Tru Confessions

by Janet Tashjian

  Private Time with Eddie

  Sometimes, the best part of the day is when I’m alone with Eddie. In that time between getting ready for bed and actually going to sleep, we usually go into his room and read. No television, no video camera, no computer. I love reading to Eddie because I can make lots of mistakes or even make up a whole new story and he doesn’t mind (unlike Ms. Hinchey, who stops you whenever you mess up). In fact, Eddie prefers it if you change the story every time, for variety. Better yet, he changes the story for you. If you’ve never heard his version of Little Red Riding Hood, you’re missing something.

  I think the reason I like this part of the day so much is that I let my mind slow down. Usually, I’m thinking about homework and television shows and soccer practice, but with Eddie, I can just relax. My mother does yoga and she says being with Eddie is like a walking meditation.

  “Do you like this picture?” I ask him.

  He nods.

  We go through the book, a picture at a time, hardly talking, just looking. I shut the book and we just sit there, enjoying each other’s company. My mother says if people just slowed down and enjoyed life more, there wouldn’t be so many problems. But I’m not thinking about that now. I’m not thinking about anything except my twin brother in his inside-out pajamas smiling at me, making up stories.

  Hey, John Steinbeck, Thanks a Lot

  Ms. Hinchey is making us read Of Mice and Men. Sure enough, twenty-five pairs of eyes are glued on me. As if Eddie would ever squish a puppy or even kill somebody.

  “Ms. Hinchey?” Miggs asks. “Was Lennie evil or just plain retarded?”

  I raise my hand. “Ms. Hinchey, do you think people who ask dumb questions are ignorant or just trying to get attention?”

  Miggs is unfazed. “Ms. Hinchey, did the rabbit have big, floppy ears or the kind that stick out like Falsie Walker’s?”

  “Enough, you two!” Ms. Hinchey then makes us turn to chapter seven. For the rest of the discussion, I doodle on my notebook. A rabbit with tiny ears and wings, flying out of its cage.

  I wish I could ♣ Miggs.

  My Final List of Things to Do

  1. Interview Dr. O’Connell, pediatrician.

  2. Edit the tape on the VCR.

  3. Take Mr. Taylor up on his offer to help me dub music in the background.

  4. Create a logo for the show—something bright, maybe a rainbow with big ears.

  5. Print the proposal on Mom’s color printer.

  6. Make a self-addressed stamped envelope for their response.

  7. Add a personal plea at the end of the videotape telling them why they should choose my tape. (They didn’t ask for this but I think it may help.)

  8. Wait for the cable company’s decision.

  I would love to tell you about my demo tape but it’s TOP SECRET. (Not really; I’m just too excited to write about it.) All I can say is that it’s—

  (and those are just the a’s)

  Eddie Typing on My Mother’s Computer

  a;wpietujfgnvlxkvm a;pwoeirft ;prjnbld,mkfc pwo i3erfjk;dvlkc malsejfm/l;,dmv ao2wiucklx,.vnshgp o34i5poejygm;dlkmfpwoejfpaoel;fmaw;seldjfvskh nk,maueou5rka,nsjouwgnueauj ’podgi340opjgdfcm.

  (I know it looks like a lot of gibberish, but there really is a word in there, maybe a few. And gnu is a word we don’t use enough, anyway.)

  (Aren’t you curious

  to find out what

  my show’s about?)

  (At least a little?)

  (Sorry,

  but you’ll have to wait

  like everybody else.)

  Things I Think About When I’m Bored (But I Hardly Have Time Anymore)

  1. Sometimes I think about a woman holding a box of cereal, and on the box she’s holding there is a picture of another woman holding a box of cereal, and on that box there is a picture of a woman holding a box of cereal, and on that box there is a picture of a woman holding a box of cereal …

  2. I think about how stupid those kids in The Sound of Music look running around the countryside wearing clothes made out of old curtains.

  3. I think about accepting an Academy Award for Best Picture, and all the people I will thank, and all the people I’ll forget on purpose.

  4. I think about if Eddie were a cartoon character he would be a cross between the Tasmanian Devil and Goofy, laughing while he makes a giant mess.

