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.
abusive
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.
infraction
“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.”
violation
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?
envelops
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.
initial
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?
guidance
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?”
sparring
Umberto licks his lips and smiles, as if he’s just been waiting for me to engage in this verbal sparring. “You want to give ME a nickname? Like what? Wheelchair boy?”
I am horrified by his sarcasm and can’t believe those words just came out of Umberto’s mouth. But before I can answer, several of our classmates hover around our desks. Carly looks me in the eye and shakes her head as if to say DO NOT OPEN YOUR MOUTH.
But of course I do. “You’re the one who’s obsessed with nicknames. Why don’t you make up one for yourself?”
Umberto bangs his gloved hands on the armrests of his wheelchair, delighted by the idea. “I AM going to give myself a nickname. How about Derek?” He leans back in his chair and does a series of quick circles in the back of the room. “From now on, everyone should call me Derek!”
Carly shakes her head, which makes me feel even more stupid.
brainiac
“I suppose a brainiac like you would’ve seen that coming?” I whisper to her after.
“He obviously has it out for you. Just ignore him,” she answers.
“It’s kind of hard to ignore a new kid popping wheelies in the back of the room and yelling my name.” I look over my shoulder to see if Ms. McCoddle’s coming to bail me out, but she’s still in the hall talking to Mr. Henderson.
“I’m definitely making a comic strip about this,” I continue. “I’m going to call it Wheelchair Bully.”
scolding
Maria’s putting her books away and turns to me with a scolding expression that reminds me of one of my mother’s many disapproving faces. “It’s not nice to make fun of another kid in our class, especially someone new.” She leans over so I can feel her full wrath. “Especially someone in a wheelchair.”
“ME? I’m the victim, not him.”
valiantly
Just as the words leave my mouth, I look over Maria’s shoulder to see Umberto drop his notebook on the floor. He tries valiantly to pick it up but can’t. Three of our classmates race to help him. Stephen reaches it first, brushes it off, and hands it to an apologetic Umberto. This new kid’s a better actor than Brad Pitt.
apologetic
“Sure, YOU’RE the victim.” Maria’s look is one of pure disdain. “It’s all about you.” She turns her back on me in a huff.
“I’m starting to get worried,” Carly says.
“You’re not the only one.”
Since Umberto’s changed his name to Derek, maybe my new nickname should be Bullseye.
Dad Gives Me Some Pointers
immortalizing
As soon as I walk in the door, I throw myself into my drawings. Usually, I get impatient trying over and over to capture Frank’s various poses, but today I spend hours perfecting just the right position of Frank’s arm. When I started immortalizing Frank in my strip, I didn’t realize how hard drawing a capuchin monkey would be—much more difficult than the stick figures I use to illustrate my vocabulary words.
participate
Ms. McCoddle asked me last week if I wanted to enter some of my vocabulary drawings in an exhibit Ms. Myers was putting together in the school library. Part of me was proud she thought my drawings were good enough to put in an exhibit, but another part of me was worried that kids who DIDN’T need help with their reading might make fun of me for still having to illustrate words I don’t understand. In the end, I decided not to participate, and I could tell Ms. McCoddle was disappointed. That was before Umberto joined our class; I can only imagine how much grief he’d give me now if I’d joined the exhibition.
reciprocate
What I DID agree to was starting a cartoon drawing club after school. At first I doubted I had the skills to show other kids how to draw, but Ms. McCoddle convinced me it was a CLUB not a class, and all I’d be doing was sharing my interest in drawing with other like-minded kids. Matt can barely draw a circle but he signed up immediately when I posted the club info on the school website. He also put together an outline for a comedy movie club for the after-school program. I was happy to reciprocate by signing up for his.
My father’s made a living as a movie storyboard artist for fifteen years. Maybe if I’m lucky I’ll get to draw for a living, too.
“See these parts here?” He points to Frank’s knees and elbows in the drawing. “Getting the joints is always hard. You might want to think about using a model.”
“Frank is my model,” I say. “I’ve been watching him all afternoon.”
“But Frank moves,” my dad says. “A model stays in place. Using one of those small wooden mannequins could be helpful.”
My ears suddenly perk up. Dad’s collection of wooden mannequins sits above the cabinet in his office. When I was little, I always wanted to play with them but was told again and again they weren’t toys. Was Dad now telling me that I had graduated to HIS world—the world of professional artists?
individually
I run into his office, drag his chair across the room, and reach for several of the wooden models. One is male, another female, one is a deeper color wood and has ridges. I carry eight of them to the kitchen table and line them up. After a few minutes of examining them, I pick the one that most resembles Frank’s body and start drawing. It’s not that the mannequin makes the illustrating any easier, but it forces me to think about each body part individually, which definitely improves the overall drawing.
My mother comes into the house carrying several bags of groceries. When she spots the mannequins lined up on the table, she lets out a low whistle. “I see Dad decided to let you into his secret stash. Lucky you.” She gives me a wink, knowing how many times I’ve begged to play with them.
But I’m not playing with them now. I’m using them as they were meant to be used. I’m on my way to becoming a real artist.
Which ALMOST makes up for how humiliating school was today.
Matt and I Spy on Carly
brimming
The next day is Saturday, so I don’t have to worry about Umberto. Matt’s brother, Jamie, gives us a ride to the skateboard shop in Santa Monica. But the skateboard shop is also the surf shop, and the first person we bump into is Carly’s friend Crash. Is this what my life has come to—days just brimming with people I’d like to avoid?
acknowledgment
I secretly watch Crash meander through the store, checking out T-shirts and boards. He nods to Matt and me when he sees us—which is more acknowledgment than we’ve ever gotten from him.
