Tru Confessions

by Janet Tashjian

  If anyone in my class found out—especially Miggs—that the principal called me at home to say something nice, they’d torture me for the rest of my life. I say something humble and polite and get off the phone as fast as I can.

  My mother brings out a cake she has hidden in the garage that says “Congratulations Tru and Eddie.” But Eddie won’t let her cut it until we all sing “Happy Birthday.” I eat the cake and talk to everyone but I feel a million miles away.

  In bed that night, I try to decide how I feel. Happy? Proud? Self-conscious? Something is bothering me, but I can’t figure out what it is. Maybe I’m just nervous to hear the general reaction tomorrow. I wish I could be invisible (or a fly on the wall, as my mother would say), overhearing everyone in the halls, oblivious to their criticism, distanced from their opinions. One thing is for sure—Eddie was really great. Make that two things—so was I.

  A Sample of Possible Reactions

  I thought it was the stupidest thing I’d ever seen. I turned it off halfway through to watch one of those church stations—that’s how boring it was.

  —Miggs Macrides

  The camera work was good and I liked the informal tone. I think it might have been better if she’d worked in some math problems, though.

  —Ms. Ramone

  She is sooooooooooo awesome. I am completely green with envy.

  —Denise Palumbo

  Look for this film in our Top Ten Picks of the Year.

  —Siskel and Ebert

  Yeah, like I want to sit home and relax and watch some knucklehead on TV.

  —Billy Meier

  The boys won’t admit it, but I overheard a few of them outside at lunch. They thought it was cool and they want to be in the next show she does.

  —B.J. Beauchene

  We need more shows like this to educate people who don’t come in contact with a lot of special-need kids. I thought it was great, even though my dandruff really showed up.

  —Mrs. Bell

  I can’t believe I missed it! I would have given anything to see it!

  —Eddie Walker, Sr.

  A cross between Woody Allen and Fellini. A documentary both surreal and realistic. A true accomplishment.

  —Martin Scorsese

  Eddie is totally neat and really funny. He’s the coolest kid at school.

  —general opinion of the student population

  The Next Day at School

  I say, “Thanks a lot, glad you liked it,” about four million times. Kids who never even said hello to me before are waiting at my locker, smiling and laughing like we’re old friends. I’m sure they’re thinking that if the cable company likes my tape and gives me a weekly show, maybe I’ll film them and they’ll be on TV, too. Yeah, well, keep thinking.

  On the other hand, Eddie is absolutely basking in the attention. He talks to everyone, enjoying his celebrity status. He obviously doesn’t hold grudges, because he even plays basketball with Miggs and that phony Billy Meier during recess. (Luckily, I didn’t witness that sight on a full stomach.) Suddenly, everyone at school wants to be our friend.

  That’s really great, I guess.

  My Real Reaction to the People Who Are Suddenly Being Nice

  HYPOCRITES! HOW MANY

  OF YOU HAVE EVER HAD

  LUNCH WITH US, WALKED

  HOME FROM SCHOOL

  WITH US, OR CARRIED ON

  A MEANINGFUL

  CONVERSATION WITH

  US? HARDLY ANY OF YOU!

  NOW YOU’RE TRIPPING

  OVER YOURSELVES TO BE

  OUR FRIENDS. YOU MAKE

  ME SICK, ALL OF YOU!

  (At least pretend to get to know us first …)

  Trying to Sort It Out

  Now that I’ve done all my ranting and raving, something is still bothering me. As much as I’d like to blame the kids at school, it’s not them. It’s not Eddie. It’s me. I tried to talk to my mother about it, but my insides felt like a constipated volcano. She tried to listen, but I couldn’t come up with anything to say. Something about watching Eddie on TV … Was I exploiting our life for my own stardom? Maybe. But I did want the viewing audience to learn more about kids like Eddie. Was it that Eddie was getting more attention than me since he was the one mostly on camera? Maybe. But I still don’t think that’s it. Then what’s the problem? I rack my brain like a little Einstein … Maybe I should sit under a tree and wait for an apple to hit me on the head.

  (Don’t bother jumping on your computer to correct me; I know it was Newton who got hit with the fruit. Just making sure you’re on your toes.)

  My On-Line Conversation with Deedee

  Luckily, my mother has to go into work this morning so I’m free to meet deedee on-line.

  trued: Nine o’clock, right on time.

  deedee: How was your show?

  trued: Okay, I guess.

  deedee: Okay? Is that all?

  trued: People at school actually liked it. They’re going kind of crazy.

  deedee: You should be proud of yourself.

  trued: I am, I guess.

  deedee: You don’t sound too excited. Is something wrong?

