My Life as a Cartoonist Page 3

  mocking

  Matt’s out sick today. I think he’s faking, but in his texts he insists he really does have the flu. So I find Carly during recess and tell her about Umberto mocking my drawings.

  “What is it about you that drives him so crazy?” she asks. “He’s been perfectly nice to me.”

  “I know—people love him!” As if to prove my point, I gesture to the other side of the yard where Umberto’s got two of our classmates in stitches near the picnic tables.

  “Do you think they’re making fun of you?” Carly asks.

  “I didn’t think so before but thanks for putting that in my head. I need something new to worry about. I just want this day to end.”

  She reminds me it’s not even ten o’clock.

  spiral

  The rest of the day isn’t much better. (The person in front of me at lunch gets the last slice of pizza.) When I finally gather my things at the end of the day, I’m surprised to find a piece of paper ripped out of a spiral notebook on my desk. I figure Carly took pity on me and wrote a note to cheer me up. But it’s not a note; it’s a drawing. Of a monkey. Wearing a cape. Hurling poop at masked bad guys running down the street with bags of money. The caption printed along the bottom reads SUPER FRANK TAKES MATTERS INTO HIS OWN HANDS.

  smirk

  I don’t have to ask who the artist is; Umberto leans across the aisle between our desks with a giant smirk.

  “You inspired me,” Umberto says. “I can’t wait to draw some more panels.”

  crumpling

  I make a big show of loudly crumpling the drawing and shoving it under my desk. But as the class heads out for the day, I’m only focused on one thing.

  Umberto’s comic is a thousand times better than mine.

  The Sad Truth

  anatomically

  I spend the rest of the afternoon lying under the jasmine with Bodi, studying Umberto’s drawing. (Yes, I pretended to forget one of my books and went back to the classroom to “retrieve” it.) Super Frank’s fur looks more realistic than it does in my drawing. His arms are more anatomically correct, even after I started using Dad’s mannequins. It kills me to admit, but the POOP in his comic looks better than mine too. The only thing that’s better in my illustration is that I used a marker; Umberto’s is done in regular pencil. That one fact hardly decreases my disappointment. Luckily my failure as an artist doesn’t affect the way Bodi feels about me; he scrunches in beside me the way he’s done since I was little. My cartooning skills don’t factor into our relationship, never have. And today that means everything.

  amiable

  Part of me feels I should be happy for Umberto. He obviously has some excellent skills; maybe he’ll have a career as an illustrator or a cartoonist. We actually have something in common and would probably be good friends—if he wasn’t such a bunionhead. But everything Umberto’s done since coming to our school makes me think friendship is the last thing on his mind. And if he thinks he’s stealing my idea for Super Frank, any kind of amiable relationship is out of the question.

  It turns out Matt really IS sick. When I stop over his house to show him the crumpled drawing, his mom tells me he’s asleep and she doesn’t want to disturb him. So I take Snickers and Bodi for several walks around the neighborhood before putting together my plan. If Umberto wants a drawing war, he’s going to get one.

  mercenary

  Like a mercenary soldier, I gather my ammunition: markers, colored pencils, erasers, ruler, drawing pads, ink, and pens. I may have less natural talent than Umberto but I’m not going down without a fight.

  scrutinize

  I work for the rest of the afternoon just drawing Frank’s legs. When my mother calls me for dinner, I wolf down the meatloaf and head back to my room to focus on Frank’s face. I keep sneaking downstairs to scrutinize Frank’s body parts, taking photos to study upstairs.

  At bedtime, my father peeks into my room. “You look like me when I’m on deadline. What are you working on?”

  I tell him I want to take my drawing to the next level. “How can I run a cartoon club when I’m not even that good?”

  “A club is so people can share their love of something. It doesn’t mean your drawings have to be perfect.”

  When I tell him I just want to get better, he says it’s always good to try to improve your skills. “Want some help?”

  mentor

  First I tell him no, then change my mind and ask him if Frank’s eyes look realistic enough. He grabs a fresh piece of paper and shows me several ways I can shade the pupils to make Frank’s eyes come alive. Umberto may have more raw talent, but I have a mentor.

  “It doesn’t just take technical skill to be a cartoonist,” my dad says. “A big part of the job is finding humor in everyday situations, too.”

  He takes out a Calvin and Hobbes from my bookcase, as well as a few Garfields. He points out several strips and explains how the artists took routine things like homework and lasagna and made them important parts of the characters’ worlds. We sit on my bed for almost an hour going through the books before it hits me: I’m studying comics! This is the best job in the world!

  By the time I go to bed, the last thing on my mind is some kid who’s trying to make me miserable. Instead, I’m confident I’ll be able to keep improving to make Super Frank the best comic strip it can be.

  Bodi circles the floor next to my bed and settles in for the night. Reading comics with my dad AND sleeping next to my dog? Umberto’s got nothing on me today.

