My Great Success and Other Failures Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  “Jessica!” my mum hollers up the stairs. “Can you come down here, please?”

  “I’m busy!” I holler back, still engrossed in the cartoon I’m drawing in which my school gets taken over by aliens. (The next issue of our comic is about The Future.)

  “Did you hear me?” my mum shouts back. “Come down!”

  “I can’t!” I yell. “I’m right in the middle of something.”

  “Come down here this minute! I want to talk to you and I’m not going to do it shouting up the stairs!”

  Well then, why doesn’t she come up here to talk to me? That seems like it would be the polite thing to do. I put down my pencil. This is just typical. Adults today are so impatient. I think it must be all the caffeine in their diets.

  I thump irritably down the stairs and sigh lavishly at the bottom, where my mum greets me holding my school report. “What?”

  “Well, you can drop the attitude for starters,” Mum tells me, seemingly displeased, which is odd, because I think what she meant to say was, “Thank you for abandoning your important work and coming all the way downstairs on a merest whim.”

  “Jessica, we’d like to talk to you about your school report.” Dad comes and stands next to Mum and then they usher me into the living room like it’s their office or something, and I am about to be fired from work.

  “O-K,” I reply, sitting on the sofa nonplussed.

  I wonder if everyone gets this treatment from their parents. I wonder if Joshua, Tanya, Amelia and my best friend, Natalie, are sitting on sofas all around our town about to be lectured.

  Well, Amelia probably won’t be because she is more or less top of the class in everything. And Natalie is pretty good too. My friends Emily, Megan and Fatimah tend to be worse than me because they like to mess around, but I get the impression their parents are as fun-loving and laid back as they are, so they probably won’t be in trouble or anything.

  I bet I’m the only one unlucky enough to be stuck in the middle of a Venn diagram made up of “overambitious parents” and “not quite good enough grades”. It’s not fair. I mean, where’s the humanity?

  My little brother, Ryan, is sitting on the floor next to Lady, our new rescue dog, pushing a truck backwards and forwards. Unusually for him, he’s not doing the sound effects at the same time so it’s actually quiet for once. My older sister, Tammy, (who doesn’t live here) is cheekily using the family Internet at the kitchen table.

  “Well,” begins my dad, “your report is a bit mixed this term.”

  “Cool.” I decide to attempt a joke. “Variety is the spice of life and all that.”

  “No,” says Mum. “It’s not good enough. You’re not using your full potential. Listen to this: History – Jessica behaves well in class and generally pays attention, but her written work often includes more drawings than is strictly necessary.”

  “That sounds like a compliment to me,” I say.

  Mum continues: “Geography – Jessica drew a beautiful illustration of the effects of erosion, but then failed to complete the rest of the questions. Perhaps she should spend more time writing and less time drawing. What do you say to that?” she finishes.

  “Well, I don’t really like Geography,” I explain. “But the – quote – ‘beautiful’ picture I drew showed I understood it all. So where’s the harm?”

  Mum sighs sadly. “Jessica, you’re eleven, and that’s too old to keep turning everything into a picture. It’s not like you’re Ryan’s age any more.”

  “Hey.” Ryan looks up, but he hasn’t really been listening. I know I’m not six any more, for crying out loud. I’m much better at drawing now than when I was six.

  “You need to scale back on the cartoons and put more effort into writing,” says Mum, looking at Dad to back her up. “Doesn’t she?” she prompts menacingly.

  “Yes,” Dad agrees quickly.

  “You’ll be at secondary school soon,” adds Mum. “They won’t stand for it there.”

  “Read what my Art teacher, Mrs Cooper, says about me,” I request.

  “Well, obviously she loves you. And we’re not saying you’re not talented,” says Mum.

  “Read it,” I insist.

  Mum starts reluctantly. “Jessica is a fantastic and enthusiastic student who embraces every new challenge inventively. She has a fine eye for detail and her work on the set design for the school play was outstanding. Jessica will benefit from the resources and opportunities of a much bigger Art department at secondary school, as there is not much more we can teach her here!

  “Yes, well, that’s all very good,” admits Mum, “but don’t go thinking that means you don’t need to put any effort into other subjects.”

  “Aren’t you proud of me about my Art stuff?” I ask.

  “Oh yes, very proud,” enthuses Dad.

  Mum shoots him a look that evidently makes him uncomfortable because he adds, “But everything in its place. Keep art in Art lessons. Do proper work in proper subjects.”

  “Art is a proper subject,” I protest. “It’s one of the things that separates Homo sapiens from the Neanderthals.”

  This momentarily stumps my parents and they blink at me. “Well, that’s as may be,” says Mum finally.

  “It’s not like you’re not bright,” says Dad.

  “That’s great you know about Neanderthals and Homo sapiens,” adds Mum. “This is why we’re nagging you. It’s important you let this great intelligence of yours show in your written school work.”

  “That’s all we ask,” chips in Dad.

  “Because, ultimately, that’s what’s going to decide your future and help you get a job,” says Mum. “You’re never going to get an important job from drawing cartoons.”

