Puppet Wrangler (3 page)

You'd think we'd have had a laugh about it then. Maybe we would have, but Kathleen had to take another call.

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Parents go for that type too. I guess that's why I always got asked to lots of birthday parties even though I didn't have many friends. Bess, on the other hand, had lots of friends and not many invitations. The guy who drives the ambulance asked her to his daughter's party when she was little, but that was different. He knew first aid. (Good thing too. Before Bess had busted open the pinata, she'd beaned three kids and the family's weiner dog. And that was with a blindfold on. Just think what she would've done if she could have actually aimed.)

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Okay, I guess she was right about that.

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But I had been to Toronto before. Lots of times. Or once before anyway. Mum took me up as proof she wasn't a hopeless parent when she went to that conference for the Canadian Chapter of Responsible Parents of Irresponsible Children.

5
TELLY DEAR,

Here are a few things I'd like you to bear in mind while visiting
Kathleen:

1. Never call her Kathi. She doesn't go by that anymore.

2. Never call her Kate. She doesn't go by that anymore either. 3. Call her Kathleen. (Not Aunt Kathleen.)

4. Be neat. Kathleen's not used to living with other people, especially someone who's almost a teenager, so it's important you don't make a mess. (Remember: Kathleen likes her magazines lined up with the corner of the coffee table. It's one of those funny things she can get a little “icy” about.)

5. Don't bite your nails. I know you never have, but it's a habit Kathleen can't stand so this would be the wrong time to start even if she makes you a little nervous, which she really doesn't mean to do. Some people just don't know how to take her.

6. Don't talk too much. I, of course, assured Kathleen this has NEVER EVER been a problem with you, but she reminded me how important it is to be quiet in the studio or when she's on the phone or when she's having one of her headaches.

7. Try and talk a little more. It's hard for someone like Kathleen, who's never dealt with young people, to keep a conversation going all by herself. So if she asks you, for instance, how you like school, don't say, “Fine.” Answer with a sentence or two. How about: “Very well, thank you. I especially enjoy world history and music.” This will give her something to build on if she still wants to continue the conversation and is not too busy or tired.

8. It's more important not to talk too much than it is to talk more. You'll figure it out.

9. Avoid telling Kathleen my feelings about the television industry. Even if she asks. Say nothing or, if pressed, lie. (I know that sounds unusual, but some day you'll understand.)

10. Be ready to go immediately whenever Kathleen is. (It's probably a good idea to leave your shoes on AT ALL TIMES.)

11. Don't worry about her driving. It seems worse than it is.

12. Try not to be in the bathroom when Kathleen needs to use it. She gets agitated if she has to “hold it.”

13. Never argue with her. Most things will blow over if you just let her get them out of her system.

14. Try not to pick up any words or expressions your father and I would feel uncomfortable with.

15. And don't forget to have fun! This is a wonderful adventure you're going on!

Love and kisses to my darling girl,
Mummy

6
A FEW THINGS MUM
COULD HAVE AT LEAST ASKED
KATHLEEN TO BEAR IN MIND.

1. Try to remember that you have a houseguest. Do not forget to take her with you when you leave for the studio in the morning.

2. If you do tend to forget houseguests, make sure to have something in your fridge other than a small jar of Apricot-Kiwi Emulsion.

3. When it finally dawns on you at two in the afternoon that you're supposed to be looking after your niece and you race home and find that she's eaten half a jar of your expensive French skin cream, try a little harder not to look like your eyeballs are going to explode. Ask yourself these questions: At twelve, would you have thought that “emulsion” was a fancy word for yogurt? What else could she have eaten (since you went and left her stranded there)? What would her mother/your sister do if she ever found out? (Supplementary question: Why would you put face cream in the fridge?)

4. When you take a preteen to a television studio (or
wherever
), do not hold her hand. Especially when she's taller than you are. It makes her look like a goof.

