by Betsy Haynes
TAFFY SINCLAIR, QUEEN OF THE SOAPS
Betsy Haynes
A BANTAM SKYLARK BOOK®
TORONTO · NEW YORK · LONDON · SYDNEY · AUCKLAND
RL 6, 009-012
TAFFY SINCLAIR, QUEEN OF THE SOAPS
A Bantam Skylark Book / June 1985
5 printings through May 1988
Skylark Books is a registered trademark of Bantam Books, a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc. Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and elsewhere.
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1985 by Betsy Haynes.
Cover artwork copyright © 1985 by Rich Williams.
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ISBN 0-553-15647-0
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PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
CW 14 13 12 11 10 9 8 7 6 5
For Joe, my inspiration for Pink, with love
CHAPTER ONE
"YOU'VE GOT TO BE KIDDING! NOT TAFFY SINCLAIR! NOT ON TELEVISION!" I knew I was shouting so loudly that every kid in the cafeteria was staring at me, but I couldn't help it. Not Taffy Sinclair. Not on television.
Taffy Sinclair is the world's most terrible person, as well as the snottiest and most stuck-up girl in Mark Twain Elementary. And that's not all. She isn't even normal. Taffy Sinclair's beautiful blond hair never frizzes. Her big blue eyes are never puffy or bloodshot. No spaghetti sauce or ballpoint pen ink ever stains her gorgeous clothes. What's more, she has never had a zit in her life—and she doesn't even sweat! That's probably why the boys hang around her all the time. I guess I'd have to admit that she's totally glamorous. So I really shouldn't have been so freaked-out when my best friend Beth Barry dropped the bomb.
I groaned and sat down with her and my three other best friends—Katie Shannon, Christie Winchell, and Melanie Edwards. Then I brightened up as a delicious thought struck me. "Is she going to appear on Donahue on a program about teenage pregnancy?" I asked with a smirk. "Or is she going to confess how drugs and booze have ruined her life?"
"Jana Morgan, you know perfectly well that Taffy Sinclair is too angelic to get involved in those kinds of things," said Melanie. Melanie swallows everything. Not just mountains of sweets, which account for her weight problem, but anything you tell her, which makes it fun to tell her things that are really bizarre.
"Of course! You're right. Why didn't I think of it?" I said, slapping my forehead with the heal of my hand. "She's going to impersonate Shirley Temple singing 'On the Good Ship Lollipop.'"
"Naw," piped up Christie. "She's playing Brooke Shields's part in the sequel to The Blue Lagoon."
We all started giggling like crazy, thinking of Taffy and her bust and how she's more developed than we'll ever hope to be. All of us were giggling, that is, except Beth. Her face was like a storm cloud. "That's okay," she said in her most dramatic voice. "If you don't want to know what she's really going to do on television, just go ahead and laugh like a bunch of idiots."
We shut up immediately.
Beth smiled wickedly, and then she kept us in suspense for a whole minute before she announced triumphantly, "She has a part in that soap opera Interns and Lovers."
It was too horrible to be true. Taffy Sinclair and I have been worst enemies for practically our entire lives. We have even had clubs against each other. And once when my friends were mad at me, she pretended to be my best friend and teach me body language so I could send messages to cute boys. But that had been a disaster. Actually you could say that our whole relationship has been like one long soap opera. But now, for Taffy Sinclair to get a part on one, one that would be seen all over America, was just too much. I was so miserable I thought I'd die.
"Interns and Lovers, huh?" I grumbled. "Isn't that a hospital show? I hope she's playing a disease."
"Interns and Lovers," Melanie repeated in a dreamy voice. "My mom watches that one every day. It's the only soap she absolutely refuses to miss. She won't even go to the bathroom while it's on."
"Well, I hate to tell you, but all the disease parts must be taken," said Beth. "Taffy has the part of a girl dying of leukemia."
I closed my eyes. I could see it all. There was Taffy lying pale and beautiful against mounds of snow-white pillows while half a dozen handsome doctors and interns hovered around her bed, taking her pulse and watching her eyelids flutter, murmuring, "She can't die now. She just can't!" It was totally disgusting.
"How do you know so much, anyway?" asked Katie, who had been uncharacteristically quiet through this whole conversation. Katie is not only the radical feminist of our group, but she can never resist putting her two cents in.
"Well . . ." Beth said, raising one eyebrow dramatically, "when Wiggins sent me to the office to turn in the attendance sheet, I just happened to hear Mr. Scott talking on the phone to Taffy's mother."
Christie has developed a monster crush on Mr. Scott, the new assistant principal. She always acts as if she has special privileges as far as he's concerned since her mother is principal of Mark Twain Elementary. She shot a poison-dart look at Beth. It was plain to see she hated being scooped about anything that had anything to do with Mr. Scott. Now it's one thing to have a crush on a teacher. (I know. I'll never forget dreamy Mr. Neal in fifth grade.) But Christie's been jealous of anyone who even speaks Mr. Scott's name out loud, ever since he personally returned her wallet, which she dropped on purpose just inside his office door.
