Who knows—maybe I ended up keeping my New Year’s resolution after all.
A Neighbor Leaves
My mother gives me the longest, tightest hug when I get home and thanks me again for helping to find Mrs. Mitchell. I tell her it’s no big deal, but considering that no one else thought Mrs. Mitchell might take a bus all the way downtown, maybe it IS a big deal. Mom says Mandy wants to thank me personally, so I tell her I’ll go over after dinner.
Mrs. Mitchell taking off on her own makes me think twice about disregarding Mom’s orders and letting Frank loose outside. Never mind how much trouble I’d get into with the foster monkey organization if he never came back—I’d MISS him. I always assumed if Frank took off, he’d just return on his own, but suppose he climbed through the trees and couldn’t find his way? While Mom heats up beef and cauliflower stew, I lie on the living room rug with both my animal friends, glad they’re safe and sound.
When I head over to Mrs. Mitchell’s later, my never-miss-a-trick mom asks what’s in the bag I’m carrying. I tell her it’s a going-away present, which is true.
On my way to the Mitchells’, I hear a noise coming up behind me; it’s Steve on his board. He careens down the street, skidding to a stop in front of me, and tells me yet again how cool it was that I got to meet Tony Hawk. I just nod and let him talk. Even though my phone’s in my pocket, I don’t tell him about Tony’s message.
“Hey, I’m having some friends over tonight,” Steve continues. “Why don’t you come by?” He looks down at the ground, suddenly mesmerized by the manhole cover. “You don’t have to watch my brother. Just come and hang.”
I tell Steve thanks but I’ve got something to do and will see him around. It may be too soon to say—and I may take this back tomorrow—but for right now, impressing other people seems a lot less important than it used to.
Mandy greets me at the door like I’m her long-lost son, going on and on about how I saved the day. During Mandy’s fuss, Mrs. Mitchell calmly takes a tray out of the oven as if the whole ordeal was a distant memory. I listen to Mandy talk about how great I am while the smell of warm oatmeal cookies with walnuts and chocolate chips fills the room. Compliments AND warm cookies? I may stay here forever.
It takes all my willpower to wait until Mrs. Mitchell puts the cookies on a plate before I grab one. After my third cookie, I take out the present I brought over.
Mrs. Mitchell’s face lights up when she sees the doll. “Mandy, look! It’s Baby Karen! I got her at that department store for your birthday!” Mrs. Mitchell combs the doll’s hair with her fingers. “But where is her purse?”
Mrs. Mitchell has just asked the Two-Hundred-Thirty-Two-Dollar Question. I tell her I don’t know.
“I have one!” Olivia runs into one of the bedrooms and comes out holding a little black bag.
“There it is!” Mrs. Mitchell says.
I stare at Olivia holding the now-complete Baby Karen. SHE had the purse this whole time?! She must’ve taken it that day when I tried to get her to play with the doll at my house. I feel myself get angry at all the trouble Olivia caused, then take a deep breath. I guess if Olivia hadn’t taken the purse to play with, I wouldn’t have had to return Baby Karen, which means I wouldn’t have owed the money to that lady and wouldn’t have worked with Debbie, which means I wouldn’t have Tony Hawk on my outgoing phone message. (I’ve already called myself twenty times from other people’s phones.) I exhale and watch Mrs. Mitchell with the doll.
Mandy puts her arm on mine, happy to see her mother so absorbed with this favorite childhood toy.
“Come see the doll, Mandy,” Mrs. Mitchell calls.
Mandy starts to walk across the room until we both realize Mrs. Mitchell is addressing Olivia. She holds up the doll to the toddler. “Mandy, Baby Karen’s here.”
Olivia just stares at her grandmother blankly.
Seeing Mandy’s face fall as she watches Mrs. Mitchell makes my heart ache. Mandy stays back with me, observing her mother and her daughter and her childhood doll.
I’ve tried to give Baby Karen to Olivia several times though she didn’t want anything to do with her. But I guess even a toddler knows when it’s time to think about someone else because Olivia thanks her grandmother and hugs the doll to her chest like Baby Karen is the greatest present in the world. Mandy looks happy and sad at the same time, which I didn’t think was possible. It’s like the doll has linked all of them through decades and I suddenly wonder if Baby Karen is cursed in a GOOD way. Maybe my taking her out of the donation box wasn’t such a bad thing after all. Maybe I DON’T have to grow up so soon. Maybe just being me—the goofy joke that I am—is all I have to do right now.
I grab Olivia’s T. rex action figure from the box in the corner of the room and move it across the floor toward the couch, making loud, bellowing noises. Olivia lets out a pretend scream.
“Uh-oh,” Mandy says. “T. rex is coming for Baby Karen.”
“No,” I growl. “He’s coming for Baby Karen’s purse!”
Olivia shrieks with delight, then hides the doll under a stack of pillows, which of course the dinosaur demolishes. Mrs. Mitchell claps her hands and laughs as I make the dinosaur chase Olivia and the doll around the room. It’s a Friday night and I’m on the floor playing with a little kid, a doll, and a dinosaur. I can’t tell if that’s mature or immature but I’m having too much fun to care.
