’m still the same person I always was. I’m still just like them, mostly.

  Because today I am having my moment. My fifteen minutes of fame. The interview is in the paper! For all to see. But I’m being really cool about it. Like, I just casually held the paper in my hand in the form room before registration, until Natalie noticed and said, “Oooh! Let’s see then!”

  But the point is, no one can say I was going on about it. I was merely providing visual clues so that other people could discover the wonder of me for themselves.

  The paper used two photos in the end. A close-up of me holding my cartoon picture, and one with Ryan and Lady and me sitting on the floor drawing eerily dismembered Homer Simpson heads.

  I’m not sure how to break the silence and then Lewis says casually, “I read the article.”

  “Oh cool, you got a copy!” I smile broadly, to show how normal I still am. “What did you think?”

  They all exchange looks with each other, for slightly too long. Surely they can’t find me that intimidating now?

  “Well,” says Joshua finally, “I think it’s cool. The pictures are fun, and you come across well.”

  “Thanks,” I say. Why does he seem so reserved though?

  “I think it doesn’t mention the comic,” says Lewis.

  “What?” I am genuinely surprised. I mean, I read the article this morning, but I wasn’t thinking about the comic then. “That can’t be right. I mentioned the comic loads. I swear I did.”

  Tanya gets out the paper and I scan the interview. “Local Girl is Top of the Spots,” says the headline, with a line underneath explaining , “Viral Hit For Eleven-Year-Old Cartoonist.” Then there’s a quote from me in bold, saying, “My hero is Matt Groening.” But Lewis is right, none of the article mentions the comic.

  “Guys, I really did talk about it,” I say earnestly and yet somehow sounding guilty. “I really did. But I kept being interrupted. My dad kept coming in with tea, and my brother kept trying to make the dog do tricks it doesn’t do, and it was really hard to get them to listen. The journalist seemed more interested in how good my Homer Simpson heads were. She kept asking me if I wanted to be an animator at Disney.”

  “You should have tried harder,” says Lewis haughtily.

  “I did try hard!” I start to feel annoyed. “I said I don’t want to be an animator at Disney, I want my comic to take off, but she didn’t put that in.”

  “Well, it says here you’re considering a career at Disney,” supplies Tanya.

  “When have you ever heard me mention Disney?” I splutter. “It’s not my fault if she changed what I said.”

  That blimmin’ Pamela-the-journalist. Eating all our chocolate biscuits and misquoting me. Thanks for nothing.

  “You sold us out,” says Lewis suddenly. “You’re a sell-out.”

  What? How dare he?

  “I did everything you asked for. Do you want me to get the recording of the interview from the paper? I can prove it to you.” Then I lose my temper. “It’s not my fault if they think I’m more interesting than the comic. I tried my best. You could still thank me for trying instead of having a go at me.”

  “Well,” says Lewis coldly. “It still looks to me like you walked all over us to get your place in the limelight.”

  What the –? “Well, Lewis,” I reply hotly, “maybe when you’ve had a cartoon go to the top of Newsworth, you can talk to me about limelight.”

  There’s a pause while they all look at each other. Finally Tanya sighs and breaks the silence. “Look, it’s all right, Toons, I’m sure you did your best. But this just goes to show, it’s tough out there. Maybe one of us should come with you next time.”

  “Next time?” Am I seeing anger stars? (Is that a thing?)

  “If you’re not up to the job, we can help. We’re a team, after all.”

  “Not up to the job? Are you kidding me?” I’m outraged.

  “You don’t need to get angry,” says Tanya matter-of-factly. (But I am angry.) “Everyone is good at different things.”

  “Yeah, and you’re just not very good at interviews,” chips in Lewis.

  Now I am livid. Lewis is lecturing me on interviews? The boy who barely speaks ever is telling me I did a bad job at talking? This is the living end.

  And I’d love to see them try and do a better job. As if they could have come round my house and pompously kept us on-message with my mad family running about. They would have ended up trying to convince the dog to sit up for a biscuit at the first opportunity.

  It’s all very well telling me what to do in theory, but they have no idea how tough it is at the front line of the publicity machine. I hope there is a next time so they
can see it for themselves.

  And anyway, why aren’t they more grateful? I only promised them I’d try. Some people would have point-blank refused. That was really benevolent of me. I don’t deserve this shabby treatment.

