Tru Confessions

by Janet Tashjian

  From the hall, I watch everyone in Eddie’s classroom working on different things. Eddie sits at the computer, rocking back and forth in his seat. The screen is filled with five or six planets and a few shooting stars. Mrs. Bell comes over and kneels next to him, speaking gently. One of my favorite things to do is to watch Eddie when he doesn’t know I’m there. Sure, it’s spying, but I don’t think he’d mind. It’s kind of comforting to see him out in the world, without Mom, without me. I suppose I watch him for my benefit more than his. I still never like to leave him alone for too long. Maybe it’s a twin thing.

  Being a Twin

  I don’t get to do anything cool like those girls in The Parent Trap, who confuse their parents and friends by switching identities. Being a fraternal twin doesn’t give you that kind of flexibility. And it’s not like Eddie and I have any secret ESP where he’s two miles away, calling for help, and I hear him and race to the rescue. On our computer encyclopedia, I look up all kinds of twins, like Corsicans, where you punch one twin in the arm and the other one yells, “Ouch!” I stare at the picture of the Siamese twins for a long time—two old men in suits, joined at the waist and hip. If Eddie and I were connected, I wouldn’t want to be face-to-face. Watching him eat up close for the rest of my life would definitely make me sick. If I had to, I’d settle for being joined at the legs. Maybe we’d be even better at soccer. I type “Mythology” into the computer and check out the picture of the Centaur. That’s kind of what Eddie and I would be—minus the horse part. Galloping down the soccer field into the sky.

  Robin Hood at the goal line

  —Eddie Walker

  (Computer drawing by Eddie; caption by me)

  blah, blah, blah, blah,

  blah, blah, blah,

  blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah,

  I’m so bored.

  Some Technical Mumbo Jumbo

  • Editing—to take the film you’ve shot and put it in the order you want it. Usually, I use the equipment at school, but I can do it at home, too. I connect the video camera to the VCR with cables, then I play the tape while it’s still in the camera and record it onto a blank tape in the VCR. The system at school is more sophisticated than mine, so the finished product is a little smoother when I do it there.

  • Dubbing—to add in music, sound effects, or voices to the final tape (so it kind of sounds like it was filmed that way to begin with). I either have to go to the high school to use their equipment, or ask Mr. Taylor for help since my VCR isn’t able to do this.

  • Rewind—duh.

  • Fast Forward—double duh.

  (I’m a technical whiz, huh?)

  Reasons Why Eddie Is the Best

  1. He’ll do anything.

  2. He says things that seem to come out of nowhere that other people don’t get but that I usually think are pretty funny. (Like when he calls the lady who works in the cafeteria Grampy. When Miggs heard him say that, he twirled his finger at his head like Eddie was crazy, but I knew he was calling her that because she has a thin gray mustache like our grandfather.)

  3. He laughs at all my jokes (even the bad ones).

  4. He’ll give you anything you ask for in a trade and usually forget you didn’t give him anything in return.

  5. No matter how cranky and mean I get, he’ll hang out with me anyway. (This counts as ten really great things.)

  Reasons Why Eddie Is the Worst

  1. The way he repeats the same thing over and over and over and over … “Hey, Tru. Want an apple? Do you? An apple, Tru? Here’s an apple. Want it? Want an apple, Tru? Tru, want an apple?” AAAAAAARRRRRRGGGG-GHHHHH!

  2. The way he needs to be reminded to brush his teeth and wash his face each and every day as if it’s the first time he’s doing it.

  3. The way he can have real meltdowns sometimes, crying and screaming like a two-year-old having a temper tantrum. (Like when we couldn’t get in to see The Lion King and he went ballistic in the lobby and Dawn and Laura from my class saw the whole thing and told everyone the next day. When Denise told them to get a life, they finally shut up.)

  4. The way he burps out loud almost joyously in the middle of the cafeteria even though I’ve told him a hundred times not to do it. (I have to admit, sometimes it is pretty funny.)

  Surfing the Net for a Cure

  I’m a pretty optimistic person usually, but today is a rainy Saturday and there’s nothing on TV, and I’m trying to find some kind of help for Eddie. Drugs, an operation, even acupuncture—anything’s a possibility. (As long as I’m not the one getting needles stuck in me.) My mother’s at a meeting downtown and I’m surfing the Net on her computer. It only took me four tries to figure out her password, the same as her screen name. (Good security, Mom.) Trued—a combination of my name and Eddie’s. Tried and true, that’s my mom.

  Three days ago, I left an e-mail message on the Net asking if anyone knew of a recent cure for someone like Eddie. I check the computer’s and see that we have fourteen e-mail messages waiting to be read. Lucky for me, Mom uses the computer just for design and hardly ever checks for messages. I’ll delete them all after I read them so there’s no evidence that I’ve been tying up the phone lines.