Sometimes It’s Okay to Be the Punchline
A week later, Matt texts that he’s on his way over. I assume we’re going to laugh at people doing inane tricks on YouTube, but when I open the back door, I’m surprised to see he’s with Umberto and Carly. They all look at my father awkwardly until Dad stands up and claps his hands.
“Get your stuff,” Dad tells me. “We’re going out.”
I ask more than once where we’re going but Dad’s answer is inaudible, and even though I beg him to repeat himself, he doesn’t. The same goes for Matt, Carly, and Umberto. Bill, who drives Umberto’s van, has been to our house a lot but this time, he and my father exchange keys. It appears my father’s taking my friends and me somewhere in the van while Bill uses my father’s car. I can’t say for sure because NO ONE’S TELLING ME ANYTHING.
As we head east on the 10, I start guessing. “Are we going to the Wax Museum? That great frozen yogurt place in West Hollywood?” With each wrong guess, everyone’s grin grows wider.
“What do you think?” Matt finally asks my dad. “Should we tell him?”
My dad says okay and Carly—of course—takes the lead. “This has been a rough year for you,” she says.
“And it’s only May!” Umberto adds.
“But it looks like things might be turning around.” Matt holds up five tickets. “Which is why you need to see some REAL Monster Trucks.”
I grab the tickets from his hand. Sure enough, they’re for the big Monster Truck show at the Staples Center this afternoon.
“Dad, these cost a fortune!”
“They did, but I wasn’t the one who paid. Mrs. Mitchell wanted to do something special for you and your friends as her going-away present. When I asked Matt, he suggested this. I told her I’d pay for you kids but Mrs. Mitchell insisted on treating all of us.”
It seems like an unfair trade—I give Mrs. Mitchell a forty-year-old doll and she treats my friends and me to an expensive day out. BEST. NEIGHBOR. EVER.
Dad parks in the section of the garage designated for vehicles with handicapped plates. Turns out my dad called the Guest Services Department at the Staples Center last week so our seats are accessible for Umberto’s wheelchair.
The afternoon is AMAZING—screaming, chanting, and eating followed by more screaming, chanting, and eating. (Hot dogs, chili, tacos, soda, chips, and ice cream were involved.) My dad even bought each of us Monster Truck souvenir hats.
“I’m not sure if this is better than the moon bouncer,” Matt says through a mouthful of popcorn.
“I actually had fun that day,” Carly answers.
<
br /> You’ve got to love that girl’s optimism.
“All I know is, we’re getting on the Jumbotron,” Umberto says. “I don’t care what we have to do.”
We spend the next round of Monster Truck action waving our arms in the air, trying to catch the attention of the many cameras in the Staples Center. Matt goes so far as to limbo up the aisle but there’s so much activity going on around us that even the nearby spectators barely pay attention.
It’s a great afternoon that I don’t want to end but during the last Monster Truck demonstration, my dad starts gathering up his things. I thank him for a great day.
“It was all Mrs. Mitchell,” he says.
When I turn back to my friends, Umberto is tossing French fries into Matt’s mouth while Carly looks on, shaking her head at our immaturity. I grab some fries from Umberto’s tray and stick one into each of my ears.
“You look like a Martian with potato antennae,” Matt says.
I gaze at the two thick French fries still in my hand, then shove one up each nostril.
All three of my friends let out a giant “Ewwwwwww!” while my father gives me his Stop-That-Now face.
But instead, I walk between our seats like Frankenstein until Umberto starts screaming again. “Look!”
I follow his gaze to the Jumbotron that now shows a giant video of me with the caption FRENCH FRY BOY.
Laughter ripples throughout the auditorium; even my father can’t keep a straight face. I feel myself flush with embarrassment—are people laughing with me or AT me? I look at the video one more time. It IS kind of funny. If it were some other kid in a different section of the Staples Center, I’d be laughing too. I feel myself begin to smile, then turn to Matt.
I look at him.
He looks at me.
“Do it,” Matt says. “I dare you.”
And before Carly can reach for my hand to stop me, I stare into the camera and grab the fries from my ears and nose and feed them one by one into my mouth. The crowd erupts in laughter and groans; the caption now reads GROSS! in giant letters.
“You really ARE a joke,” Umberto says.
“An awesome one,” Matt agrees.
Carly shakes her head. “At least you’re consistent.”
I watch the instant replay on the video and figure the rest of this year might still end up okay, even if I’m not the tower of maturity I thought I’d be when it started. As I bow to the crowd’s applause, I wonder if learning to laugh at yourself for doing something wrong or stupid might even be a step in the right direction. I reach for another French fry.
“Don’t even think about it,” my father says.
So much for a standing ovation.