  “Jess!” My sister, Tammy, charges into the living room. “I’ve got an important job for you. I need you to draw me a cartoon.”

  I hope I’m not the kind of person who would overuse the word “priceless” but that was priceless. Mum and Dad’s faces: priceless.

  I still can’t work out if Tammy was listening to the conversation and did that on purpose, but the result was the same – priceless. I might stop using that word now. Ah, once more. Priceless.

  Needless to say, dinner is awkward. Mum keeps shooting Tammy evils. Which is a shame, because the food is actually very nice today. It’s macaroni cheese and salad, made from supermarket brand ingredients, not Super Saver Value ones. (Goodbye, economy drive! You are gone but not forgotten.)

  “Sit up straight, please, Ryan!” Mum is taking out her irritation on my little brother.

  Ryan instantly strains his head up and makes himself stiff, as if he’s playing musical statues. “Like this, Mummy?”

  “Well, just sit sensibly,” amends my dad.

  Ryan exhales and flumps forward.

  “Phew,” he mutters, and eats more macaroni cheese.

  “Oh, Tammy,” says Mum, “while I remember, please stop changing the Google logo so much. I like the original.”

  “What?” says Tammy, bemused.


  “I mean it,” says Mum warningly. “I don’t mind you using our Internet, but stop messing with it.”

  “Mum, that Google logo just changes by itself, depending on what day it is,” I say. “Tammy’s not doing it.”

  “What?” says Mum, looking confused and a bit annoyed.

  “Sorry, because I know it’s fun to blame me for everything,” says Tammy. “By the way,” she adds, “I think there’s actually a meme of ‘stupid things mums say’, and that’s one of the things on it.”

  “What’s a meme?” asks Mum, getting ready to be really annoyed.

  “It doesn’t matter what a meme is,” interrupts my dad. “Can we all please just have a nice meal?”

  “Fine,” says my mum sulkily. “Jessica, sit up properly, please.”

  “OK. So it’s for this protest,” explains Tammy later in my room. “Well, it’s more of a campaign, really. I think a punchy cartoon could really help spread the message and make people aware of the cause.”

  “What’s the cause?” I ask.

  “Climate change,” says my sister. “People and corporations just aren’t getting the message that they need to reduce their carbon footprints. The way we use energy is so damaging. We have to act now. The planet is going to flood and we’re probably the last generation that can do anything about it.”

  “Well, that sounds very serious,” I say.

  “It is serious,” agrees Tammy. Then, clocking my face, “Is that a problem?”

  “Well, my cartoons are usually, um … funny,” I say. (I don’t mean to blow my own trumpet, but most of 6C agree.) “I’m not sure I could be funny about a serious subject like that. Wouldn’t it be … sort of … inappropriate?”

  “That’s your challenge.” Tammy looks disappointed in me. “This is the whole point of satire,” she sighs.

  “It is?”

  “Of course. You take a serious subject that people avoid because it scares them – and you find a clever way to make them think about it in a new light. Then bingo – the comedy draws them in, and before they know it, they’re engaged in being proper citizens.”

  OK. I have to admit, I didn’t completely follow all of that. Though it sounded like it made sense. But I’m still not sure I’ve adequately expressed my concerns. “It’s just—”

  “Look, Jess,” Tammy interrupts. “If you’re not up to the job, that’s fine. But you should know, if you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem.”

  Not up to the job? How dare— Do you know who I am? I’m a brilliant cartoonist. My idol is Matt Groening. I want to be him or some kind of artist when I grow up. I am up to every job. Ever. (Every cartooning job, that is.)

  “Of course I’m up to the job!” I splutter, trying not to sound too outraged.

  “Great.” Tammy grins and shakes my hand. “Welcome aboard.”

  OK, so you know when I said I was up to the job? Well, I’m not so sure I’m up to the job. What was I thinking? Jobs are hard. Especially when you only understand half of what you’ve agreed to.

  As I ride the bus to school the next day, I can’t help but wonder if I’ve (in my dad’s words) bitten off more than I can chew. (Admittedly he was saying it about when Lady picked up a really massive stick and couldn’t fit through the park gate with it, but I’m pretty sure it works as a metaphor as well.)

  I sat at my desk last night, trying to think of something funny about floods, but I couldn’t really come up with anything. Well, unless the flood washed away our next-door neighbours, the VanDerks (very snooty, judgemental people who my parents are weirdly competitive with. Their daughter, Harriet, is in my year, and tried to make my life very difficult recently when I was set-designing for the school play).

  Anyway, I’m pretty sure the idea of them being washed away in a flood is funny only to me. Well, and possibly Ryan and Tammy, but either way it’s too niche a joke. Also, it would technically be pro-climate change, not anti. I sigh as I climb off the bus and head towards school.

  Then I remember that there’s a comic meeting today at lunch when I can show the others my brilliant Alien Future cartoon, and I start to perk up. Things get even better when Nat sees me and cries enthusiastically, “Oh my God, Jess, you’re just in time!” (I think that’s quite a nice greeting.)

