The Cannibals (2 page)

But they can't, because we've been friends forever, practically since kindergarten, and also because most people aren't as good-looking as us, and it would make them feel insecure. I know that sounds conceited, but it's true.

The Girls formed a screen around me so I could put on my new T-shirt; then Shelby said, “Isn't that Cannibal coming?”

I ran over to his car and said, “Hi, remember me?”

“Of course,” he said, smiling. His teeth are so white they could be in a gum commercial!

“How was school today?” I asked.

“Just fine,” he answered. “People here are really nice.”

“I have a surprise for you,” I told him. “Look!”

I guess he thought I was pointing at my breasts. He looked confused.

“No,” I said, “the T-shirt! The
name.
”

“Wow,” he said. “That's cool. Are you in some kind of group or something?”

“Yes.” I pointed at The Girls. They waved. “But it's also kind of in honor of you.”

“Me?” he said.

“Well, yeah, because you're new at school and because it's such a cool name. It's the most unusual name I've ever heard.”

“What do you mean?” he persisted.

Was this guy in Special Ed or
what
? How could anyone that handsome be so dumb?

“That's your name, isn't it?”

“What's my name?”

“
Cannibal!
”

“No,” he said. “It's Campbell. Campbell MacLaine. It's Scottish.”

“Oh,” I said.

But we've decided to keep the name for our group since we've already got the shirts.

Chapter Two

Something intensely
strange
happened in computer class today.

Mr. Brewer was telling his teenagers joke again—“One; he holds the lightbulb in place and expects the whole world to revolve around him, har har”—when suddenly the door's
kicked
open and twelve guys in black suits and really cool sunglasses rush in and throw Mr. Brewer on the floor, shouting, “Everybody stay where you are! Don't move!”

As if we would! It was better than an episode of
Dead Crooks
, starring all of us, especially Mr. Brewer.

At first I thought the men were terrorists who'd hold us hostage while the whole country watched us on TV and prayed. But it turns out they were the FBI and that someone's been using the school's Internet hookup to hack into the Pentagon's computers!

Then Principal Brown and Dean Schmitz ran in, and everybody yelled at everybody else, and it was real exciting and confusing.

The agents demanded to see what was on our computer screens, and Mr. Brewer cried, “For heaven's sake, they're researching college campuses!”

Which wasn't exactly true. At that moment I was checking out a psychic in LA that I'd heard about on an infomercial.

A few girls were crying and the boys looked scared, but like I kept saying, “We've got nothing to hide!” Besides, nothing terrible had happened. Apparently, a few bombers got mistakenly sent to some tiny little island, but nobody even lives there!

The FBI guys started hauling the computers and wastebaskets out of the room and Principal Brown left to call the school attorney. Meanwhile, a bunch of news guys had materialized outside the windows and were taking pictures until the FBI guys pulled down the shades. Drat.

They questioned each of us students—talk about
rude
. I didn't think the FBI would act like that! Then we finally got to leave. I made a quick stop in the john to check my hair. It was holding up beautifully.

The halls were jammed and people were
totally
freaking out. Mrs. Martin's whole class was crouched under their desks! They thought there'd been an earthquake or a bomb threat or something.

Outside, the reporters were interviewing the kids standing around, which really ticked me off. None of those kids was even in the room when it happened! Luckily, I spotted Marcy Richmond, the Channel 7 News gal. I explained that I was the school's Head Yell Leader and had been trapped in the raided classroom with the FBI, so if
anybody
knew what was happening, it was me.

Marcy signaled to her cameraman and he started filming. Then she said, “We're here at Hiram Johnson High School, where FBI agents have determined that the school's Internet system has been used to breach national security …
blah-blah-blah
… with a student who was trapped in the raided classroom. Your name, young lady?”

I wondered. Was this the right moment to drop the “Spratt,” which sounds so, I don't know, flat and boring, and just be known by my first name alone, which is what I've always planned to do professionally?

“Tiffany Spratt,” I decided, looking right into the camera. “Head Yell Leader at Hiram Johnson High.”

“Tiffany, can you describe what you witnessed in the classroom?”

“I'd be glad to, Marcy,” I began. “What started out like any other day was suddenly—” But at that moment, Dean Schmitz
lifted me up
and set me down somewhere else.

“Thank you, Miss Spratt, that will be all,” he said, and then he was hogging the camera.

It was maddening.

Principal Brown was going around telling everybody to go back to class, but I drove home and put on my
Cannibals
sweatshirt and set the VCR to tape the five o'clock news.

My father came out of the room he uses as his office and said, “Tiffany, why does it say
The Cannibals
on your sweatshirt?”

There wasn't time to go into all that. “It's the name of our school mascot, Daddy.”

Actually, the dolphin is our official school mascot, but all the other schools laugh at our teams and call us the Fighting Fish. Could we possibly
change
our mascot to
The Cannibals
?

“That's rather odd, isn't it?” he queried.

“I have to run, Daddy. Talk to you later,” I said.

When I got back to school, the campus was an absolute madhouse, but I finally found Marcy and her cameraman. She asked me what
The Cannibals
meant and I explained that we were thinking about changing our school mascot. Then she said, “Tell me, Tiffany, how do you feel about Mr. Brewer?”

I explained that I was practically positive that Mr. Brewer wasn't a spy, and that he would
never
approve of any of his students horsing around with the Defense Department.

I knew he'd appreciate that.

Finally, the reporters and the FBI left and rumors were flying around campus. Like, whoever broke into the Pentagon—and I heard a million guesses—would probably go to prison and be on television and get offered a big job with Microsoft. Kendall even heard that the president (of our country) was flying out to personally thank the
perpetrators
for pointing out this potentially fatal flaw in our national security.