  My fingers freeze on the keyboard. One word at a time.

  trued: It’s just that … I haven’t really told anyone this, and I’m still not sure about it, but for the first time, watching Eddie on TV like that made me see him in a different way.

  deedee: What do you mean?

  trued: I mean, you could really tell he has special needs.

  deedee: I don’t get it. Can’t you always tell?

  trued: It’s just that watching Eddie like that was more … I don’t know … objective. He’s not going to get better. He’s developmentally delayed. He’s staying that way.

  deedee: Deep down, didn’t you always know that?

  trued: No. I mean, yes. I don’t know. Maybe.

  deedee: Well, that makes it perfectly clear.

  trued: It’s ridiculous, I know. But seeing him on TV, where we watch all those fake shows every day with actors and sets and make-up … It suddenly hit me that he’s not acting, he’s not playing a part that he can leave at the end of the day.

  deedee: Of course not.

  trued: I’M TRYING TO FIGURE THIS OUT.

  deedee: Okay. You don’t have to scream.

  trued: I’m sorry. It’s actually nice of you to listen. I mean, you’re not really listening, it’s more like reading your screen. But I appreciate it.

  deedee: Not a problem.

  trued: But why did I think I could cure him? Why did I want to change him?

  deedee: You tell me.

  trued: Maybe I’m afraid.

  deedee: Of?

  trued: Of … of moving on without him. Maybe I’m worried about growing up and leaving him behind. That if I cured him, it would be safe for both of us to grow up.

  deedee: I’m not a psychologist, but maybe all along you’ve been the one afraid to grow up.

  trued: No. Absolutely not.

  deedee: Then you’re the only person I know who isn’t.

  trued: Really?

  deedee: Sure, everybody fears the unknown. It would be nice if life were a bowl of cherries all the time, but that’s not the way it is.

  trued: A bowl of cherries? You sound like my mother!

  deedee: SORRY!

  trued: That’s okay. But … but what about Eddie?

  deedee: Why don’t you keep doing what you’ve been doing—minus looking for a cure, of course. Just being his sister and friend might be enough.

  trued: Do you think so?

  deedee: I’d bet on it.

  trued: Do you have kids?

  deedee: Two.

  trued: They’re really lucky.

  deedee: THANK YOU!

  trued: YOU’RE WELCOME!

  We sign off after tying up the line for twenty minutes. I hope Mom doesn’t notice the extra computer time on her monthly bill. But I feel better than I have in days. I run through the house looking for Eddie,
and I finally find him across the street at Jerry’s. I grab the Frisbee from his hand and toss it into the air. It sails forward through the morning sky and lands squarely on the roof of Jerry’s garage. Up, up, and away. Well, kind of.

  Moving on, alone and together

  —Eddie Walker

  A Slight Misunderstanding

  At my meeting with Ms. Morelli at the cable station, I review my ideas for the upcoming season. More Real Life with Eddie, plus a variety show called (you’ll never guess) The Trudy Walker Show. She interrupts me halfway through.

  “We were looking to fill a half-hour slot with local programming,” she says, peering over her glasses. “Not give someone a weekly show of their own.”

  I interrupt her right back. “But the response was so good, I thought you’d be interested in a few more shows.”

  “If we had any open slots, we’d definitely consider you,” she says. “The audience feedback was very enthusiastic.”

  “But the newspaper said …”

  “I’m sorry you misunderstood the article. Or maybe it was just wishful thinking.”

  My cheeks flush with embarrassment. I fish around my backpack for the file with all the letters from the cable company. “You never said anything about just one show.”

  “Trudy, here’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Maybe it’ll be something that interests you.” She pulls her chair over to mine. “We’re scheduling a teen variety show for the holidays. Kids from all over the city will participate.”

  “You want to know if I’ll tape it?” Some consolation prize to having my own weekly show.

  “Actually we were wondering if you’d host it.”

  “Really?” Images of lights, snow machines, and chorus lines fill my mind. “How about calling it The Trudy Walker Show? Might be kind of catchy. Eddie can have his own segment and my friend Denise can be my sidekick.”

  “Let’s not get too ahead of ourselves,” she says. “Right now we’re just talking about you.”

  I need to think about it for all of two seconds. “I’ll do it.”

  I leave the office, clenching and unclenching my fists. Yes! Walking through the hall, I see a giant Jaws poster falling off the wall. I take it down and hand it to the receptionist on my way out. Right now, no more sharks for me.

  The Mysterious Deedee

  I am at the mall with Denise splitting a chocolate shake. I spent the entire afternoon trying to drag her into the record and book stores, when all she wanted to do was try on earrings, but we still had fun. No one approached me and asked for an autograph, but that was okay, too. (When I’m rich and famous I will probably do anything to get my privacy back.) We share our shake and take turns doing impersonations of Mr. Manning. Denise’s is the funniest—when she leans back to laugh, tiny bits of chocolate spit from her nose. The waitress asks us ten times if we’re ready to leave. I tell her no.