"I only heard one side of the conversation," Beth went on, "but Mr. Scott was saying that it was okay that Taffy missed school today to try out for the part of a girl dying of leukemia on Interns and Lovers, and congratulating Mrs. Sinclair on Taffy's getting the part. He was also saying that of course it would be okay for Taffy to miss school three days next week to go from Bridgeport back into New York City on the commuter train for the filming." Then glancing casually toward Christie, who was absolutely fuming, she added, "He's certainly being extra nice to Taffy, don't you think?"
Christie came up off the bench like an erupting volcano and lunged across the table toward Beth. I threw myself between them, thinking how Beth could never resist upstaging everybody and being dramatic. It wasn't until they calmed down and I straightened up again that I realized my left elbow had been in Melanie's chocolate milk, and that the arm of my favorite white sweatshirt was totally gross. Not only that, I had squashed my lunch, which I keep hidden inside my sweatshirt. I hide it because Mom insists that I pack my cream cheese and jelly sandwich and other lunch stuff in these weird bags she bought. (Naturally she thinks they're cool.) They say JANA'S BAG in big red letters and are covered with about a hundred happy faces. They would be all right for a little kid, but if a sixth-grade boy saw me with one, I'd be so embarrassed that I'd die.
Anyway, there I sat in my gross sweatshirt with my lunch plastered to my stomach, feeling miserable about how Taffy Sinclair was going to be on Interns and Lovers and was probably going to become a television star while the rest of us were still small, insignificant sixth-gra
ders, when I heard someone call my name.
"Jana, can I talk to you for a minute?"
Even though the voice was coming from behind me, I knew whose it was. I would have known that voice anywhere. It belonged to Randy Kirwan, the cutest boy in the whole sixth grade. But Randy isn't just cute (in spite of the fact that he has dark wavy hair and big blue eyes and is a super athlete). He's also a truly kind and sensitive person, and I'd been certain for a long time that he was starting to be just a little bit crazy about me. I would never forget the Halloween party a few weeks ago when he came dressed as a hunchback and hung around me most of the evening making monster noises. I know that some girls wouldn't think that was very romantic, but they don't know Randy. He has trouble expressing his feelings sometimes.
I turned around, trying to untangle my legs from the lunch table bench and give him my best smile. "Sure, Randy," I said.
The next thing I knew, we were walking out of the cafeteria together. I wasn't the least bit self-conscious. I was remembering that once when I called him on the phone and disguised my voice so I could ask him how he really felt about me, he had said he would tell me when he was ready. I knew that was why he wanted to talk to me. He must be ready right now. I was so excited I thought I'd die.
CHAPTER TWO
I knew everybody was watching us as we walked out of the cafeteria. Every eye was on us, just as if we were a bride and groom leaving a church. I was so happy that I hardly even felt my lunch bouncing around inside my sweatshirt.
Randy stopped when we got into the hall. I stopped, too, flashing another smile, and waited to hear what he was going to say. I was looking into those kind eyes of his, and they were looking back at me.
Finally he tore his gaze away from mine and said, "Curtis Trowbridge wants you to meet him in the Media Center."
I was stunned. I could feel my ears starting to get hot, and it seemed like half an hour before I could make a sound. "Curtis Trowbridge?" I finally said, hoping Randy hadn't heard the catch in my voice. That was the last thing I had expected him to say. I looked down at my feet so he wouldn't see the disappointment on my face. Curtis Trowbridge was okay, I guess. I mean, I didn't think he was the nerd of the world anymore, but he's had a crush on me for ages, which is unfortunate because he's a genius and not very cool, and certainly not my type. Comparing him to Randy would be like comparing Alfred E. Neuman to Spider Man. I sighed. "What in the world does he want?"
"He said he wants to ask you something. He said it's important and he needs to ask you now, but he has to stay in the Media Center."
I ticked off the possibilities in my mind. He was probably building a rocket in there and wanted me to fly to the moon with him. Or maybe he thought it would be romantic for us to count to a billion together . . . by fives. That's the kind of genius he is.
Randy was waiting for an answer. I was trapped. There was only one thing I could say.
"Sure. I'll meet him. He probably forgot the social studies assignment or something."
"Gee, Jana, that's great. Not everybody is so nice to Curtis. He's really not a bad guy, you know. He can't help it if he's smart. Well, see you around." Randy shoved through the door to the playground and was gone. I stood there thinking about what a kind and sensitive person he was for sticking up for Curtis Trowbridge. As disappointed as I was, I was glad I had told Randy I would talk to Curtis.
Then it hit me. Why hadn't I realized it before? Randy was putting me to the test to see if I am as kind and sensitive as he is. After all, if two people are going to be crazy about each other, they should have a lot of things in common. Randy really was crazy about me. He had just proved it!
I was so happy that it was all I could do to keep from running to the Media Center. I knew better than to run, though, because if I did, I'd be certain to get caught by Radar Rollins. Mr. Rollins teaches fourth grade, but during lunch period he patrols the halls looking for speeders. It's uncanny how he can turn a corner and spot a kid just as he starts to dash down a hall. That's how he got the nickname Radar.