  The first e-mail is from choppy in Los Angeles. She—or he—says their son is developmentally delayed like Eddie and they’ve found great support in their school board. Go4Ted from Detroit says that his sister has special needs and is looking for a pen pal on the Net. Misty77 asks what my problem is, that of course there’s no cure for the mentally handicapped, and why don’t I just ask the Lord for His assistance? None of the anonymous people who’ve answered my inquiry have anything helpful to say, except maybe for deedee, who tells me never to stop hoping and searching for answers. She/he sounds like Ms. Hall, who I had for social studies last year. It gets me wondering who deedee really is: A housewife in Iowa with curlers and long red fingernails? A businessman with a picture of his wife and two kids on his desk? A kid like me, trespassing into the adult lane of the information highway?

  I log off before my mother gets home and go check on Eddie. He’s got my mother’s old record collection on the floor of his bedroom like some kind of vinyl carpet. Even though he can’t read much at all, he knows the band and the name of the album just by looking at the label. I lean one of the albums against the wall (Dylan’s Blonde on Blonde; Mom would kill me). Eddie and I take turns tossing M&M’s at it until it falls. His shirt is untucked, his fingernails are dirty, but he’s concentrating like a professional basketball player at the foul line. Just because there weren’t any answers on the Net today doesn’t mean there won’t be tomorrow. We take turns pitching and eating M&M’s until we hear Mom’s car in the driveway. Then we quickly put away the records, turn on the TV and pretend we’re watching something really great.

  Eddie’s Mind

  No matter how off the wall, there is always a grain of truth to Eddie’s stories. Today he told his friend Jerry that the church at the top of the street burned down—fire trucks, ambulance, two people dead, nothing left but the foundation. Jerry hopped on his bike and raced up the street, only to find the building still intact, in all its boring, glorious splendor. But Eddie wasn’t making up the story to tease him. If you know Eddie well enough, you can always find a connection.

  In this case, Eddie and I had gone to Denise’s First Communion at that church. After the ceremony, an old woman had accidentally knocked a candle onto the floor. My mother picked up the candle and placed it back in the holder, making sure no sparks landed on the carpet. We never even talked about it. But in Eddie’s mind, THE CHURCH BURNED DOWN TO THE GROUND. Totally simple; I don’t know why Jerry got so mad. But the really strange part of the story is that Denise made her First Communion four years ago. That’s one of the great things about Eddie’s mind. It doesn’t matter if something happened ten years ago or the day before—yesterday, today, and tomorrow all blend into one (he probably wouldn’t make a good historian). My mind works the opposite way—I worry about
the past, present, and future before they happen, while they happen, and after they happen. And after all that, I still don’t come up with anything half as exciting as a three-alarm fire.

  Wish Number One

  While I’m looking through the paper for my current-events class, and for my own journalistic curiosity, I spot an ad from the local cable company. (I watch the local station all the time. The Brazilian soccer and medical call-in shows are my favorites.) The ad says the cable company wants to be more involved in the community, so they are adding a second station and looking for additional programming, including a show created by and for teens. The headline of the article might as well say, “Trudy, We Want You.”

  It takes me a good five minutes to get the headphones away from Eddie to tell him. I hold my arms up like Vanna White on Wheel of Fortune and start singing “The Trudy Walker Show.” Eddie joins in. One good thing about Eddie, he’s always ready to join you, no matter what you’re celebrating.

  But, like everything in life, the fine print gets you every time. The station wants a full proposal—a list of three references, a show outline, an essay, and a fifteen-minute demo tape. All by the end of next month. My show idea suddenly seems as appealing as a bowl of soggy cornflakes.

  When my mother comes home from grocery shopping, I show her the article. “It says the cable station will air the winning tape,” I shout.

  “Now we’ll see how badly you really want this,” Mom says. “In a city this size, I’m sure there’ll be plenty of other applicants.”

  “Can’t you just be excited?” I ask. What’s her problem?

  “I’m excited for you and for the other hundreds of kids who are reading that article right now and want their own television show.” She balances a bunch of carrots in her hand as if they are on a scale.

  What about visualizing myself on top of a mountain? What about doing the work to make my dreams come true? I take the carrots from her hand, stick them into the garbage disposal, and turn on the switch until pieces of orange carrot flesh fly around the sink. She shuts it off and when I pull the carrots out, the ends are gnawed and nubby.

  Eddie comes in, takes the carrots, and pretends to eat them. “Ah, what’s up, Doc?” He laughs and laughs, repeating the joke over and over—“Ah, what’s up, Doc? Hey, Bugs. Hey, you pesky wabbit. Ah, what’s up, Doc?”—but neither my mother nor I join in. I take the newspaper up to my room and start working on the proposal.

  Before dinner, my mother comes upstairs. She tells me she lost a big job that afternoon because she wouldn’t travel back and forth to New York City three times a week. She doesn’t say it’s because of Eddie and me, but I know it is. She plays with the beads of the friendship bracelet I am making for Denise. “About our conversation before, I guess I just wasn’t in the mood for ‘me, me, me,’” she says.

  “I’ll say.”

  “But that’s no reason to destroy good food. You’re too old for temper tantrums.”

  “Oh, but Eddie’s not,” I shoot back.

  “Tru, cut me a little slack here, okay?” She strings two blue beads next to the black ones I already have on the bracelet. “Of course I think you should submit a proposal. Use the color printer for the final copy. It’ll look more professional.”

