“Oh, all right,” Cokie replied, climbing back on the car. “You don’t understand about looking good, Emily. But it’s important to me.”
Emily shot me a look that said, Can you believe her?
I rolled my eyes in reply.
Once Cokie was seated again, I began. “So how was your morning?”
“Cool,” she replied.
“What was cool about it?”
“Everything. I mean … not school … but the rest of it was cool.”
“But all you’ve done so far is attend school,” I pointed out.
“School is just part of going to school,” she answered in the overly patient voice you’d use to explain something very obvious to a child. “There’re things like friends, and clothes, and boys, and all the stuff you do in between classes. That’s the real reason you go to school.”
“Tell us about boys,” Emily jumped in.
“Boys are people who can be jerky but who can also be adorable.” Here she shot Pete a flirtatious smile. I couldn’t believe it — he smiled back at her.
“Boys are pretty much the most important thing in the life of a middle school girl,” she continued confidently. “I, myself, am between boyfriends right now. I don’t have to be. But this time I’m holding out for a really good one. I’ve had it with the losers I’ve been dating. My next boyfriend will be ultimately cool.”
“What would make him ultimately cool?” I asked.
“The same things that make any person ultimately cool. Good looks. Nice clothes. He shouldn’t be failing school, but he shouldn’t be that excited about it either. You don’t want someone who spends his life studying or uses words you have to look up. If he were the captain of a team, that would be all right.”
“What about a good sense of humor, integrity, intelligence?” Emily asked.
Cokie gazed at her blankly. “Those are okay, but they don’t make you cool.”
“Are you for real, Cokie?” I couldn’t help saying. “Do you and your friends really think like that?”
“Like what?”
“Well, are good looks and nice clothes really on the top of your list? You mean you’d never even consider hanging around with someone who didn’t have the right clothes or who was plain?”
“You mean someone like you?” she cracked. “Actually, Stacey, you could hang with us if you wanted to. You have the right look. But you would never consider it. You’re just as snobby as you think my friends are. You only want to be with your little BSC pals because you think they’re so much better than us.”
I realized she was right. I did think my friends and I were better than Cokie and her friends.
“Oh, don’t look so bent out of shape,” she continued. “All groups think they’re the best and don’t want someone who doesn’t fit in. Even the geeks hang out with other geeks. I bet that, secretly, they think being geeky is the only way to be. That’s how it is in the world. At least that’s how it is in middle school.”
It wasn’t exactly the most positive thing I’d ever heard. But her theory did have a ring of truth to it.
Who would have guessed that Cokie Mason would give me something to think about seriously?
Our project was turning out to be surprisingly revealing. But the first two days of filming didn’t prepare me for what was to come.
During lunch the next day, we filmed Claudia in the art room. I couldn’t think of any place more suitable. “Can you sit by the window?” Pete requested. “There’s a lot of light coming in.”
“Sure,” Claudia agreed with a smile. She seemed perfectly at ease, probably because she was in her most natural environment.
I was proud of myself for thinking of it. Maybe I was getting the hang of this.
Emily’s questions still seemed to be producing more interesting responses than mine were, though. Probably because she was less polite, more probing. I decided I’d try to be a more hard-hitting interviewer from now on. After all, I’d been most direct with Cokie and it had produced my most interesting interview so far.
Still, I figured I’d start with the easy opener that had been working so well. “Claudia, how was your day today?”
“Excellent, completely excellent,” she replied. “I love Wednesday because I have art in the morning, followed by a study period. Then I ask for a pass to come to the art room, so it’s like having a double art period.”
“You’re such a terrific artist,” I said. “Which of the arts do you like best?”
She thought about it. “I can’t decide. One month I think I’d like to spend all my time printmaking. Then, the next, I’m totally into fashion design. I hope someday I’ll be able to choose one. But for now I’m just having fun.”
“Is there anything you like about school besides art?” I asked.
Her brow creased into a frown. “Stacey, you know there isn’t,” she replied.
“Pretend I’m not me,” I whispered quickly, then I returned to my normal voice. “Tell us a little about school.”
“I hate it! You know that.”
“What do you hate about it?”
She thought a moment. “I hate that it keeps me from doing what I love. I hate that it’s so competitive too. You have to do well in middle school so you’ll be placed in an honors class in high school, so that you’ll get into a good college.”
“I suppose that’s true,” I commented. I hadn’t thought of it that way before.
“Of course it is,” she said. “If the thing you do well at is art, no one really cares. It’s considered this very minor subject compared to English or math. I mean, where is the room for individuality?”
Her voice climbed as she became more caught up in her subject. “There is none. You know, you hear all this talk about how you are the only unique you and everyone has their own special talent. It’s what they say, but it’s not the way the school operates. What they really mean is, Do well in math, science, or language and you’ll be rewarded. Otherwise, you’re a failure.”
Emily jumped in once again. “But hasn’t the artist been misunderstood throughout history?”
“Maybe so, but that doesn’t make it right,” Claudia answered. “And the school shouldn’t try to pretend they respect or reward individuality when they don’t. They should just lay it out: We’re going to make your life as difficult as we can.”