  “What’s up?” I say, coming over to the desks where Natalie (my best friend since our hokey-cokey days) and Amelia, my ex-frenemy™ (and now normal friend) sit.

  “So, we’re working on the school yearbook,” explains Nat, “and we need to come up with some funny bits to describe people, like ‘most likely to become a millionaire’ but sillier, and I thought, you know, you’re funny; you can help us come up with some stuff.”

  “Sure,” I say, smiling. See, I do have skilz. They are useful. (Ha. In your face, Mum and Dad.) “For the millionaire one, I nominate Tanya Harris.” (And I’m not just saying that because she works on the comic with me, or because I’m still technically a bit scared of her. Plus, you know, I’m hardly even scared of her at all these days.)

  Tanya “The Beef” Harris has gone from naughtiest girl in our year (and, really, the school) to best entrepreneur and business mogul. She’s abandoned keying teachers’ cars and tripping people in the corridor to become editor-in-chief of our comic, and she’s in charge of distribution as well. I genuinely think she could become a millionaire in the future.

  “Also, you still need to give us a cool photo and come up with your legacy thing,” says Amelia.

  It’s still kind of weird that Amelia and I are friends now, when she used to bully me so much. She used to be very snide and undermining: wanting Natalie all to herself; always making passive-aggressive comments about my hair and insulting my intelligence.

  But bizarrely, we really bonded when we worked on the set design of the school play (partly united by how awful Harriet VanDerk was to us) and I finally saw Amelia’s nice side. She has one! (I know, right?) And she even admitted bullying me, and apologised. But I still can’t quite believe I have managed to be her friend. I must be pretty awesome and forgiving.

  “Oh yeah, I’ll bring in a photo. What pictures are you guys using?” I say.

  “God, so many to choose from!” says Natalie. “Look.” She gets out her phone and starts flicking through loads of pictures of her dressed up as Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, the school musical we just put on.

  “I like that one.” Amelia points at Nat’s phone. “I’ve narrowed it down to these for me.” Amelia then flicks through loads of pictures of her as Glinda the Good Witch. (Despite also doing set design, Amelia had a small part in the play, because – let’s face it – she is one of life’s overachievers.)

  “You guys have great photos,” I tell them, starting to wonder what kind of photo I can use. I do have a photo of me standing proudly by a giant Yellow Brick Road backdrop we painted, but Amelia and Harriet are in that picture too.

  The thing is, I designed most of the sets, that’s why Mrs Cooper, my Art teacher, loves me so much at the moment. But I don’t have a photo to prove it.

  “Hey, gang,” I say as I sit on one of the comfy chairs in the Quiet Reading Area outside the library. “I’ve drawn a great cartoon about our school in the future and—”

  “Have you got a legacy thing?” interrupts Tanya. “For the yearbook?”

  “Um, not yet, but—”

  “Nah, me neither,” she muses, looking uncharacteristically bothered.

  “Well, if it’s any consolation, I nominated you for ‘most likely to become a millionaire’,” I tell her.

  Tanya immediately brightens. “Oh, that’s brilliant! Thanks, Toons!”

  (Tanya calls me Toons, because I draw cartoons – geddit? Toons – carTOONS? Oh, why do I bother? Anyway. You can’t groan or roll your eyes at me, because I didn’t come up with it, Tanya did.)

  “Ha,” Joshua chuckles. “I would have nominated Lewis for that.”

  Joshua and Lewis make up the rest of the comic team. Joshua b
ecame my friend when I sort of fell out with Natalie earlier in Year Six. He plays basketball and thinks he’s cool, but sort of is a bit cool. (But not as cool as he thinks he is.) He is funny though. He played the Scarecrow in the school musical and I had no idea he could do physical comedy so well.

  Lewis is still the person I know the least well out of the three of them, despite being forced to work in close proximity with him when Tanya and Joshua were being diva-actor types and bunking off comic meetings. Lewis is shy and pedantic and obsessed with Star Wars. I suppose he could become a millionaire. Maybe.

  “Well, I’m sure more than one person can be nominated for the millionaire prediction,” I say kindly.

  “Well, I wouldn’t worry about that stuff anyway,” Joshua says to Tanya. “We’ve got loads of achievements and stuff we can put for our legacies now. We both got outstanding mentions for The Wizard.”

  (Joshua has developed what I’m sure he imagines is the cool habit of abbreviating The Wizard of Oz to The Wizard. He says this instead of the play – which would actually be fewer syllables and therefore quicker if he’s that worried about brevity.)

  Anyway, he’s right. They both got special mentions in assembly the other week. They were the comedy of the piece. Joshua was brilliant as the Scarecrow and Tanya was hilarious as the Wicked Witch. I sort of do get why it went to their heads a bit. They worked really hard. (But so did I on set design.)

  Tanya considers this. “Yeah, you’re right. We’ve got loads, innit?”

  “And loads of great photos,” adds Joshua.

  “Yeah!” enthuses Tanya.

  “All right,” I say, trying to sound jokily affronted. “You actor types don’t have to rub it in our faces, just because you’ve got your legacies worked out.”