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To Grammy, Oma, and Pop
Contents
Title page
Copyright notice
Dedication
Super Frank!
A New Kid in Class
A Little Background on Frank
Can Someone Please Tell Me What’s Going On?
I Do What I Do Best
An Embarrassing Moment
Dad Gives Me Some Pointers
Matt and I Spy on Carly
School Is Now a Torture Zone
The Sad Truth
The Real Frank Goes on an Adventure
The Perfect Monkey Friend
Not the Reaction I Planned On
Mrs. McCoddle Plays Hardball
Comedy Club
Carly Has a Boyfriend?!
Lots of Preparation
Today’s the Day
Water on the Brain
An Empty Club
Trouble on Wheels
I Hope You Know, This Means War
You Want Us to What?
My First Detention
Get Me Out of Here!
Some Crazy Facts
Let the Games Begin
Detention Spy
A Surprise From Umberto
Hanging with Carly
I Give My Brain a Rest
NO!
Please Be Okay
You’re Friends with WHO?
Matt Joins In
My Best Idea, Hands Down
A Cartoonist’s Real Job
About the Author
About the Illustrator
Praise for My Life as a Stuntboy
Other Books by Janet Tashjian
Copyright
Super Frank!
improved
“That’s great!” my dad says as he puts the comic strip down. “Your drawings have really improved.”
I look over my father’s shoulder and examine my work. “No matter how long I work on it, my printing still looks like I’m in second grade.”
professional
“It takes a lot of practice for lettering to look professional.”
As if that’s any kid’s idea of fun—sitting around on a sunny afternoon filling notebooks with row after row of straight block letters.
flattered
My father closes the cover of the pad and hands it back to me. “Too bad Frank doesn’t know he’s the star of your comic strip. He’d be flattered.”
Dad doesn’t realize I’ve already shown Frank my drawings. It may be my imagination but by the way my capuchin monkey jumped up and down, I think he WAS flattered.
“Mac and cheese with stewed tomatoes,” Mom calls from the kitchen. “Wash up and come to the table.”
cringe
My father and I look at each other and cringe. “Why does she take something perfect like macaroni and cheese then throw something terrible like stewed tomatoes in to wreck it?” I ask.
“You know how Mom likes to sneak healthy food into everything,” Dad whispers back. “But I have to agree with you—it’s a crime to mess with mac and cheese.”
inadvertently
As I put away my pad, I realize Dad’s inadvertently given me the plot of my next comic strip: SUPER FRANK VS. THE WOMAN WHO WRECKED MAC AND CHEESE.
I can’t wait until Ms. McCoddle’s class tomorrow to start working on it.
A New Kid in Class
hostages
When I show Matt the new SUPER FRANK, he tells me it’s good but needs even more action.
“How about if the evil seal takes hostages at the bank and Super Frank has to break into the building before it blows up?”
sombrero
If you don’t count the seal and the monkey, Matt’s suggestion sounds like the plot to a zillion movies we’ve watched together over the years. But because he’s my best friend, I tell him it’s a great idea.
“How about if the seal wears a sombrero?” Matt continues. “And one of those long ammunition straps—with scuba gear.”
envision
I try to envision why a bank robber with a sombrero would need scuba equipment, then take it as a challenge to come up with a scenario where those items actually do make sense.
frayed
Matt and I stop in the hall at the same time to continue the discussion. We both act as if the reason we’re stopping is because the topic is so important, but our REAL excuse for hitting the pause button is because Carly’s at her locker talking to Crash, who’s a year ahead of us. Crash wears his usual school uniform of flip-flops, baggy surf shorts, and a frayed T-shirt. Carly met him at surf camp in Santa Monica a month ago, and lately she’s been spending as much time with him as she does with Matt and me.
She waves when she sees us, but Crash doesn’t bother to nod even though she’s introduced him to us a thousand times.
arrogant
“He’s the most arrogant kid in school,” Matt says. “I don’t know what she sees in him.”
“If he doesn’t start combing his hair, he’s going to have dreadlocks soon,” I add.
“Yeah, because he’s not cool enough now,” Matt says.
“What’s next, a tattoo?”
“He’d be the only person in middle school with one—if you don’t count the teachers.” For the past few years, every one of our homeroom teachers has had at least two tattoos.
