My Life as a Cartoonist (22 page)

As irritated as I am, I almost laugh at the image of a baby seal sliding down the ice chute in our fridge but don't want to give Umberto the satisfaction of being funny. I'm surprised that what he really wants to talk about is my dog.

Umberto asks what kind of breed Bodi is and I tell him he's a mutt.

“Mine is too,” he says. “A rescue dog.”

It's never occurred to me that Umberto has a dog or any other pet. He rummages through his pocket for his cell and shows me a photo of himself sitting in a kitchen chair, feeding a small brown terrier on his lap.

“You're not supposed to feed dogs table scraps,” I say. “My mom's a vet. I've heard her say it a million times.”

Umberto shrugs. “Minnie loves regular food. I sneak him bites all the time.”

“Your dog is a male and you named him Minnie?” It's possibly the worst pet name I've ever heard, and given my mom's veterinary practice, that's saying a lot.

“I know. My grandmother named him. But he's a great dog. Walking him is usually the best part of my day.”

It seems rude to ask Umberto the logistics of dog walking when he's in a wheelchair. Does the dog sit in his lap, run alongside him, pull Umberto by the leash? After a while I look at the clock and realize twenty minutes have gone by and Umberto and I haven't drawn a thing. Remembering that Carly's coming to my house after detention, I grab my markers and pad.

“Maybe we shouldn't have picked a penguin and a flamingo,” I tell Umberto. “Should we start over with dogs? It might be easier.”

He shakes his head. “I usually try really hard to finish a cartoon, even if it's difficult.”

Umberto's work ethic makes me feel bad about how ready I was to abandon our new characters—until I realize how easy it is to keep working on a cartoon WHEN YOU START OFF BY COPYING SOMEONE ELSE'S. I turn to a clean sheet of paper and concentrate on creating a new panel.

After a few minutes, I push the paper across the desk. The penguin is sliding down a snowy hill and dive-bombing into the water. The flamingo stands on one leg on the shore, wearing an arctic fox like a fur coat. I'm embarrassed to admit how much I want Umberto to like it.

“It's funny,” he says, “but wouldn't the arctic fox
eat
the flamingo?”

“In real life, sure. But this is a cartoon.” Do I have to explain how coyotes don't really send away for weapons from the ACME Corporation to catch roadrunners?
Sheesh
.

“If we're bending the rules of animal behavior,” Umberto says, “why don't we make the flamingo native to Antarctica while we're at it?”

“Because then it's not funny,” I answer.

“Oh, is it funny now? I wasn't sure.”

I snatch the panel back and ask Umberto what HE came up with. He shows me three panels drawn with precision. In the world of his perfect panels, the penguin and flamingo watch TV in an igloo.

“I don't get it,” I say.

Umberto moves from side to side in his chair. “They're indoors because it's so cold.”

“Yeah, but they're inside a house of ice.”

“That's the
joke
! How can they be warm and cozy sitting in an igloo?”

We stare at each other blankly, neither of us willing to give an inch.

“But do you like how I drew the panels?” Umberto asks. “Or the lettering?”

I shrug, unwilling to give him even that.

It looks like we're in for a mighty long detention.

Hanging with Carly

Carly knocks at the back door at exactly four thirty. The girl is so reliable, it's frightening.

“Cartoon club totally imploded without you,” she says. “The twins knocked over every desk in the room, and when Susan tried to steal some makeup out of Ms. Ramirez's purse, they got into a huge screaming match.”

“WHAT?”

“Calm down. I was kidding. Matt and I ran it together. It was totally fine.”

“Glad to see you're back to your old self.”

But when she smiles, I catch a glimpse of some of the sadness I saw in her eyes yesterday.

My mother is happy to have Carly stay for dinner. Half the reason Carly and I started hanging out in the first place is that our moms are friends. Mom gives Carly a hug, which is kind of okay yet embarrassing at the same time.

The first thing we decide to do is take Bodi to the dog park. My mom asks if we can bring Snickers along, and when Carly sees how cute the puppy is, she's happy to oblige.

The dog park is usually a nice walk—seven blocks away—but for some reason three car alarms go off, so the leisurely stroll ends up sounding like a wartime air raid. I tell Carly how Ms. McCoddle's idea of getting Umberto and me to collaborate on a comic strip is the worst idea in the history of bad ideas.

Not only does our comic stink but our relationship—if you can call it that—is as combative as ever. (I forget to mention how incredible Umberto's lettering and panels are.) As I talk, I realize all this conversation about Umberto will probably mean that Carly will want to discuss Crash. As torturous as that sounds, it's one of the reasons I invited her over today. When she starts to talk about how hard it is to see Crash in the hall now, I nod politely and try to be a good friend.

At the dog park, I unlock the fence slowly, making sure there aren't any gigantic or mean-looking dogs who might injure Snickers or Bodi. When we take the dogs off their leashes, Bodi happily frolics through the mulch after Snickers. Carly's probably the only girl I know who's not embarrassed to pick up dog poop in a plastic bag in front of a classmate. It probably doesn't sound like much of an endorsement, but in my book it's high praise. Maybe I can talk her into helping me with Frank's daily maintenance too.