  The Real Frank Goes on an Adventure

  curriculum

  The next day is a professional day where the teachers have meetings and kids thankfully don’t have to go to school. My mom says our teachers do stuff like examine the curriculum and talk about homework and tests, but I think they secretly run through the halls laughing and screaming because they never get to let loose while the school is full of kids. I bet they have a giant food fight in the cafeteria, then use the corridor like a Slip ’N Slide to glide on gravy from one end of the school to the other. My mother listens to this scenario patiently until I get to the part where Principal Demetri lights the makeshift luge on fire with a giant blowtorch he keeps underneath his desk. I can tell she’s no longer listening because her eyes are closed, just waiting for me to finish.

  blowtorch

  “I can keep going if you want me to,” I say.

  Mom puts up her hand to stop me. “How about if you do your homework—”

  “It’s a vacation day!”

  “Technically, it’s NOT a vacation day. Your teachers have meetings. You spent so much time drawing yesterday that you didn’t study for your math test.”

  programmed

  I don’t understand how my mom can run a successful veterinary business, manage seven employees, take care of hundreds of dogs, cats, and birds, as well as the occasional ferret, AND monitor every minute detail of my six classes. Not to mention taking care of the house, the food, and all that other stuff I don’t want to think about. It makes me wonder if she’s secretly got several Mom Clones stashed in the garage that she’s programmed to carry out various jobs throughout the day.

  “How about if you study for half an hour,” she suggests. “Then you can have the rest of the day to yourself.”

  eternity

  She says this like it’s good news, as if half an hour of math doesn’t define the word eternity.

  “How’s it going with illustrating your vocabulary words?” she asks.

  “I didn’t realize I had the day off so I could be interrogated,” I answer.

  limitless

  At this point, my mother gives up, as I hoped she would. (The older she gets, the easier it is to wear her down. Lucky for me, my energy for such tasks is limitless.)

  As my mother takes Frank out of the cage and hands him to me, she doesn’t have to tell me he needs to be changed; anyone with a sense of smell would come to the same conclusion. I go next door to her office to change him on one of the
large tables. On the way back, I grab a dog biscuit from the receptionist’s desk to give to Bodi.

  Matt’s still sick, so I skateboard by myself around the neighborhood, then head to UCLA. There’s some kind of worker protest at the quad, which I hang around to watch until the whole thing makes me hungry and I head back home.

  challenges

  When I take Frank out of his cage later, he immediately runs up my arm and sits on my shoulder. Even though we’re a foster family and we’re technically not supposed to train him, I’ve taught Frank several basic skills he can use when he graduates to being a companion for someone with physical challenges. I haven’t taught him anything difficult, like opening water bottles or dialing a phone, but I have taught him how to open a DVD case and take out the disc. It took me a week of opening and closing DVD cases, but Frank eventually accomplished the task. Just to keep him in practice, I find an action movie in the den and hand it to Frank as I make myself a peanut butter and banana sandwich. He opens the case in no time flat and takes out the DVD.

  I use the last of the peanut butter, scraping my knife along the edge of the jar to get the bits along the side. I’m not two bites into my sandwich when I turn around to find Frank with his head inside the jar.

  “Frank! What are you doing? There’s no peanut butter in there!”

  wedged

  But Frank can’t hear me; his head is wedged inside the jar and he can’t get it off. He flails around the kitchen, looking like one of those astronaut monkeys the Russians shot into space in the 1950s.

  commotion

  I try to calm Frank down, but he’s running around the kitchen, unable to see. The commotion upsets Bodi, who begins to bark. It’s just a matter of time before someone from my mother’s office comes over to check on the noise. I hurry to catch Frank before they do.

  I use my best sing-song voice to get Frank’s attention but it doesn’t work. I try to grab him, but now he’s up on the counter, shrieking.

  “What’s going on here?”

  I turn and find my father standing in the doorway. He tells the person on the other end of his cell that he’ll call him back.

  Together the two of us slowly and calmly walk toward Frank. My father gets to the left of him, I get to the right and gently grab him as he tries to jump onto the cabinet. I hold Frank steady while my father carefully removes the jar from his head.

  Frank’s fur is now covered in a helmet of peanut butter.

  “Let me guess,” my father says. “You were playing space man? Or is this an undersea adventure?”

  I make a mental note about a potential adventure game to be played at a later date and tell Dad the whole thing was 100 percent accident. I can tell he’s weighing my answer, trying to decide whether or not to believe me. While he does, he fills up the sink with sudsy water.

  “You have to give Frank a bath,” Dad says.

  I tell him no problem, not just because Frank is filthy but because giving a monkey a bath is a chore I actually like. Bodi’s already licked a lot of the peanut butter off Frank’s fur. I pick up Frank from the floor, remove his diaper, and place him cautiously in the sink.

  cylindrical

  I’m eternally grateful that my father doesn’t lecture me on the danger of cylindrical objects and instead just stands next to me at the sink, helping me spray down our monkey.