We immediately drop the conversation when Carly approaches. She’s her usual bubbly self, not aware that her two best friends have just been talking about her. “Have you met the new kid?” she asks.
“Your boyfriend, Crash?” I say.
transferred
“Crash isn’t my boyfriend!” Carly blushes, then gives me a little shove. “Don’t you listen to Ms. McCoddle? There’s a new kid in our class. He transferred in today.”
Hearing this makes me wonder how much other information I miss when I’m drawing in my notebook during Ms. McCoddle’s morning meetings.
“His name’s Umberto,” Carly says. “I met him a few minutes ago. He’s really nice.”
“You say that about everyone,” I tell her.
“That’s not true. Toby is a knucklehead and I’ll tell him to his face.”
confidence
Matt laughs, but I’m surprised by how much more self-assured Carly’s become in the last few weeks. Have they started putting something in the Pacific Ocean or is all that fresh air responsible for Carly’s shift? Or does Carly’s sudden confidence come from hanging around with her buddy Crash?
hieroglyphics
The bell rings and we head into the classroom. Ms. McCoddle’s been on this whole “around the world” decorating theme, so this week every inch of the classroom is covered with photographs of Egyptian hieroglyphics as well as the pyramids and the Sphinx. Last month’s educational destination was China—I was hoping we’d get some ginger chicken or hot and sour soup along with the photographs, but we didn’t get either.
Carly holds out her arms like some woman on TV turning letters on a game show. “Derek, Matt—meet Umberto.”
I’m so busy staring at the hieroglyphics above the Smart Board that I almost trip over a kid with a Lakers T-shirt and closely shaved hair. He’s parked right between my desk and me, in a wheelchair.
access
I tell Umberto it’s nice to meet him, but before he can answer, Ms. McCoddle asks us to take our seats. Umberto skillfully wheels his chair to a new desk place
d next to mine. I’ve seen a few of these desks in other classrooms—more like a table than a desk—designed for easy access for kids with wheelchairs.
Matt gives me a look that says, “We have a lot to discuss at recess.” Our tightly knit class hasn’t had a transfer student yet and in all my years of elementary and middle school, I’ve never sat next to a kid in a wheelchair. As Ms. McCoddle babbles on about the Nile River, I imagine Matt and me on our skateboards, racing down the hill at UCLA alongside Umberto. He’s wheeling as fast as he can while Matt and I slalom on either side of him.
As the three of us glide down the hill, I ask Umberto a million questions: What school did he transfer from? Has he always been in a wheelchair? Do his parents have one of those cool vans with a mini elevator?
I snap out of my reverie when Ms. McCoddle pauses at my desk and shoots me the evil eye.
But of all the things I want to talk to Umberto about, the one at the top of my list is this: I HAVE A CAPUCHIN MONKEY WHO’LL SOON BE TRAINED TO HELP PEOPLE IN WHEELCHAIRS!
artifacts
I can barely contain myself through Ms. McCoddle’s lecture on Egyptian artifacts, counting the minutes till I can change Umberto’s life with my monkey.
A Little Background on Frank
entrusted
Technically, Frank isn’t MY monkey. My parents and I are the foster family he lives with to get used to being with humans. An organization in Boston trains capuchins to work with people with physical challenges and because my mom’s a veterinarian—and because I can SOMETIMES be responsible—they chose us as one of the families entrusted with nurturing a monkey. And if you guessed it’s my job to change his diapers, you’re right.
My friend Michael—who’s in a wheelchair like Umberto—lives with a capuchin monkey named Pedro, who helps him with day-to-day living. Michael is seventeen and doesn’t mind sometimes hanging out with a twelve-year-old like me—even if he has to because our moms are friends.
refreshing
Living with Frank has been amazing—if you don’t count the time I almost killed him when he swallowed one of my action figures. My dog Bodi was surprisingly welcoming and didn’t act jealous at all when Frank moved in. I’m so used to having Bodi’s mellow, older energy in the house that Frank’s nonstop activity is refreshing.
In the six months since we’ve had Frank, I never thought about who might actually get to live with him after he’s been trained. Then out of the blue, the new kid in the very desk next to mine is in a wheelchair and almost crying out for monkey assistance. It’s too good to be true, so I immediately do what I ALWAYS do when I’m excited about a new idea. I rummage through my desk for my markers and my trusty pad.