Come to think of it,
Wally
said something about the Pentagon the other night, but I thought he was talking about one of his stupid video games. Sometimes I think he loves them more than me!

At dinner tonight my parents were all worked up about the FBI raid: “What if somebody had gotten hurt?” et cetera, et cetera. But the only person who almost got hurt was my
brother
, who'd somehow messed up the VCR and accidentally taped an old episode of
Quincy
, so I never got to see myself on the news!

“It's not like I did it on purpose!” he whined. Which is probably true; he's only a freshman.

“Were you scared, Tiff?” asked my father.

“Of what?” I plucked a piece of salad off my mother's plate. She tried to stab my fingers with her fork.

“Do you mind, Tiffany?”

She's so touchy lately. I think it must be the Change of Life, some kind of hormonal deal. The other day I was telling her how much younger she'd look if she'd just get her jowls tucked—we're not talking a major overhaul here—and she grabbed me and said, “Who
are
you? What have you done with my little girl?”

“By the way,” I announced, “from now on I'm going to drop the ‘Spratt' and just use my first name professionally.”

Dad said, “What do you mean, ‘professionally,' Tiff?”

“You know, in my modeling and acting career.”

“Like Mr. Ed!” my brother snorted, referring to this
horse
on an ancient TV show.

“I had a hairdresser named Mr. Ed,” my mother said. “Tiffany, did you finish those college applications?”

“Not yet,” I said. I've had so much on my mind: Campbell, and
The Cannibals
, and Wally—I have
got
to return his call—not to mention my job at Macy's, where I model teen fashions in their shows and newspaper ads.

“You'd better get those applications done,” she said. “You can't be a teenager forever, Tiffany. It's not a career option.”

“I realize that, Mother.” How dense does she think I am? “That's where my modeling career comes in.”

“Which is fine for now,” my father said, “but not something you'll want to do indefinitely.”

“No,” I said. “I also plan to be a famous actress. I truly believe that when God gives you these gifts, you have a sacred duty to use them.”

“Which gifts are you referring to, Tiff?” my mother asked.

“Well, without sounding conceited about it,” I said, “I'm pretty beautiful.”

“Oh, brother!” my brother snickered.

“Beauty is not a talent,” my father said, smiling. “It's something that happens accidentally.”

No kidding. Not that my parents aren't cute in their own way. Don't get me wrong, I love them a lot, but lately it seems like we're from different planets. I mean, I realize that teaching second grade isn't a glamorous job, but couldn't my mother at
least
wear some makeup? She doesn't even shave her underarms.

“Any nut can be famous these days,” my mother said. “The important thing now is to get a good education so that you can do something worthwhile with your life.”

And so forth. And it's true what she said: In the old days you had to actually
do
something to be famous, like win the Olympics, or a war, or write a book. But now you can get famous just by being really
weird
, like those kids in Nebraska who ate their parents. “How
could
they?” Shelby shuddered when we heard the news. “I don't even like to
kiss
my parents!”

My father said, “Do you understand what we're trying to tell you, honey?”

“Of course I do, Daddy,” I said. “What's for dessert?”

One thing really lucky about me: I can eat whatever I want and not gain weight. My mother says I have the metabolism of a mosquito.

After dessert, my father went into his office to take some calls. He used to own an advertising agency, but now he works at home. He's what they call an “idea man.” I'm very proud of all that he's accomplished.

It was my father who came up with the concept for the
Television Land
subdivisions now sweeping the country, with homes designed exactly like the ones in old shows: the Brady, the Nelson, the Huxtable, the Cleaver.

His latest concept has
really
taken off: full-service gas stations, where you don't have to put in the gas yourself. People in uniforms come out and do it and even check your oil and wash your windshield!

But I'm worried about him lately. He hasn't been the same since Gramma died, two years ago. “Nobody loves us as much as our own mothers,” he'd sigh. “Nobody else ever finds us so fascinating.”

That's how he got the idea for 1-800-YOR-MAMA, a free public service for people who miss their moms. He hired a bunch of nice old ladies, and people call them up and tell them all their problems. The old ladies make little clucking sounds and say, “That's terrible, honey. Have you seen the doctor?” or “He shouldn't talk to you like that! He has no idea how hard you work!” et cetera.

Unfortunately, the old lady on duty tonight phoned in sick, so my father's taking the calls. He asked my mother to do it but she refused. “I love you, Bill,” she said, “but there's a limit.”

She said it was my turn to do the dishes, but I explained that I had
way
too much homework, not to mention all those college applications. But it was hard to concentrate. People kept videophoning me to talk about the FBI raid.

Wally looked really worried.

“You love me, don't you, Tiff?” he inquired.

“Of course I do,” I answered.

“And you'll always love me? No matter what?”

“Of course I—Wally, can you hold for a second?”

The Call Waiting was buzzing, and I thought it might be Campbell, who'd probably heard that I was in the raided classroom and wanted to be sure I was okay. But it was Barbie and Kendall, so I said I'd call them back.

“Some pretty weird stuff's coming down,” Wally said gloomily. “My father's probably going to kill me.”

“Maybe he'll just take your car away,” I suggested.

Then he started moping and muttering and I had a
heck
of a time figuring out what he was saying—but it turns out that
Wally
's the one who hacked into the Defense Department!

He's scared to
death
that the FBI will find out and send him to juvie or jail, and that his dad will have to pay for all the damages: the FBI's salaries, Mr. Brewer's broken glasses, new bombs, et cetera, et cetera.

I reminded Wally that his father has
tons
of money and besides, it might be covered by his homeowner's insurance. “He really should check that out,” I urged. But nothing I said seemed to comfort him.

“I didn't mean to screw things up!” he insisted. “I just wanted to see if I could get inside the system! I was just having fun!”