5. Try to remember that you have a houseguest. Do not forget to take her with you when you leave the studio in the evening. You'd save everyone a whole lot of trouble.

7
I ALMOST DIED,

There were lots of things that kind of surprised me about the television studio when I finally got there.

For one, I wasn't expecting all the food. And I mean
good
food too. Muffins. Danishes. Chocolate chip cookies about as big as Frisbees, and I'm not kidding. Pop. Candy. Party mix. You name it. It was like a kid had done the grocery shopping or something.

The best part was that you could eat as much as you wanted whenever you wanted. It was all on a big table in the hall outside the studio and it was like, go for it. And, boy, did I. That apricot face cream of Kathleen's had made me feel kind of sick. (She got ripped off. I couldn't believe she spent $89 for it. There wasn't an apricot in it.)

Another surprising thing was how big the studio was. Kathleen produces this puppet show for little kids called
Bitsie 'n' Bytesie.
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It's about these two little alien guys who live inside a computer and surf the net. Like literally “surf” the net, on surfboards. Ha-ha. How clever.

It's pretty lame actually. (You've probably heard the theme song. “We're caring and sharing in Cyberspace! So put a big smile on your Cyberface!” That's about as far as most people over three can get. ) There are, like, five puppets in the whole show. Bitsie. Bytesie. Rom. Ram. And their little human friend Amanda, who keeps on getting sucked inside the computer. (Like we haven't seen that before.)

Five puppets. How big a room do you need for that?

About the size of the school auditorium.

Honest. Maybe a little smaller—but you still could put the entire Beach Meadows Flea Market in the place. (Sure, the puppets are bigger than you'd expect—but they're not that much bigger.)

In fact, everything about the place was big. Big ceilings. Big doors. (You could drive a truck through them. Really. I saw them do it.) Big thick walls so no sound could get in or out. Big curtains that go right from the floor to the ceiling even though there's not a single window in the place. And big locks on everything.

Last surprising thing: the number of people who work there. Okay, like I say, five puppets. You figure five puppeteers, a camera guy and, if your aunt's a producer and you've ever heard of such a thing, a producer.
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Wrong. For starters, there aren't five puppeteers. There are only three. Christine, the lady, plays the little girl puppet. Jimmy and Norm do two puppets each. (They're kind of amazing, the way they can switch back and forth between different voices all the time.)

So there are fewer puppeteers than you'd think—but about forty more people than you'd expect. Three or four cameramen. Someone who decorates the set. Someone who makes the props. Guys climbing around on the ceiling making sure the lighting's right and guys crawling around on the floor making sure the sound's right. A bunch of people who look after the puppets, a bunch of people who look after the director and, of course, a bunch of people who look after Kathleen. And they're all running around with headphones on as if they work at the Gap or something.

And I'm not even counting all the people up in the control room who mess around with the computers and TV screens and stuff like that. Or the people who write the shows. Or the people who made the puppets. Or all the people I never figured out what they did. (It must have been something because they were always busy.)

The place was a zoo.

What didn't surprise me about the studio was that Kathleen would just drop me there and leave. She only introduced me to one person: Nick, her assistant, who is twenty-five or something, but is still so gorgeous that I was actually glad when Kathleen made him go with her. I'm used to not being able to open my mouth around people. It was kind of embarrassing not being able to
close
my mouth around Nick. He was so handsome with that brown skin and those white, white teeth that I just gawked at him like

I'd been hit really hard on the head or something. I might even have drooled a bit.

So anyway, Kathleen and Nick left and I was stuck in this big studio all by myself with a whole bunch of people. I was scared to move—and not just because I'm me, either. Someone else moved when the camera was going and this cranky guy named Mel went berserk.

And I mean it.

He started screaming, “Cut! Cut! Cut!” and telling off this props person for scratching her ear too loud or something. I never heard a grown-up talk to another grown-up like that in my life.