Umberto’s not going to believe his luck.
Can Someone Please Tell Me What’s Going On?
When the bell rings, I turn to show Umberto my new drawing, but he’s already halfway across the classroom, on his way outside to the picnic tables.
“That kid’s fast,” Matt says.
“I heard he was at his grandma’s house in a pretty rough neighborhood and he got shot,” Carly whispers. “And THAT’S why he’s in a wheelchair.”
“There’s no way that happened,” I say.
Matt agrees with me. “As if there’s someone in our boring middle school in a wheelchair because of a gunfight.”
“I’m just saying that’s what I heard.” Carly runs ahead to Maria and Nancy, already tired of our conversation.
“If it’s from a bullet wound—” I begin.
“It’s not,” Matt assures me.
temporary
“I know, but if it is, do you think the wheelchair is a permanent or temporary thing?”
Matt rolls his eyes. “This is about Frank, isn’t it?”
“I’m just saying … if Umberto’s in a wheelchair for the rest of his life, someone like Frank could really help him.”
effortlessly
Matt looks over my shoulder as I talk; after a few minutes, I turn around to see what he’s looking at. Umberto’s with three other kids on the edge of the school yard. He has a lacrosse stick in one hand and rapidly spins the wheels of his chair with the other. He leans forward as the ball sails toward him and catches it effortlessly in the basket of the stick.
“He’s better at lacrosse than we are,” Matt says. “And we can run.”
“I don’t even know anyone who PLAYS lacrosse,” I add. “Where did those guys get sticks?” More important—how does Umberto know so many kids his first week of school?
“I’m not sure he wants to hear about Frank,” Matt says.
He’s right. Asking Umberto if he wants to meet my capuchin suddenly seems ridiculous. Crazier still when Umberto skids to a stop in front of me.
“Great catch,” I tell him. “Did you play lacrosse at your old school?”
“My old school barely had books, never mind a lacrosse team.” Umberto looks over my head as he talks, almost as if he’s searching for someone more interesting to talk to.
“So, what happened?” I point to his wheelchair. “Were you in an accident?”
“No, this happened in a chess game,” Umberto answers.
breach
I can see Matt start to laugh, then immediately stop, knowing what a breach it would be to side with the new kid over his best friend.
Umberto keeps going. “Maybe YOU were in an accident that left you brain-dead.”
“I’m not brain-dead,” I say defensively. “Just curious.”
“Yeah, like the monkey. I think I’ll start calling you George.” Umberto pulls up his leather gloves, tightening the small buttons at the top.
“What’s your PROBLEM?” I ask. “I was just trying to be friendly.”
“Okay, George,” he yells over his shoulder as he races away.
I turn to Matt. “Is it me or was he trying to start a fight?”
“Maybe you remind him of somebody he hates,” Matt answers.
Great. It’s bad enough I had to deal with Joe and Swifty torturing me a few months ago. Now the new kid has me in his sights too.
“Hey, George,” Maria says as she, Nancy, and Carly head inside.
“It didn’t take Umberto long to get that going,” I mumble.
“At least everyone loves Curious George,” Carly says.
optimist
“When they’re in kindergarten,” Nancy chimes in.
Leave it to Carly the optimist—always trying to find the bright side of things. Leave it to almost everyone else in the world to crush my spirit before it’s even time for lunch.
As I walk to my seat, I keep my head down. The last thing I’m looking for is trouble, but it finds me anyway.
“Hey, George,” Umberto says as he slides behind his desk. “Give my regards to the man in the yellow hat.”
This time five or six people hear him and start laughing. I look over at Matt who leans toward my desk.
“You wanted to tell him about Frank, but Umberto made a monkey out of you instead.”
I pretend like I’m going to laugh, then shoot Matt a look to shut up.
This is not good. Not good at all.
I Do What I Do Best
anecdote
When my mother asks me about my day, I tell her about the bolt Stephen DeMarco found in his chili. The lunch ladies insisted the bolt fell out of the fan above the stove and just happened to land in the chili pot, but Matt and I prefer to imagine the lunch ladies are secretly being replaced by robots. Stephen made a big deal over the fact that he could’ve choked and enjoyed telling the anecdote a dozen more times throughout the day.
mishap
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.
perched
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.
raucous
My Life as a Cartoonist Page 1