He’s wearing his wetsuit and carrying a skateboard with graffiti on the bottom.
“He skateboards too?” Matt asks. “How come we never see him when we board?”
The most probable answer is that he’s a hundred times better than we are and skateboards with older kids in places Matt and I don’t even know exist. But instead of saying that out loud, I just shrug.
casual
As Matt examines different sets of wheels, I try to act as casual as possible. “If Crash is here in his wetsuit, do you think Carly’s surfing today too?”
Because the ocean’s just a few blocks away, Matt and I decide to head down to the beach, which turns out to be at the bottom of a very sweet hill. We forget about finding Carly and take a dozen runs instead.
sacred
We meet two other kids who tell us this hill is where the original Dogtown boys started the whole Southern California skateboard scene. It’s less than half an hour from our neighborhood, but between the sacred hill and the wide beach, it seems like we’re a million miles away.
“We need to come here more often,” Matt says. “Jamie could take us on his way to work.”
“I can’t believe Carly comes every weekend.”
We slalom down the hill until we reach the bike path, then pick up our boards and walk across the sand. Down near the lifeguard shacks, we spot a pile of towels and backpacks. I recognize Carly’s purple bag immediately.
Matt and I shield our eyes from the mid-morning sun and scan the waves.
“How are we supposed to find her?” I ask. “Everybody looks the same in a wetsuit.”
We search the water for several minutes until a girl on an orange board rides a wave toward shore.
“Is that her?” Matt asks. “How did she get so GOOD?”
expertly
Sure enough, the girl heading toward us is Carly, smiling and confident as she rides the wave in. She expertly jumps off her board and is about to head back out when she sees us.
“I didn’t know you guys were coming to Santa Monica today.” She brushes the wet hair out of her face. “The water’s great. Come on in.”
We explain that we don’t have bathing suits, wetsuits, or surfboards. Not to mention the fact that neither Matt nor I know how to surf.
instructor
“My instructor, Heinz, has everything you need. He always has extra boards and suits in his truck.”
“Your surfing instructor’s name is Heinz?” I ask.
“A German surf instructor?” Matt’s eyes widen. “Is Germany even near an ocean?”
untangles
Carly laughs. “His nickname’s Heinz because in college he drank a bottle of ketchup on a dare. He’s kind of crazy but he’s a really good surf instructor.” She picks up her board, untangles the leash around her ankle, and heads back to the water. “Germany IS on the water,” she calls over her shoulder. “The North Sea and the Baltic Sea!”
We watch her jump back on her board. “How does she remember all that geography stuff?” I ask Matt.
memorizing
“It’s like she sits around memorizing a globe. Weird.”
Even as we make fun of Carly’s study habits, we can’t take our eyes off her as she paddles out.
“She’d kick our butts out there,” I say.
“Totally,” Matt agrees.
And for the first time since we’ve been friends, I suddenly feel as if Carly’s outgrown us.
School Is Now a Torture Zone
I spend the rest of the weekend working on my comic strip, using Dad’s mannequins to help with my technique. My father thinks they’ve improved Frank’s proportions in the drawings; I’m just happy he’s entrusted me with his models.
menagerie
I line up the panels on the kitchen table for my mom to see before she heads to her office. She just hired a receptionist named Judi, who takes her new puppy to work with her since he’s not trained yet. I’ve been helping out a few times a day by walking Snickers around the block while Judi handles the phones for Mom’s veterinary practice, which is right next door to our house. With Bodi, Frank, and now Snickers, our home sometimes feels like an urban menagerie.
“These look great,” my mom says.
I pray she doesn’t bring up my lettering.
“I’ve got a great crime for Super Frank to solve,” she suggests. “How about if he figures out who set off the explosion in your bedroom?”
Leave it to my mom to turn a conversation about my awesome comic strip into a suggestion to clean my room. I tell her I’ll get right on it, which really means I have no plans to get to it anytime soon.
I pack up my drawings and head to school.
Why am I worried about this new kid anyway? He’s a transfer student, and I’ve been with most of the kids in our class since kindergarten. HE’S the one who should be worried, not me.
isosceles
“Derek, my man,” Umberto says as he wheels his chair behind his desk.
Be friendly, I think. Don’t let him get to you.
maniacal
I open my math book, probably for the first time in my life without being told to. I pretend to study the isosceles triangles until I hear maniacal laughter.
“These are hilarious,” Umberto says.
When I look over, Umberto’s got my comic panels spread out on his desk.
invasion
“Those were in my folder,” I say. “Stop going through my stuff!”
&
nbsp; compliment
Although I don’t like the invasion of privacy, I DO like someone laughing at my comic strips. Before I know what I’m doing, I find myself fishing for a compliment.
“So you think they’re funny?” I ask.
Umberto holds up the first page and points to Super Frank. “They’re REALLY funny.”
“Thanks.”
“Is this supposed to be a monkey? It looks like a mental patient drew it.”
I grab for the paper, but Umberto pulls his arm back before I can reach it. “Were you trying to be ironic?” he asks. “Because Super Frank doesn’t look so super to me.”
guffaw
Stephen, who sits behind Umberto, lets out a loud guffaw. Just as I’m about to jump out of my chair, the bell rings and Ms. McCoddle tells us to take out our reading. Umberto hands me my drawings, laughing as if he’s just seen a squirrel playing piano on YouTube.
As we read, I try to concentrate on all the tips the reading specialist has given me, especially visualizing the story in my mind. I picture the boy in the book painting the fence in his front yard, but in my version of the story, the main character takes the paint and dumps it on the kid sitting beside him. I’ve got the kid sitting next to me. Now all I need is a bucket of paint.
My Life as a Cartoonist Page 2