  “I’m going to miss him when it’s time for the capuchin organization to take him back,” my dad says. “He’s almost part of the family now.”

  “But we’ve got him for at least a few more months, don’t we?”

  quivers

  “I guess it depends on how many people they have on their waiting list.”

  harassment

  My body suddenly quivers as if I’ve just been struck by a bolt of lightning. As I wrap Frank in a towel, I realize my initial idea to tell Umberto about Frank was correct. I’ve let myself be derailed by Umberto’s harassment; I’ve got to get back on track. A monkey helper is the perfect olive branch to offer Umberto, a way to turn him from bully to friend in two seconds flat.

  I set to work on my new plan of training Frank to be Umberto’s companion.

  The Perfect Monkey Friend

  I find all the brochures and DVDs from the monkey organization in a box in Dad’s office. I tell him I want to study up on what Frank will learn after he leaves us, but what I really want to do is scour the information to see if Umberto would be a good applicant to receive a monkey helper.

  reposition

  Even though it’s not a school day, I don’t complain about all the reading and make myself comfortable on the floor of the den, Bodi by my side. It takes a while to get through the material but I learn several things. The training Frank will be attending is called monkey college and will last about three years. He’ll learn how to fetch various objects around the house, adjust someone’s glasses, turn the pages of a book, scratch someone’s itch—awesome!—even reposition someone’s arms and feet. I’ve been so proud of Frank for being able to open and close a DVD case that I didn’t realize how many other tasks he’ll have to master.

  After applicants fill out the twelve-page (!!!) form, it might take a year before finding out if they are eligible for a monkey helper. But if they do get one, their relationship can last for years. Like my friend Michael who’s been with Pedro for almost a decade, Umberto might benefit from having more help around the house.

  insurmountable

  I take out my pad and make a list of all the steps Umberto will have to take to make this happen. Even if it does seem insurmountable, within a year Umberto could be hanging out with a super-cool monkey friend. I’d no longer be the cartoonist in the next desk that he hates but the kid who got him a MONKEY. I text Matt that he has nothing more to worry about, that I’ve taken care of what he calls THE UMBERTO SITUATION by coming up with a new and improved idea.

  On a vacation day!

  Not the Reaction I Planned On

  Matt’s back in school, but class hasn’t even started yet and he already has a slimy stripe on the sleeve of his shirt from wiping his nose on it.

  “I look worse than I am,” he says. “I could’ve come over yesterday but I wanted to see if I could beat my own record.”

  coordination

  Since Matt got a Wii for his birthday a few months ago, he’s played more golf and tennis than a country club kid. Matt says the games are building good hand-eye coordination, but I’m not so sure he’d rack up as many points with a real golf club or tennis racket.

  “I can’t believe your plan is to offer up Frank to your mortal enemy,” Matt says.

  nemesis

  I explain that as much as Umberto’s been a giant pain in the butt, he’s not my nemesis. “As far as giving up Frank, we have only a few months more with him before he has to go to monkey college anyway.”

  “That’s probably where you’ll end up going to school too.”

  I ignore Matt’s lame joke. “At least if Frank’s with Umberto, I’d get to visit him.”

  “In your demented mind, Frank suddenly makes Umberto like you and you’re hanging out at his house with Frank. Is that it?”

  congested

  I wonder if Matt is trying to be difficult or if he’s so congested, his brain has finally shut down. “I’m just saying if Frank ends up with some guy in Montana, I’ll probably never see him again.”

  “I knew there had to be an ulterior motive,” Matt coughs. “You’re not the Mother Teresa type.”

  I tell him Mother Teresa worked mostly with lepers, which is what he’s going to be if he keeps coughing his lungs out.

  audible

  When I get to my desk, I’m surprised to find several panels with neat illustrations waiting for me. My gasp is audible when I read the title of the strip: Super Hank.

  I don’t have to ask who the artist is—the illustration style is familiar. I can feel my blood begin to boil.

  gangster

  Umberto’s strip also stars a monkey but
instead of a cape like Super Frank, he’s wearing a trench coat and a hat. The dialogue is neatly printed and snappy, like the old black-and-white gangster movies my uncle Bob likes to watch.

  “What do you think?” Umberto asks.

  I tell him it’s a complete rip-off of my comic strip.

  Umberto wheels himself over to my desk. “What are you talking about? Hank is short for Henry. That’s a totally different name than Frank.”

  By now, Matt and Carly have joined us. Carly holds up the pages and examines them. “It’s too bad you couldn’t come up with your own idea, Umberto,” she says. “I’m sure there are lots of other characters you could’ve created besides a superhero monkey.”

  “He’s not a superhero,” Umberto says. “He’s a detective. Completely different.”

  I stare at the pages while a million thoughts ricochet in my head. Why did Umberto choose ME to pick on? Why do his drawings look so good? WHY WAS I GOING TO HELP HIM ADOPT MY MONKEY?