“Do you think it’s really that extreme?” I asked. It seemed to me that she was going a bit overboard.
Claudia folded her arms. “Yes. Absolutely.”
Wow! Even though Claud is my best friend I hadn’t realized what she was up against or how angry it made her. These interviews certainly were an eye-opener for me.
* * *
“I don’t want to do this,” Emily protested after school that day. “I really have to get this edition out.” Pete had already started filming her. We were in the SMS Express office.
“That’s why we’re here,” I reminded her. “So you can work on the paper and also be involved in the film.”
She sat at her desk, a large teacher-sized one crowded with papers. “How was your day to-day, Emily?” I asked.
“Very interesting. How was yours?”
“Fine. But let’s talk about you. Do you like being editor of the paper?”
“Most of the time I love it. Sometimes the deadline pressure is overwhelming. Kids don’t turn their articles in on time. Or sometimes they’re so badly written I have to redo them. I suppose I like to take charge, though.”
“You seem to be able to handle it,” I agreed.
“You’re a take-charge type too, Stacey, but you don’t take charge of anything,” she observed. “Why is that?”
“Well, my life is very busy. Also, I’m always traveling back and forth to the city. I don’t want to commit to things that might require me to be available on the weekends when I — hey, wait!” I cried. “I’m interviewing you, remember?”
“Oh, yeah,” she said with a grin. She’d turned the tables on me.
>
“What’s the best part of your day?” I asked.
“English class and working on the paper.”
Surprisingly, Emily wasn’t easy to interview. I sat for a second, stumped. What should I ask her next? None of the questions I’d prepared seemed right.
“What’s the best part for you?” she asked.
“Oh, no you don’t,” I said.
“It’s math, isn’t it?” she continued. “I know you love math. But you can’t make math a career.”
“Of course you can,” I cried. “There’s plenty you can do with a college degree in math. There’s physics, engineering.”
“Who would want to be an engineer?” she scoffed.
“Are you kidding? Engineering is a huge field. You can plan bridges, or you can work on computer things, or you could design household appliances. You might even be involved in the space program or robotics. It’s endless.”
“Is that what you’d like to do?” she asked.
“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “All along I’ve been thinking I might go into engineering. But now I’m wondering if filmmaking might be fun. It’s not a math field, but you do have to know how to budget.”
Finally I realized she’d done it again. “Is there some reason you don’t want to talk about yourself?” I asked pointedly.
“No, but I’m a writer and a journalist. We’re happier observing than being observed.”
“You already consider yourself a writer and a journalist even though you’re only thirteen?”
“Yes, I do. I’m sure that’s what I’ll be.”
“I wish I felt that certain about the future.”
“That’s one of the biggest problems I see among middle school kids,” she said. “Fear of the future. It’s so unknown that it can be terrifying.”
“Cut!” Erica cried. “That stuff about the future would be a great way to end the film.”
“It would be,” Pete agreed. “Even though we found out more about the interviewer than the person being interviewed.”
* * *
Some daffodils had blossomed near the back entrance of the school. It seemed like a good place to interview Mary Anne at lunchtime on Thursday.
Emily had suggested her, but I wasn’t sure she’d give a good interview. I love Mary Anne. She’s the best. But sometimes she’s so sweet and polite that she doesn’t always say what’s on her mind because she doesn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. Also, she’s more of a listener than a talker. Maybe this was my chance to practice being a more dynamic interviewer. It might take that something extra to get a reaction from Mary Anne.
“How was your day today, Mary Anne?” I asked, once Erica had given me the go-ahead.
“The same as usual,” she replied casually.
“How was your Short Takes Egyptology class?”
She shrugged. “To be honest … a little boring. I thought I’d learn something more than I already knew. But so far it’s been the same information you hear about on public television. I love those shows, but I thought this would tell me more.”
“And it hasn’t?”
“No. It’s been a big fat bore.”
I narrowed my eyes. Mary Anne is a pretty even-tempered person, but today she seemed moody for some reason. “Are you okay?” I asked, half forgetting that Pete was filming.
“I’m all right.”
I figured everyone is entitled to a bad day. And there was no law that said she had to love her Short Takes class. So I continued. “Mary Anne, your friends know you as a sunny kind of person, someone who looks for the positive side of things. But don’t you ever get mad?”
“Of course I do,” she said harshly. In fact, it seemed I’d just made her mad. But maybe that was good.
“Well, what makes you angry?”
“Lots of things. Like … I don’t know … like people who can’t be nice. People who yell. The people at our school who think they’re the best — you know who I mean.”
She sighed. “I even get mad at teachers because they can be so unfair. Some of them play favorites all the time.”
This was unexpectedly great stuff. “Do you get mad at your parents?” I asked.
“Sometimes. I know I shouldn’t. Especially with my mother. Sometimes I am so mad at her.”
“Sharon?” I asked. I thought they had a good relationship.
“Not Sharon,” she snapped. “My mother! I hate her for not being there. Why did she have to die?”
