The Cannibals (7 page)

“Some things are more important than money,” she said.

“Name one!” somebody shouted. People laughed.

It was pitiful.

Campbell wasn't there. I'd asked him to come and give me support, but he said he'd volunteered at the Boys & Girls Club and wasn't about to flake out. “Couldn't you go some other time?” I begged, but he refused. Which was very disappointing, although I admire his commitment very much.

Anyway, to make a long story short, the movie people, who looked
incredibly
cool, got up and made a speech about what a wonderful opportunity this was for Hiram Johnson, and how our school and town would really benefit. Mrs. Thornton raised a question about filming “objectionable” scenes on campus. “You must understand,” she told the movie people, “that as a board trustee, I have a grave responsibility, et cetera, et cetera.”

Ms. Stuart and Mr. Goldman assured her that the board's concerns would be taken into consideration and that nothing was written in stone. They asked if she'd be interested in playing herself in the movie. Mrs. Thornton blushed and said she might, and everybody clapped except the teachers.

Then some parents got up and complained about glorifying sex and drugs, but Mr. Goldman explained that any teens in the movie who had fun would be killed. Then other parents said, “Come on, people! Where's your sense of humor? We're talking about a movie, not real life!” et cetera.

Finally, it was my turn to speak. And when those hundreds of eyes were fastened on me, and I laid out my facts and graphs and figures, I could
feel
, like warm waves bathing my body, the tide of public opinion turning in my favor. It reminded me of that old show my dad likes,
Perry Mason
. And I was Perry Mason and my mother was poor old Hamilton Burger, losing yet another case she thought she could win; arguing with the movie people and yes-butting the school board, while the other teachers chimed in.

It made me feel sad and a little uncomfortable, and I wanted to put my arms around her and tell her better luck next time, but the timing wasn't right.

Then the school board voted four to one to allow
Scream Bloody Murder
to be filmed on campus!

I'd ridden with The Girls, so Shelby drove me home. When I walked in, I was afraid my mother might jump out and stab me, or be really mad, or acting weird. But she wasn't—except for the fact that she was out on the patio, smoking a cigarette. She hasn't smoked in years.

“No hard feelings?” I called through the glass between us.

She looked puzzled and cupped her ear.

“No hard feelings!” I shouted. “Are you all right?”

She smiled and said something I couldn't hear, her words blocked by the invisible wall between us. It was like watching her on TV with the sound turned off.

Chapter Nine

I had a
very
unpleasant discussion with Miss Jones today. Sometimes she says the strangest things. Like today she said, “God help me, I'm very fond of you, Tiff.” Was that supposed to be a compliment?

First off, she gave me detention after school, in spite of the fact that I needed to get home right away and practice my screaming for the audition tomorrow.
Plus
, that made me miss my appointment with Marge to get my hair trimmed and highlighted.

Then
she made a really big deal about the fact that I'd been a tiny bit late handing in my “What Freedom Means to Me” essay.

I explained to Miss Jones that my schedule has been hectic; that I practically need a secretary to keep track of my meetings, modeling assignments, Pep Squad practices, and games, et cetera.

She said, “That's all very interesting, Tiff, but you've got to get your priorities straight.”

What does she think I'm
trying
to do?

“And this essay.” She picked it up as if it were written on
toilet
paper. “‘What freedom means to me is my new car'? Tiffany, I was referring to the personal liberties we enjoy as Americans.”

“It's an American car,” I pointed out. Is it
my
fault she didn't explain the assignment clearly?

She was still looking annoyed, so I admitted that I have been experiencing some personal difficulties lately. Life on the home front has been
tense
. For one thing, Grandpa keeps escaping from the nursing home and Daddy has to drive all over town with that silly loudspeaker, trying to find him: “
Dad! Bill Spratt!
Billy Boy, where are you? Front and center, soldier!
Dinner's on the table!
” et cetera.