  We wait outside for my mother to pick us up, pretending to hitchhike when a cute guy drives by. A blue Toyota that looks like my mother’s pulls up, so I head toward it.

  “That’s not your mother’s,” Denise says. “The license plate is wrong.”

  “I don’t even know what her license plate is,” I say.

  “I don’t even know what her license plate is,” Denise repeats, just to annoy me. “Two-four-three DEE. I bet Eddie would know.”

  I stop in the middle of the parking lot and a woman in a pickup beeps at me. I move back to Denise on the sidewalk. “D-E-E? Are you sure?”

  “Tru, if you weren’t so busy trying to get to Hollywood, you’d notice the little details in life.”

  Dee … Naaah, it can’t be her. When I had my conversation with deedee last Saturday, my mother was working. Of course, she does have a computer at work. And that computer is probably on the Net. And deedee’s e-mail address did seem like a company name. And deedee did say she had two kids. Could my mother have spotted the on-line messages addressed to her screen name and written me back with a different one? No way. She’d never be able to keep a secret like that.

  When her car pulls up, Denise and I get in.

  “Did you have fun?” she asks.

  “Yes, DEEDEE,” I say.

  Denise looks at me like I’ve eaten some bad ice cream.

  “Huh, Mom?” I say, leaning over the front seat, nudging her.

  “Tru, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” my mother answers. She asks Denise how her family is doing.

  “Do they have e-mail at the company you’ve been working at these past few months?” I interrupt.

  “Everybody has e-mail nowadays,” she says, and then continues talking to Denise.

  I can feel myself getting mad—betrayed, deceived. Then, just as quickly, I decide I don’t want to wreck such a fun day, so I roll down the window and let my anger fly outside. It’s a visualization trick even my mother would be proud of.

  “I’d love to go to the movies tonight,” my mother suggests.

  Denise and I run through what is playing at the local theater, but the whole time I am staring at the back of my mother’s head. Her hair is still brown, but the gray is more noticeable, especially braided the way it is now. I lean right next to her face.

  “The movies would be great,” I say.

  “The apples don’t fall far from the trees,” she answers.

  I smile at the cliché—one of her more stupid ones—and realize it doesn’t matter if she is deedee or not. Actually, maybe we’ve stumbled on a good setup—she can leave her opinions on the computer and I don’t have to feel like I’m taking advice from my mother. Even without Eddie in the car, we sing the Kookaburra Song on the way home, and play Chinese Fire Drill in front of the high school. Denise is embarrassed that my mother is running around the car, too, but I just grab on to Mom’s plaid jacket and run. I check out the license plate as I race by.

  Nah.

  What Are You Going to Do Now That You’ve Finished Your TV Show?

  I’m Going to Disney World! (Well, Not Really …)

  We are all eating breakfast Thursday morning—bagels and cream cheese, except for Eddie who has bagels and ketchup—when my mother makes an announcement.

  “You’re not going to school today,” she says.

  I ask her what she’s talking about.

  “And I’m not going to work. We’re all playing hooky until Monday.”

  Eddie runs to the back door and brings his hockey stick into the kitchen. “Hip check!”

  “Not hockey,” I tell him. “Hooky.”

  Mom takes the hockey stick from Eddie and pretends to hit a slap shot. “We’re taking a little trip,” she says.

  I cross my fingers under my seat and hope. Could what I’m thinking possibly be true?

  “We’re getting dressed,” she continues, “getting in the car, and going to … Super World.”

  “Where?!”

  “Well, I know you two have been wanting to go to Disney World for years, but we just can’t afford it right now. I thought this might be fun.”

  I uncross my fingers and push my bagel away. The story of my life—one big consolation prize. She holds her arms out, sensing my disappointment. “Tru, it’s the best I can do, okay?”

  What can you say when someone lets you down while trying their best to make you happy? I’ve never even heard of Super World, which is probably in some family’s backyard, with toys instead of rides. Still we are talking about missing two days of school … Eddie and I go upstairs to pack.

  We drive for five hours, singing and playing license plate games on the way. (Eddie keeps yelling “I found one!” even when he doesn’t know what we’re looking for.) At the motel, there are two double beds in one room. My mother and I take one and Eddie takes the other. When my mother goes down the hall to get ice, Eddie and I put on the little shower caps from the bathroom and jump up and down on the beds. My mother comes back in the room, takes one look at us, climbs on the bed, and starts jumping, too.

  The next morning we
eat pancakes for breakfast and follow the map to Super World. I try not to let my disappointment show when we pull into the parking lot. Weeds have grown through the pavement, which is littered with empty cups and bags. The Super World sign is chipped and the letter p is missing.

  “Sewer World,” I say. “Here we are.”

  My mother makes a face to shut me up. We lock up the car and buy tickets.

  Inside the gate, the rides are dull and worn, even the man selling balloons looks like he doesn’t want to be there. So much for the Magic Kingdom.