  But, annoyed as I am, I do also feel bad. I really did want to promote the comic. I still love the comic, and working with them on it. Even if they don’t seem to appreciate me.

  This must be what they mean when they say fame is a fickle friend. It makes your friends hate you.

  “Shut up, Jess, we don’t want to hear it any more,” says Natalie eventually. “We’re trying to enjoy our Saturday at the mall.”

  “But don’t you think they’re out of order?” I protest. “Especially Lewis.”

  Things were starting to blow over after the interview, but then the local free paper picked up the story of my viral success, and so did a couple of other minor news outlets. And they just copied bits verbatim from the original interview, so the rest of my comic team kept being freshly outraged that the Hellfern comic didn’t get a mention.

  “I do,” says Amelia. “Lewis is a total nerd. I don’t know why you hang around with him.”

  “No, it’s not that, it’s the hypocrisy of him,” I explain. “As if he could have done any better. He’s so quiet and shy.”

  “Yeah, because he’s a nerd.” Amelia is very fashion-conscious and prejudiced against anyone she sees as uncool, so it’s difficult to draw her attention to the actual issue.

  “He’s so pompous with it,” I elaborate. “I mean, the guy really does look down on me. And I’ve tried really hard to be nice and turn a blind eye, but now he’s openly criticising me, I just see red.”

  “Nerd,” insists Amelia.

  “No, it’s not that he’s a nerd, it’s that he’s a hypocrite, and doesn’t appreciate me, and thinks he’s loads better than me.” Why can I not get a simple point across?

  “That’s practically the definition of a nerd,” says Amelia. “Jessica, just say Lewis is a bratty nerd. You’ll feel so much better.”

  “Oh my God, you’re both boring me so much!” says Nat crossly. “Jess, you should be happy your story is everywhere. Who cares what the others think? You know you tried your hardest. Just forget about them. OK?”

  “Yeah, you’re right,” I say. “Thanks, Nat.” And I really try to let those words seep in and ease my guilt, undoing all the cross words as they go. I should be happy with my success. I don’t have to let anything spoil it.

  We traipse aimlessly around the mall, looking at hats and bracelets and sunglasses cases, and it’s quite a lot of fun actually.

  We take pictures of each other in funny hats, and pose by the cardboard cut-out of an action hero outside the cinema. Nat pulls a face like he smells and I pretend I’m about to punch him.

  Then we manage to take a really funny one of all three of us with the action hero in the background and Amelia suggests it would be a really nice idea to get it printed on to key rings, so we go to this little kiosk.

  I can just about afford it, which is kind of annoying, as I just got my pocket money and for once I would have been able to buy my own milkshake next time we’re in McDonald’s, but I don’t want to not get a key ring with our faces on either.

  “This is a really lovely keepsake,” says Amelia. “We can remember each other forever.”

  “Well, every time we use a key anyway,” I joke.

  “We don’t need to remember each other forever,” Nat points out. “We’re all going to the same school next year anyway.”

  “Er, yes, sure,” says Amelia quickly. But why does she look a tiny bit shifty?

  “It will still be a lovely thing to have,” says Nat.

  “We could get it put on mugs and T-shirts too,” I say, looking at the things on display in the kiosk. “Or cushions, or––”

  “Yes, we’ve all got eyes, thanks,” says Nat. But I think my eyes are more observant than hers, because I don’t think she noticed anything fishy about the way Amelia was talking about keepsakes and future schools. Hmmm.

  Delighted with our new key rings, Natalie and Amelia decide they want to check out the stationery shop – which I LOVE. It might be my favourite shop ever, so we head over there and try out all the pens on all the little bits of paper.

  Most people just do squiggles to see what colour or how thick each pen is, but we like to write funny stuff. We never write anything too rude, but once I wrote “wee” and the woman in the shop frowned at me.

  “Excuse me?” I freeze at the voice behind me. It’s her. The shop woman who doesn’t like wee. (Understandably. I mean, who does like wee? But that’s not the point.) “Excuse me?” the voice comes again.

  I look down at what I’ve written: “Talk to the hand” with a picture of a hand with an arrow pointing at it. It’s not rude. She can’t chuck me out for that. Maybe I’m taking up too much space on the pad?