He drove by school one day when I was standing outside and somebody said, “Tiffany, isn't that your father?”

“I don't think so,” I said, but he spotted me and boomed, “Hi, Tiffy! Have you seen your grandpa?”

Luckily, Grandpa can't get far in those slippers.

Also, my mother is being impossible. The other night when I came out of the bathroom, she said, “How many times do you wash your hair?”

“What do you mean?” I said.

“Each time you wash it,” she said. “How many times do you shampoo?”

“Twice,” I answered.

“Why?” she persisted. Her eyes were glittering.

“Because it says to on the bottle.”

“Your hair's not clean after the first shampoo?”

“I don't know,” I said, afraid she was having a menopausal meltdown. “It says on the bottle to shampoo twice.”

“Exactly!” She clapped her hands and grinned. “So you'll use it up faster and have to buy more!”

“It's just shampoo,” I said. “We can afford it.”

“That's not the point! Why shampoo twice? Why not shampoo a
hundred
times?” she roared. “Don't you see what's happening, Tiff? You're being brainwashed with a creme rinse!”

I think the problem is my brother. He's driving her crazy. He and his friends have started a band called The Glands, and unfortunately, he's the drummer. He practices in his room and pounds the drums so hard you can feel them in your teeth.

I wonder if I've mentioned his name. It's Ricardo. But I couldn't pronounce that when I was little, so I still call him what I did when we were kids. Retardo.

I thought hearing about all my personal problems would make Miss Jones more understanding. She's usually so sensitive and sweet. But she told me I have to do the essay over or I'll get an Incomplete!

So now I'm supposed to make time for
that
when what I
really
should be doing is writing poor Wally a letter. He sent me a picture of him in his official
Cannibals
sweatshirt, and he looked so cute except for one little thing: He's been outside in the sun so much his face has run together into one big
freckle
. I asked his dad when he'd be coming home, and he laughed like a lunatic and said, “Wally who?” The
least
he could do is send Wally some sunblock.

Actually, when I'm being totally honest with myself, I have to admit that Wally and I were never a true match. The other day I took this quiz in the latest issue of
Teen Scene
to find out what type of person I am and the kind of boy with whom I'm most compatible. It's
amazing
how much you can discover about yourself when you write things down on paper.

Favorite Foods: Corn dogs and miniature marshmallows.

Favorite Color: Blue. So's Campbell's. Wally's is green.

Favorite Music: Sousa and Little Tina.

Favorite Class: Current Events.

Favorite Books: The Bible and
SHORT BUT SWEET: The Little Tina Story
.

Favorite Movies:
Star Wars, Episode 17: Return of the Ghostly Peril
and
Love Story
, not the new one with the two guys, but the original, with the pretty, dark-haired girl with all the teeth.

Favorite Leisure Activities: Nipping off split ends, reading.

Pet Peeves: Negative people who always complain and take themselves too seriously, and people who smoke cigarettes or drink or take drugs.
Yuk!

Most Embarrassing Moment: The time I was modeling swimsuits at Macy's and glanced down while I was waving—and my deodorant had dried all white and cakey!

Biggest Inspirations: God and Little Tina.

Then you were supposed to write a personal ad describing yourself, like the kind people put on the Net or in newspapers, which I'd never do, not only because my mother would kill me, but also because you never know what you'll get. Shelby met this guy on the Internet and he sounded so perfect, but when they finally met, he turned out to be completely different! How was she supposed to know what “vertically challenged” meant? He should've
told
her he was a midget!

But I wrote out the ad as a learning experience: “Blonde and beautiful, sunny and fun. Loves dancing, laughter, life,” et cetera. Then you wrote a description of your ideal mate: “Wanted: Strong, handsome blond with sunny personality. Must love laughter, dancing, sports,” et cetera—and it sounded
exactly
like Campbell!