  By the time she leaves, the design of the friendship bracelet has changed from an arrow to a kind of bridge. I decide to keep it and add on. But maybe she’s right about the “me, me, me.” Maybe the glitzy, glamorous Trudy Walker Show isn’t the way to go. Maybe something more informational would have a better chance of being accepted. I start working on a new idea.

  We are having fish for dinner with rice and no vegetable—probably some kind of punishment for the carrot incident. So before the plates are on the table, I draw some carrots on the computer with the art program and print out three color copies. I cut the paper carrots and put a few on each of our plates while my mother fixes the salad. First Eddie tries to eat them, then he gets the joke and just pretends. My mother looks mad when she first sees them, but then smiles and joins in, making loud smacking noises as if she enjoys these carrots immensely.

  What People Would Say About Me If You Asked Them (Yeah, Right …)

  She’s the best friend there is: funny, smart, and loyal. She has a nice earring selection, too.

  —Denise Palumbo

  I would cut off my hand if she would go out with me, but she’s too cool and I don’t have a chance with her.

  —Billy Meier

  She revolutionized the way movies are made today. I’ll be analyzing her next film for years.

  —Steven Spielberg

  She is the most loving daughter you could ask for. I’m so glad she’s mine. It eats me up every day that I’m trapped here in Africa and can’t be with her.

  —Mr. Walker

  I wish I didn’t live in L.A., so I could see her. She is really cute, plus she seems like she’d be a blast to hang out with.

  —Brad Pitt

  One of these days I’m going to tell her how much I appreciate the way she helps me all the time: reading me books, wiping my nose, making sure I don’t get lost. I’m really lucky to be her brother and especially her twin.

  —Eddie Walker

  The entire school would come to a grinding halt without her.

  —Mr. Manning, principal

  She is such a dream to baby-sit for. She never disobeys and is such a help with Eddie.

  —Mrs. Hannah

  She has a very active imagination; I wouldn’t be surprised if she has a career in the arts. One thing I do know is that she’s going to be a wonderful woman. I can just tell.

  —Virginia Walker

  An Offer They Can’t Refuse

  I’ve been setting my alarm for six o’clock every morning so I can get up and work on the proposal for the cable station. I’m wearing my mom’s old University of Massachusetts T-shirt and I’m sitting at the kitchen table banging away on the computer keys. How’s this for a letter of introduction?

  My name is and I’m the person you’re looking for! in the entire universe could produce a more entertaining show than …

  (Nah, too much. How about this:)

  pick my tape!!!!!

  (Too desperate. Maybe this:)

  To whom it may concern:

  (Bag that one.)

  I’ve been working on the proposal for two weeks now. When Denise asks me what it’s about, I tell her I can’t talk about it because I don’t want to jinx it. She thinks I’m crazy putting this much time into something that’s not a sure thing. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned from growing up with Eddie, it’s that there’s no such thing as a sure thing. So I just keep working, making the proposal a little better every day. The problem is, I’m falling asleep by one o’clock in the afternoon, smack in the middle of Mr. Taylor’s science class.

  As I leave the classroom, he asks me how things are at home. It’s such a perfect setup, I can’t help myself.

  “Things are pretty bad,” I say. “My father just got back from Africa with a really bad case of malaria. Now my mother has it. I’m doing all the cooking and laundry and taking care of my brother.”

  Mr. Taylor’s not buying it. “So you won’t mind if I call her and see how she’s doing.”

  I stick with what I’ve got. “She’s too sick to come to the phone. Plus, the phone company disconnected us since I forgot to pay the bills on time.”

  “Trudy …”

  “Yes, Mr. Taylor?”

  “Trudy …”

  I could probably stand here and play verbal seesaw with him all day, but he is one of the nicest teachers in the school and I’d hate to alienate him. Instead I tell him the top-secret idea for my cable show. He cleans his glasses with his out-of-style tie while he listens, then tells me he’d be glad to help me with the demo tape if I need it. I thank him and then hurry off to math.

  When I get there, Ms. Ramone is talking about how many miles east a train has to go at seventy-five miles an hour to get to
its destination by three o’clock. But the only problem I’m trying to solve is how I’ll leave my handprints in the cement on Hollywood Boulevard without making a mess. I trace the outline of my hand on the cover of my math notebook, but when I look up, Ms. Ramone is standing next to me. I smile sweetly and tell her I was trying to visualize the problem with the train. She makes me go to the board and work the problem out for the class. She’s definitely not getting tickets to the opening of my show.

  Math Problems Not in My Textbook

  1. If a woman drops an ice-cream sundae from the top of a ten-story building, what will hit the ground first—the vanilla ice cream, the hot fudge, the whipped cream, or the cherry? And if a little boy stands on the sidewalk, will he get splattered with the debris or be able to salvage a few bites?

  2. Twelve people are sitting in a darkened movie theater. If one girl keeps talking during the movie, what are the chances that the other eleven people will throw their popcorn at her? And how many kernels will hit the screen before the manager comes and throws everyone out?

  3. If a girl talks her mother into buying her a pair of earrings in a department store, then takes the escalator to the second floor, losing one bead of the earring on each of the revolving metal steps, what are the chances her mother will buy her anything else that day?