So there was no way I was going to move when the camera was rolling. My problem was that I couldn't figure out when it was rolling and when it wasn't. Sometimes, I guess the puppets were just rehearsing, but I never realized that until the camera started going again. So I just stood there and hoped that all the pop I woofed back wouldn't kick in and I'd have to pee.

I don't know how long I was standing there—except that it was long enough for Bitsie and Bytesie to do this scene a million times about being happy to have friends—when my stomach rumbled really loud.

I mean, really loud. Like a toilet flushing or something. Everyone must have heard it.

I was terrified. Especially when somebody grabbed me by the arm and whispered, “Come with me. Now!”

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Ms. Pointy Producer doing a kids' show? I know. I was surprised too. I figured she'd do a news program or one of those lawyer shows where the judge doesn't like the hero, but he still always wins. What does Kathleen know about little kids? Other than they tend to smell and make poor fashion choices I mean.

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I don't know exactly what she does, but everyone sure does what she says.

8
NO ONE'S WHO YOU THINK
THEY ARE.

That was Zola.

I immediately identified her as human. I just didn't know what kind of human. I mean, people in Beach Meadows don't look like her. Some people there dressed a bit like her—but they were all under five and their mothers made them change before they went out. That day, for instance, Zola had on long plaid shorts like your grandfather would wear, a little shiny mini-skirt (
over
the shorts), work boots, orange leggings and three tie-dyed tank tops. She had this rag—and I mean rag—wrapped around her head a few times. (That's why I didn't know that she was bald until the next day.)

And that was a pretty normal outfit for her.

It sounds weird—and it was—but once you stopped expecting something else, it was pretty cool too.

Kind of like Zola herself.

Hard to believe I was afraid of her at first. I had a good reason of course. I mean, she did grab my arm right after my stomach rumbled. (I figured Mel had heard the gurgle and he was going to kill me for ruining the “take.”)

But that wasn't it at all. Zola had just noticed I was by myself and was taking me over to be with her. We had to move fast before the cameras started rolling again.

I was still kind of scared of her even then because of the way she dressed. That's stupid, but it's true. It's like I was afraid she was going to start talking to me in some language I didn't understand.

Where did that idea come from? Like orange leggings and Grampie's shorts are the national dress of a strange foreign country or something? How stupid is that? (At least I sort of understand now why grocery clerks get all weird when they see Bess's neck tattoo.)

The truth is, Zola's probably the nicest person I ever met. Not in the fake way most adults are (“Aren't you a smart girl!”). But just nice, like that's normal for her or something.

Take then, for instance. She didn't have to bring me over to her workstation. She didn't even know I was Kathleen's niece, so it wasn't like she was sucking up to her boss or anything. She just felt sorry for me.

She didn't torture me with a bunch of stupid questions either. She just asked me my name (she even got it right the first time) and told me I could help her if I wanted to.

She's a puppet wrangler.

I know. Sounds kind of Wild, Wild West, don't it? Like she had to lasso and hog-tie them dang puppets or something.

Not quite. But she had to do everything else for them. She fixed them whenever they broke (which was, like, all the time). She made little costumes for them. She got them dressed and undressed. She cleaned and powdered them every night. (Even Jennifer Lopez doesn't have someone do that for her.)

(At least, I don't think she does.)

It looked like it was kind of a fun job. Most of it anyway. Zola had this big table set up that made her look like she was some kind of arts-and-crafts maniac or something. She had everything there: glue, feathers, paint, fake eyelashes, fishing line, chocolate cake mix—just in case they ever needed some “cybermud”—tennis balls, safety pins, makeup brushes, not to mention all these teeny-weeny tools for fixing the puppets' “mecs.”

That's short for “mechanisms.”

They're the little metal rods and things inside the puppets that make their eyeballs move or their ears wiggle or whatever.
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So, like I said, Zola had a pretty good job. The only bad part was that she was the person everyone got mad at if something happened to the puppets. Even if it wasn't her fault at all.