  5. I think about my father wandering around in circles in the jungles of Kenya, lions and gorillas at his heels. (I wonder if he thinks about me and Eddie.)

  6. Sometimes, while Mr. Manning is addressing us at assemblies, I try to picture him in an evening gown, carrying a dozen roses like they do on the Miss America pageants my mother never lets me watch.

  7. I imagine how easy it could have been for me to be the one with special needs. Then I wonder if Eddie would hang out with me or just leave me at home and go out with his friends instead. Denise says I got gypped because having an older brother is usually the best way to meet guys. I think about Eddie coming home with a gorgeous new kid from school who falls madly in love with me. But when I really stop to think about it, I have met a lot of boys and girls through Eddie, because he talks to anyone, thinking they’re all his friends. Most of the time they end up to be.

  The Critics Give a Big Thumbs-Down

  (A painful entry for me to write)

  “Are you for real?” Denise asks. “A medical show? Who cares?” She sits down and points to the TV. “Put it in.”

  I cross my fingers behind my back, hoping this will be the most riveting half hour of television she’s ever seen. The film begins with some instrumental guitar music, then fades into an interview with Dr. O’Connell, our pediatrician. He gestures with his hands while he speaks about asphyxia and then genetics. When I look over at Denise, she rolls her eyes.

  I have edited in footage from the Special Olympics Games last summer, which shows Eddie running the 50-meter. At the end, I summarize all the important developments in the field while Eddie plays soccer behind me. My voice fades out and the guitar music fades in.

  When it’s over, Denise looks at me with a kind expression. I know something is wrong right away.

  “You meant really well,” she says. “But it’s kind of …”

  Here comes the bomb.

  “It’s kind of borrrrrrrrrrrrring. Who wants to see some bald-headed doctor talk about DNA? It’s like hanging out with Mr. Taylor in your spare time. Couldn’t you at least have found a hunky doctor?”

  “I want to address an important issue,” I say. “Not make some stupid version of General Hospital.” But the sick feeling in my stomach isn’t from being rejected by my friend. It stems from the fact that even I think the show is boring. I hate to admit Denise is right.

  When I show it to. my family, my mother is very enthusiastic. “I think whoever watches the show will get a lot of good information.”

  “If they watch the show,” I add. “Maybe not everyone shares my interest in the subject. Not everyone likes medical documentaries.”

  Eddie hits the rewind button, then the fast-forward. Rewind, fast-forward.

  “I hope you’re not blaming yourself for Eddie’s condition again,” she says, sitting next to me on the couch, “and trying to make up for it by becoming an expert on the subject.”

  I twirl the fringe of the pillow. “I just want people to understand him a little better, that’s all.” He is still pushing the buttons of the VCR. The images—stopping and starting, stopping and starting—drive me insane. I scream at him to stop.

  I finally ask my mother to be honest. “Do you think it’s too boring?”

  “Let me put it this way, it might not be everyone’s cup of tea,” Mom answers.

  “Thanks, a cliché always helps.”

  “Okay, how about this? It might not be the kind of program they’re looking for if they want to attract a wide audience. Is that better?” Mom asks.

  Better than what? Starting over? I ask Eddie what he thinks.

  “
Cowboys,” he says. “And police.”

  He doesn’t need to explain; I know what he means. Action. He’s right.

  “What about The Trudy Walker Show? I always liked that idea,” my mother says. “I’ll be glad to help you.”

  I shake my head. “Forget it. Having a cable show is a stupid idea, anyway.”

  “You’re wrong,” she says. “It’s a great idea.” She makes a thumbs-up sign like one of those movie critics. I turn her hand so the thumb points down. Loser. I don’t need self-esteem lessons, I need get-a-life lessons. I pop the tape out of the VCR and shove it under the cushion of the couch. I sit there for the next hour as uncomfortable as the Princess and the Pea, watching stupid sitcoms and laughing really loudly.

  Back to square one

  —Eddie Walker

  Hasty Show Ideas

  • A talk show where I prance around the studio audience waving a microphone in everyone’s face, asking their opinions on silly topics like teenage stamp collectors with sleeping disorders or math teachers with eczema.