I was so excited I called him up to tell him but he and his dad were having a big fight about his dad owning stock in tobacco companies. Campbell told his dad that he'd rather dig ditches than have
blood money
pay for his college tuition, and his father said, “Fine, grab a shovel.” I told Campbell that I admire his commitment very much, but it's not like what his dad does will make a bit of difference.

“As usual, you're missing the point!” Campbell said, then
we
started arguing. But it worked out fine. Which is one reason we're so perfect together; it's like he's the snarl and I'm the conditioner.

My mother and I just got into it again.

I was standing in my bedroom in front of the mirror, practicing my screaming for the audition.

“What's the matter, Tiff?” she asked from the doorway. “Did you just remember that you have to do the dishes?”

“Why can't Retardo—”

“Tiffany!” she barked.

“Well, can't he do them tonight? I'm busy!”

“He did them last night,” she said.

“So? It's not going to kill him. Tomorrow's the audition!”

“Aren't you supposed to be rewriting your essay for Miss Jones?” she asked.

“I am!”

“You are? It looks like you're standing there screaming,” she said.

“I'm
going
to, I mean. As soon as I've practiced.”

My mother sat down on my bed. Which is never a good sign; it means we're going to have a big discussion. I didn't have time for a discussion right then. I had to work on my fear reactions!

I said, “Do you think I look more terrified like this, or like this, with my hands in the air?”

“Pretend you're looking at your last report card. That'll help,” she said.

“There's no need to be sarcastic,” I said. “I know you're not happy about the movie. But the people spoke and the board voted. This is a democracy.”

“Not anymore. It's a studio audience.”

“What's
that
supposed to mean?”

She sighed. “Honey, sit down for a minute. Please.” She patted the bed, and I sat down beside her. “You know that I love you very much, don't you, Tiffany?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Even when we disagree,” she said.

“I know.”

“And I realize that you're a young woman now, with a mind of your own. Seventeen years old …”

I could see where this was heading. The next thing I knew, she'd be getting all weepy and dragging out my baby pictures.

“That's right, Mom.” I tried to speed things up. “But I'll always be your little girl.” No soap.

“Tiffy, have I ever lied to you, or intentionally steered you wrong?”

“Well, no,” I said. “Except when you bought me those bell-bottomed pants.”

“Aside from that.”

“They were really ugly.”

“Listen to me, honey.” She took my hand. “Sometimes I think you don't realize how important your education is.”

“Mom, my GPA—”

“I'm not talking about grades, Tiff, or using them to get a job that pays a lot of money. I'm talking about knowledge,” she said. “About expanding your mind and your horizons.”

“I did great on my SATs,” I pointed out.

“Yes, you did.” She squeezed my hand. “And Daddy and I are so proud of you, honey. Just as proud as we can be. You're a very intelligent girl, and I believe that you're going to accomplish great things. But you've got to focus on what's important, Tiff. Take advantage of this time in your life to grow and explore and plan for the future.”

“I've already got a plan,” I said. “I'm going to be an actress. Though I think they're all called ‘actors' now, which, in my opinion, is only right. I mean, I'm not one of these feminists—”

My mother sighed.

“—who thinks that all men are dogs, or wants to play professional football. But women should get paid just as much as men and be treated with the same respect. So
what
if I like to wear pretty clothes and makeup? You can still be feminine and be a woman.”

Hint, hint
. But she didn't get it.

She said, “I just hope you won't be too disappointed if this movie business doesn't work out.”

“I'll
make
it work out! There wouldn't even be a movie if it weren't for me! Mr. Goldman said so himself. So I know I'll get a part, and even if it's small, I'll do my best and lots of people will see me; important people like directors and producers and agents, and one thing will lead to another.”

“Maybe so,” she said. “But what if it doesn't? I don't want to see you hurt, Tiffy.”

“Don't worry.” I gave her a big hug. “I'll be fine.”

It's funny and kind of sad how, as time goes by, you kind of turn into the parent and your mother's like the child. It's funny how things switch around.