Mary Anne stopped speaking as a stunned expression came over her face. It was as if she’d surprised even herself with her last statement.
“Can we stop now?” Mary Anne requested in a small voice. Tears had come to her eyes.
“Cut,” Erica instructed Pete.
Mary Anne stood up and walked away, wiping her eyes. Emily leaned close and whispered to me, “That was a great interview.”
I nodded. It was probably the best one so far.
And from the person I’d expected it from least.
When the Pike family needs the BSC, we always send two sitters, because there are seven kids (not counting Mallory, that is). On Friday afternoon, the two sitters were Abby and Kristy.
But that day Kristy was there in a dual role: baby-sitter and filmmaker.
Abby arrived first and was there to open the door when Kristy arrived with Anna, Logan, and Alan. “Hi, guys,” she greeted them. She stifled a smile when she noticed Alan. He was wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses — just to make it absolutely clear that he was the director.
Mrs. Pike came down the stairs as they walked in. She turned toward her children, who were gathered in the living room. “All right, kids, you’d better behave, because Kristy is going to capture your every move on video,” she told them with a teasing smile.
“We always behave,” said nine-year-old Vanessa, who sat on the couch writing on a pad. Abby was sure she was composing a poem, since that’s her favorite pastime.
“Yeah, we’re better than good,” added Margo, who is seven. “We’re excellent.” She was sitting at the other end of the couch, where she had been reading a book to Claire, who is five.
“Finish the book,” Claire urged her impatiently.
The ten-year-old triplets, Adam, Byron, and Jordan, sat cross-legged on the floor, playing a game. They were too engrossed in the game to respond to their mother’s comment.
“Why aren’t you guys playing that in the rec room?” Mrs. Pike asked them as their noise level rose.
“Because the light isn’t working down there,” Adam told her.
Mrs. Pike sighed. “All right. I’ll look at it when I get back.”
Nicky, who’s eight, came in from the kitchen holding his baseball mitt. “Anybody want to play catch?” he asked.
“No thanks,” Jordan answered. The rest let his answer stand for them as well.
Mrs. Pike gave Abby the number of the hair-dresser where she’d be and left.
“Okay, kids,” Kristy jumped right in. “What can you show me?”
“I’ve written you a poem,” Vanessa volunteered.
“Let’s have it,” Kristy said, aiming her camera at Vanessa.
Alan stepped between Kristy and Vanessa. “Excuse me,” he said sharply. “I believe it’s my decision whether or not we film a poem.”
“You’re in my way, Alan,” Kristy said calmly as she stepped around him. “Go ahead, Vanessa.”
Vanessa stood and held her pad in front of her. “Hey, kids, gather ’round/Kristy’s makin’ a movie, complete with sound/It’s all about kids who are silly / goofy, loopy, willy-nilly /So if you are feeling nutty / Call up Kristy — she’ll be your buddy.”
Kristy put down her camera. “That’s excellent, Vanessa. We’ll introduce the film with this.”
“That will be so cute,” Anna agreed.
“Wait a minute!” Alan cried. “Did I say cut? I don’t remember saying cut. And we’re not starting the film with that poem.”
He turned to Vanessa. “
No offense, little girl, but this is not Kristy’s movie, so we can’t use your poem.”
Vanessa scowled at him. “Don’t call me little girl.”
“Don’t listen to him,” Kristy told her.
Logan stepped into the room from the doorway where he and Anna had been standing with Abby. “Kristy, Alan does have a point. And he is the director.”
“Hey, look what I can do!” Claire cried out.
Kristy whirled toward her, camera held to her eye.
Claire began to do a somersault on the couch. Abby saw that she was about to veer off of it and onto the coffee table. She tore across the room and caught Claire midtumble.
“Hey, why’d you do that?” Kristy objected.
“Because she was about to bang into the table and hurt herself,” Abby replied angrily. “How could you just stand there filming it?”
“She wasn’t going to hit the table,” Kristy scoffed.
After that, she filmed Vanessa, Margo, and Nicky singing a silly song about a goat who ate everything in sight but saved the day when he coughed up a washline full of clothing he’d swallowed and flagged down a train that was about to crash.
Unfortunately, the performance involved throwing clothing into the air. Abby went around gathering up tossed sneakers, headbands, and sweaters, while Kristy filmed.
“Look! Film this!” Byron called to her. She turned her camera toward him. He had climbed on Adam’s back. Jordan was in the process of climbing on Byron’s.
“Not so close to that lamp,” Abby said warningly as she eyed the glass light fixture on the table next to them.
“We can’t move now,” Adam grunted from the bottom of the pile.
“They’re fine,” Kristy said as she filmed.
Nicky began climbing on top of Jordan while his brothers shouted for him to get down. “I can do it,” he insisted. But as he put his knee on Jordan’s back, Adam buckled and the whole stack came crashing down — into the table.
Abby lunged for the lamp as it teetered to one side. She caught hold of the shade just as it was about to smash onto the floor.
She turned angrily toward Kristy. “Why don’t we play this tape for Mrs. Pike, and show her what a great baby-sitting job you’re doing!”