My Life as a Cartoonist (4 page)

I DON'T tell my mom that a transfer kid appeared out of nowhere and chose me to turn into his verbal punching bag. I don't tell her because I already know what she'll say. She'll tell me Umberto was probably just nervous because it's his first week at a new school and I should see what he's really like once he settles in. Since I've already had the entire conversation in my head, I spare myself having the real one and just tell her about Stephen's mishap to save myself the trouble.

Luckily for me, my mom changed Frank's diaper ten minutes before I came home so I'm probably safe for a few hours. (Matt calls it “doodie duty.”) I undo the door of his cage, and Frank immediately runs up my arm. Sometimes my mom carries him around the house in one of those baby carriers, but I like having Frank perched on my shoulder as if we're in the jungle and he just jumped out of a giant palm tree, landing on me to break his fall. I walk through the house looking for Bodi but can't find him anywhere. I grab a few slices of bologna from the fridge and head to the yard to look for him.

Sometimes when it's warm, Bodi likes to lie underneath the jasmine that hangs over the back fence. Sure enough, he's there today, so I split the bologna slices among the three of us and sit down next to him.

It used to be when I skateboarded up the driveway or rode my bike into the yard, Bodi would race over and be there to greet me before I hit the door. These days, he's just happy to see me—at his age he doesn't have the energy for all that running. When I have him out on walks, people who stop to pet him can't believe he's twelve; he still has a lot of bounce for an older dog. I'm probably the only one who notices he gets around slower than before.

When Bodi and I were both younger, I used to love to take him to the dog park, especially when Mr. Danson's greyhound, Murphy, was there. Murphy would lap the park continually, racing like a Thoroughbred, zipping between all the dog owners without ever knocking any of them over. Bodi would strain on his leash at the gate if he saw Murphy, then burst into the park and chase him lap after lap until I finally had to drag his tired butt home. I wonder if Bodi ever thinks about those raucous times when he's lying under the jasmine, the way my grandmother remembers all those old stories of taking road trips with her girlfriends even though they're now all seventy years old. I remove Frank from my shoulder and sneak down next to Bodi. The jasmine smells stronger than the bologna, but sweeter, the way I imagine a rain forest would smell.

What was with that kid Umberto today? We could've talked about sports or sneakers or movies but instead he got on the defensive. And why me? Why not Matt or Stephen or Swifty? Was I wearing a sign on my back that said
PLEASE BE
ABUSIVE
? All I can do is hope tomorrow will be different, that Umberto will move onto something—or someone—else.

“Don't tell me that's Frank I see over there. You know he's not supposed to be outside.” If there's one thing my mother's good at, it's detecting the smallest infraction when it comes to Frank's routine.

“He's fine,” I yell back. “He's not going anywhere.”

We've had this conversation twelve billion times, but still my mom insists on following the rules from the monkey organization to the letter. No matter where I am, she's ready to jump on the smallest violation. Who can wreck a staring-at-the-clouds, smelling-jasmine daydream faster than a mom enforcing rules?

I grab Frank, and Bodi dutifully follows us inside. My plan had been to make my mother feel bad for ruining such a great outdoor moment, but when I enter the kitchen, the smell of warm banana bread envelops me like a tropical blanket. When I spot the chocolate glaze she's swirled on top, any thought of giving my mom grief immediately disappears. I even use my best manners so she doesn't complain when I take a second piece.

I know my reading homework's going to take me all night—a whole chapter!—so I treat myself to a little break before I start illustrating my vocabulary words. Bodi circles the desk in my room, then settles down. He knows the drill. Pad, markers, pen. I was originally going to work on the mac and cheese storyline but I put that idea on the back burner and make some initial sketches of Super Frank in school. Before I know it, I am trying—and failing—to draw a stick figure in a wheelchair.

I rip up the paper and toss it in the trash. Why is this new kid getting under my skin? What's wrong with getting a nickname? Aren't kids SUPPOSED to have nicknames? What's so bad about being curious anyway?

I turn to a fresh white page. But what comes out of my marker this time isn't a stick figure vocabulary word but a sentence.
STOP WORRYING
. If I do say so myself, it's pretty good advice.

If my cartoonist career doesn't work out, I can always become a guidance counselor.

An Embarrassing Moment

When I get to school the next morning, Umberto's already at his desk. Since I decided yesterday to play it cool, I don't say anything, just go about the business of tossing my books onto the shelf of my chair.

“Hey, George, how's it going?” Umberto asks.

Since my name isn't George, I ignore him.

“You looking to start some trouble, George?”

Umberto may be taller than me when he's standing up but he's not standing up—he's in his wheelchair. I take advantage of this and pull myself up to full height (which admittedly isn't very tall).

“My name's Derek,” I answer. “Or should I make up a nickname for you, too?”