  • A game show like Jeopardy, except all the questions on the board are in hieroglyphics (ΨΩϕλθΞϖ) and the contestants are dressed like Egyptians.

  • A soap opera for teenagers. Really melodramatic story lines of kids backstabbing each other for positions on the softball team, then coming home to find out both their parents were adopted. Lots of fake crying and surprise looks.

  • HELP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  A Perfect Moment

  During Saturday’s soccer game, I try to forget my troubles and just play. Maybe someone will kick me in the head and I’ll get an idea that’s good for a change.

  Eddie and I play on the same unified team. That means some of the kids have special needs, some don’t. Eddie and I are strikers; we try to take the ball down the field to get a goal. I led the team in goals last year, Eddie led the team in assists. The way Eddie’s playing this year, it might be the other way around.

  Our coach, Mr. Ford, says that Eddie is a natural. He sometimes needs to be reminded not to use his hands, but he’s only been whistled at a few times for that. It seems as though Eddie gets this beat going in his head—like some crazy Brazilian music—and you can’t stop him. It must be a combination of how much we practice in the backyard and the fact that we are twins, because I don’t even have to look to see if Eddie is open when I pass. I can sense it. My foot kicks; Eddie’s receives.

  We are playing one of the other neighborhood leagues and we are down 2—1. Even though people are yelling from the sidelines and Coach Ford is shouting instructions, Eddie is in that zone where all he thinks about is the ball. Every now and then I really envy the way his mind works; it doesn’t get cluttered up with too much information like mine does. Eddie has no choice but to simplify. Mom says he’s lucky that way.

  Mike Souza passes me the ball and I start running upfield, with Eddie alongside me. Marjorie, the goalie, blocks most of the net and I know only a perfect shot to the left corner can get by her. Eddie must be reading my mind because something inside me says, “Now,” and I pass him the ball. Just like in the movies, everything slows down. The ball skirts across the field and Eddie catches it beautifully inside his left foot, in what seems like slow motion. Even the crowd noises seem dull and far away. Eddie shoots the ball into the far corner, but before it leaves his foot, I know it’s going in. Everyone stops—on the field, in the stands—everyone but poor Marjorie, who jumps a good two feet trying to stop it. But nothing is stopping this missile and she knows it.

  The entire team is jumping up and down and screaming; Eddie slaps me five. It is one of those pure moments when everything is just the way it should be, Eddie’s handicap and all.

  Coach Ford tells us there’s still ten minutes to go and the score is tied. But it doesn’t matter to me—or certainly to Eddie—whether we win or not. That’s one of the reasons I like soccer; sometimes a tie is just as good as a win.

  Dreams and Nightmares I’ve Had

  One time I dreamt that I was parachuting into the middle of that poppy field in The Wizard of Oz, but instead of falling asleep, I started running toward the castle. The monkeys that usually guard the witch were all wearing seat covers and carrying ashtrays. They didn’t chase me because I could fly, too, so they gave up and went to play chess.

  Another time I had a dream that scared me so much I woke up screaming and my mother ran into the room to comfort me. I was on the top of the house with the woman who volunteers in the school library on Wednesdays, Mrs. Withrow. She was nailing my sneakers to the roof so I couldn’t come in, and when it started to rain she put a key in my hand and climbed down. I was screaming that I was going to get electrocuted but no one could hear me.

  (Note: This was the same week that we studied Ben Franklin in school.)

  In my new nightmare, I’m standing in front of the entire school in the gym. The other kids don’t have faces, and they are holding video cameras. They’re taping every move I make and repeating everything I say like Denise does sometimes. I yell, “Stop it!” and hundreds of kids yell, “Stop it!” I say, “Cut it out!” and they say, “Cut it out!”