Anyway, I didn't run and I didn't see Radar Rollins, and when I got to the Media Center, I found Curtis Trowbridge sitting at one of the big library tables poring over some old copies of the Mark Twain Sentinel, the world's most boring school newspaper. It wasn't always so boring, but this year Curtis was picked by the teachers to be the editor, which is supposed to be a big honor. The only trouble is that Curtis definitely does not have a flair for journalism. He reports exciting things like the new paint job in the boys' bathroom and the broken window in the cafeteria. I had a feeling he knew about his problem, because he had a worried look on his face, as if he'd just failed a math test or something.
I plopped down onto a chair across the table from him. "Hi, Curtis. What's up?"
"Oh, Jana, am I ever glad to see you." The worried look was gone. Now he was grinning like crazy. "I have just decided to make you a reporter and give you the opportunity to write great stories for the Sentinel. All you have to do is come up with a great story by the Friday afternoon deadline."
I had a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach. Curtis had already given me the chance to be a reporter for the Sentinel. He had given almost everybody in the sixth grade that chance, but everybody had turned him down. Besides, Friday afternoon was today. "What's the catch?" I asked.
"No catch, Jana. Honest." He was trying to keep the phony grin on his face but it was slowly drizzling down into a look of desperation. "Will you do it? Please?"
"But why me? Why not write a great story yourself and keep all the glory?"
"You're the one with the super imagination," he said hopefully. Then he sighed and added in a weak voice, "And all the . . . friends. Hardly anybody will even talk to me, but everybody talks to you." He sighed again and I couldn't help feeling a little bit sorry for him. "Actually the kids have been complaining about how boring the paper is and how much news I miss. Scott Daly was really mad last week because I didn't report that he won the free-throw contest in boys' gym. I was excused from gym last week because my glasses were broken, so I didn't know about the free-throw contest. How can I print news if nobody tells me about it?"
"Gee, Curtis. I'd like to help but . . ." There was a war going on inside my head. Curtis really was okay, and it made me mad sometimes the way some kids treated him. Still, what could I do? I didn't have any news.
"Not only that," he said. "Mr. Cagney is the faculty adviser for the paper, and he said that if I didn't do better"—Curtis paused and got a really embarrassed look on his face—"they would have to find someone else to be editor."
I was definitely starting to feel sorry for Curtis now. Like Randy had said, he wasn't a bad guy and he couldn't help being so smart. Curtis must have seen the indecision on my face, because he leaned closer and said, "If you come up with a great story, I'll even write it for you and still give you the by-line. That way everyone will see that I am a great editor and I have a great reporter, too!"
How do I get myself into these things? I couldn't help asking myself that question as I tried to ignore a waspy little idea that kept buzzing around in my brain. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. It was battering my skull to get out. I hated that waspy little idea. I couldn't. I wouldn't. Not even to help out a friend in need. What would my best friends think of me if I did?
But deep down I knew I had to do it. I had to put personal feelings aside. That's what Randy Kirwan would do, and we have so much in common. I took a deep breath. I swallowed hard. Then I took another deep breath and finally said, "I have a scoop for you, Curtis. A big one. Taffy Sinclair is going to be on television."
CHAPTER THREE
When we were walking home together after school, I didn't tell my four best friends what I had done. And when they asked why Randy Kirwan had called me out of the lunchroom, I lied and said he wanted to know something about an assignment. I didn't tell them over the weekend either. Actually I didn't even see them, because Mom was on a closet-cleaning binge. Usually I don't hang around for
things like that but, number one, I was trying to avoid slipping up and admitting to my friends that I had told Curtis Trowbridge about Taffy Sinclair. We weren't even supposed to know about her, and I had broadcast the story to the entire school. Number two, Mom dug out a box full of my baby pictures and let me take them to my room and look through them.
I suppose it sounds conceited, but I spent practically the whole weekend poring over those pictures. There were pictures of me when I was a newborn baby, pictures of me in my high chair pouring cereal over my head, pictures of me riding my tricycle, and all that kind of stuff.
But my favorites were the pictures of my third birthday. There was one picture of me sitting on Mom's lap hugging my new Big Bird doll and one of me sitting on my father's lap tearing the paper off a present. I was sorry that there wasn't just one photo of me with both of them, but Mom said there wouldn't have been anybody left to snap the picture. I wondered if that was really the reason or if they were just too mad at each other to be in the same picture, since it was not long after my third birthday that they got divorced.
I couldn't stop looking at that picture of me with my father. I haven't seen him since they split up, and he hardly ever writes. Then I discovered something funny. When I put the two pictures exactly side by side to make one picture, it looked like I was identical twins, and both Mom and Dad were in the picture. I have always wanted a twin, or at least a brother or sister. I liked that double picture so much that I taped the two halves together and hid it in the drawer where I keep my sweaters so that I could look at it whenever I wanted to.
Anyway, by Monday morning I was beginning to be sorry that I had told Curtis Trowbridge about Taffy. I kept hoping and praying that he would keep his mouth shut about where he got his information. After all, a good newspaperman protects his sources, and that was all I had been—just a source. I had hardly told him anything, except that Taffy Sinclair was going to be on television and that she had a teensy little part on the soap opera Interns and Lovers. I hoped he would forget that he'd said he would give me the by-line.