  Please don’t chuck me out of my favourite shop, I think, as I turn slowly around. I could offer to buy the pen maybe?

  “Hello,” says the shop woman as I face her. “Are you the girl from the paper?”

  I’m too stunned to respond. “Um,” I manage.

  “You look really like the girl who drew the funny dolphin cartoon for her sister’s charity,” explains the woman.

  “It is her!” Nat has been observing this and, amused, comes to my rescue. She places her hands on my shoulders and pushes me forward a step, snapping me out of my shock.

  “I’m Jessica,” I say. “I mean, yes, I drew the cartoon of the dolphin, and in the paper.”

  “I’m Bev,” smiles the shop lady. She reaches out and we shake hands. “I really enjoyed reading about you. Such a lovely story. Makes a nice change from all the usual doom and gloom.”

  “Thank you,” I say. It starts to sink in that I have been recognised. By a stranger. I am officially a better subject than the usual doom and gloom. Which isn’t really much of a compliment, but still nice to hear.

  “I was really impressed that your cartoon went viral too,” says the shop lady. Bev. “You’re obviously talented.”

  “Thank you,” I say again.

  Bev hesitates. “I don’t suppose, um, by any chance, that you bought the pen you drew it with at this shop? I’ve seen you in here a few times.”

  I think wee and blush. “Um, well yes,” I say. “I mean, it was a birthday present, but it was from here.”

  “In that case, would you – and stop me if you’re in a hurry,” says Bev, “but would you mind if I took your photo? It might be something we could use as a bit of an advert for the shop.”

  “Um…”

  “Nothing too fancy or demanding,” she adds hastily. “I was just thinking that perhaps I could put it up with a sign saying ‘Pen & Ink, as visited by famous local cartoonist’ or something. I think you could make our store look more highbrow and appealing.”

  She obviously doesn’t remember about the wee after all!

  “Well…” I look at Nat and Amelia, and sort of grin awkwardly. Nat smiles and Amelia shrugs.

  “I’ll give you some free pens for your trouble…” offers Bev, looking hopefully at me.

  “I’ll do it!” I say.

  The next few minutes go by in a blur, as Bev takes photos of me holding various bits of stationery in various locations of the shop. Nat and Amelia loiter by the door and look bored.

  “I think we’re nearly done,” says Bev.

  “Nearly done!” I call out to Natalie and Amelia, trying not to grin too much.

  It really feels like I’m a celebrity now. I mean, look, I can’t even walk down the street without people wanting my photograph. Kind of. This is amazing.

  “Thanks ever so much,” says Bev. “Choose anything you like from the displays. Go nuts.”

  “Wow, thanks,” I say. “Can my friends choose some stuff too?”

  “Yes, I don’t see why not.”

  Bev presents me with a huge pack of colouring pens and a pad, and i
nsists I take them. I take a couple of the pens we tested, and a calligraphy pen that looks exciting. But then I feel like that’s enough and I don’t want to be too cheeky. Natalie chooses a gold and a silver pen, and Amelia chooses a purple pen with a pink fluffy thing on the end of it.

  I love stationery. I love this. This has been such a great day.

  “How cool was that?” I say as the three of us head off to get the bus home.

  “Very cool,” says Nat obligingly.

  “I’m glad I was able to get pens for you guys too,” I say. “At least it makes up for some of the milkshakes.”

  “Yes, thanks,” says Amelia.

  “This is great, isn’t it?” I say again. I still can’t believe that just happened.

  “It is,” says Natalie, and smiles at me, but I’m pretty sure I see her and Amelia roll their eyes. I guess being the object of everyone’s jealousy is just something I’ll have to get used to now.

  “Tammy, I don’t see what the problem is,” I say, bewildered.

  “I’m gobsmacked at your betrayal!” says Tammy angrily.

  “There’s no need to shout.” My dad is trying (and failing) to placate my sister. The kitchen has become a courtroom, and Tammy is prosecutor, judge and jury all rolled into one.

  “I can’t believe how quickly you sold out,” says Tammy scathingly.

  “What are you talking about?” I cry. “Can’t you help the environment and still like pens?”

  “No, you can’t claim to like the environment and then move into advertising,” argues Tammy. “It’s hypocritical. Big business is part of the problem we’re fighting against.”