  The best dream I ever had was when I dreamed that Eddie and I were at the beach all day—no clouds, perfect weather, and no sand sticking to us. We walked all the way home eating Popsicles that didn’t melt. When I got back, I took a shower for three hours (from four to seven, according to the clock in my dream). When I woke up, I didn’t want to be in the real world yet, so I went back to sleep. Even though it was morning, I dreamt I was standing under a black sky with millions of stars hanging so low I could touch them. I held the stars in my arms, spun them on my fingers like tops, then threw them in the air like leaves. When my mother finally dragged me out of bed, I was mumbling something about a celestial yo-yo.

  Once I had a dream that it was just me, without Eddie. In my dream, I went through the day without worrying about him, with that part of my mind that is usually tuned to Eddie’s frequency shut off. I woke up, surprisingly refreshed, but I felt guilty when I saw Eddie at breakfast.

  Idea Number Two

  I am still completely depressed that the deadline is a little over a week away and I have no demo tape. So much for dreams coming true and all that nonsense.

  Tonight, Mrs. Hannah is coming over since my mother is going away on a business trip. Mom hates to call it baby-sitting because we’re not babies, so she calls Mrs. Hannah our overnight friend. Mrs. Hannah has gray and brown hair and always wears her shirts outside her pants because she says tucking them in makes her look fat. Well, she is kind of fat, and bringing over a chocolate and raspberry torte every time she comes probably doesn’t help.

  Mrs. Hannah arrives with her cake and floral luggage. She reheats the chicken stir-fry Mom has left and then asks us if we want to play any games. Big mistake.

  “Monkey Man!” Eddie says. “Let’s play Monkey Man.”

  I feel a little cheated because that is our private game; we’ve been playing it for as long as I can remember. But the thought of seeing Mrs. Hannah chasing us around the house screaming like a monkey might be worth it. I dig out the video camera.

  “Monkey Man.” Mrs. Hannah smiles. “Is that a nice quiet game like Monopoly?”

  “Kind of,” I answer. I send Eddie to the garage for props.

  He returns with an old sheepskin seat cover that used to belong to my father and a pith helmet my mother wore one year for Halloween. Luckily, there are a few bananas in the bowl on the table. Sometimes, if my mother hasn’t gone shopping in a while, we have to play without the bananas. I place the pith helmet on Eddie’s head.

  “Tru, you need a hat,” he says. “Hat. Need a hat.”

  I take the plastic colander from under the counter and put it on.

  “This game looks a little wild,” Mrs. Hannah says, clapping her hands.

  “Oh no,” I say. “The jungle we pretend to be in is a very quiet one.”

  Eddie, Mr. Perfect Timing, turns on the ste
reo full blast, trying to find the music we always listen to when we play. It’s one of the albums my father sent back from Africa when he still wrote to us. The music is fast, with a lot of drums, and we turn it up loud.

  “What do I do?” Mrs. Hannah looks so willing to please, I think about letting her be one of the explorers. But Eddie is already running around the kitchen table, gathering up speed.

  I strap the sheepskin seat cover on her back and hand her two bananas. “Now you have to start screaming and chase us.” I steady the camera, then hit record.

  “Wouldn’t you kids like to play a nice board game instead? Or maybe some cards?”

  “The Monkey Man’s going to get us!” Eddie shouts.

  Mrs. Hannah walks toward him. “I’m going to get you!” she says sweetly.

  “No, no,” I say. “Like this.” I hunch down and drag my knuckles on the ground. “AAAAAAAAA-AAAAAAAARGGGGGGGGGGGGGGH!”

  Eddie starts screaming and runs into the living room.

  Mrs. Hannah puts the bananas on the table. “I don’t think I’ll be too good at this game.”

  “No, you’ll be great,” I say. “A natural.”

  She smiles, then beats her hands on her chest. “Aaargh.”

  It takes Mrs. Hannah a while to get warmed up, but after she does she really gets into it. She takes off her shoes and runs around the house in her stockinged feet, waving the bananas and screaming. She rests for a few minutes, still wearing the sheepskin, and eats one of the bananas. She looks small and animal-like inside the black-and-white world of the viewfinder. When she starts chasing us again, she throws the peel on the floor so Eddie and I can pretend to trip on it and slide across the kitchen floor. Eddie hides in his usual spot, behind the coatrack, but starts crying when Mrs. Hannah doesn’t find him fast enough.