An Offer I Can’t Refuse
Here’s the thing no one tells you about monkeys: They steal your cereal every chance they get. Lucky Charms, Cocoa Puffs, Froot Loops, Trix, Gorilla Munch—even the boring ones like Grape Nuts—drive my capuchin monkey, Frank, out of his mind. He’s like a castaway who finally gets to dry land and can’t wait to eat everything in sight. I hate keeping him locked in his cage like a prisoner while I eat in front of him every morning. But on the days I let him out, the kitchen ends up looking like a rainbow war zone with flakes and nuggets all over the floor. My mutt, Bodi, is much more well behaved, waiting patiently for me to measure out his food and place it in the bowl near the bookcase.
“How about some chocolate chip pancakes?” my dad asks.
I say yes, mainly so I can take Frank out of his cage. (Frank is not a fan of pancakes.)
My dad’s been out of work for the last two months, so he’s on kitchen patrol. He’s been a freelance storyboard artist since before I was born, but the industry’s in a slump and it’s been hard for him to find new work. Luckily, my mom is a veterinarian, so they’ve still been able to pay the bills. The good news is that my father’s been experimenting with lots of great new recipes. The bad news is that he’s taken an even greater interest in my homework.
Since I was little, the best way for me to learn my vocabulary words was to draw them. I have notebooks and notebooks and notebooks filled with illustrations of stick figures acting out my words. My parents have always inspected my work, but now Dad is putting each drawing under a microscope.
“Are you sure that’s the best definition of inquire?” he asks, scanning my notebook.
“Shouldn’t we add more chocolate chips to the batter?” I ask, changing the subject.
“When I worked on that last film at Sony, they wanted every detail just right.” My dad throws another handful of chips into the bowl. “Every line, every letter had to be exact.”
Now I wish I’d just had cereal. I’d rather be sweeping up Cap’n Crunch than listening to Dad reflective about his work. I hope he gets a new job soon—I’ll miss the pancakes, but not the sad stories.
“Hey, I forgot to tell you,” Dad says. “I got an e-mail from one of the Sony guys yesterday to see if I knew any kids who might be interested in testing some new software.” He gently places three pancakes on my plate.
“Sony!” I shout. “Was he talking about testing video games?”
My dad pours himself a second cup of coffee. “Does that mean you’re interested?”
I don’t even bother with maple syrup. I roll the three pancakes into a log, yell good-bye to my dad, Bodi, and Frank, then race to school to share the news with my friends.
WE’RE GOING TO GET PAID TO TEST VIDEO GAMES!
About the Author
Janet Tashjian is the author of many popular novels, including My Life as a Book, My Life as a Stuntboy, My Life as a Cartoonist, and her new series, Einstein the Class Hamster. Other books include The Gospel According to Larry, Vote for Larry, and Larry and the Meaning of Life as well as Fault Line, For What It’s Worth, Multiple Choice, Tru Confessions, and Marty Frye, Private Eye. She lives with her family in Los Angeles.
wwwjanettashjian.com
About the Illustrator
Jake Tashjian is the illustrator of My Life as a Book, My Life as a Stuntboy, My Life as a Cartoonist, and the new series, Einstein the Class Hamster. He has been drawing pictures of his vocabulary words on index cards since he was a kid and now has a stack taller than a house. When he’s not drawing, he loves to surf, read comic books, and watch movies.
Other Books by Janet Tashjian, Illustrated by Jake Tashjian
Einstein the Class Hamster
The My Life Series:
My Life as a Book
My Life as a Stuntboy
My Life as a Cartoonist
by Janet Tashjian
Fault Line
For What It’s Worth
Marty Frye, Private Eye
Multiple Choice
Tru Confessions
The Larry Series:
The Gospel According to Larry
Vote for Larry
Larry and the Meaning of Life
Praise for My Life as a Book
“Janet Tashjian, known for her young adult novels, offers a novel that’s part Diary of a Wimpy Kid, part intriguing mystery.… Give this to kids who think they don’t like reading. It might change their minds.”
—Booklist, starred review
“Dryly hilarious first-person voice.… A kinder, gentler Wimpy Kid with all the fun and more plot.”
—Kirkus Reviews, starred review
Praise for My Life as a Stuntboy:
“A fast-moving plot and relatable protagonist make this standalone sequel a good choice for boys.”
—School Library Journal
“Fans of the first will be utterly delighted by this sequel and anxious to see what Derek will turn up as next.”
—Bulletin of the Center for Children’s Books
Praise for My Life as a Cartoonist:
“This entertaining read leaves some provoking questions unanswered—usefully.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Great for reluctant readers (like Derek), this also neatly twists the bullying theme, offering dis
cussion possibilities.”
—Booklist
Text copyright © 2014 by Janet Tashjian
Illustrations copyright © 2014 by Jake Tashjian
Henry Holt and Company, LLC
Publishers since 1866
Christy Ottaviano Books
Henry Holt® is a registered trademark of Henry Holt and Company, LLC.
175 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10010
mackids.com
All rights reserved.
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Tashjian, Janet.
My life as a joke / Janet Tashjian; with cartoons by Jake Tashjian.
pages cm
Summary: “Derek Fallon discovers all the angst that comes with being twelve—he just wants to feel grown up, but life gets in the way with a series of mishaps that make him look like a baby.” —Provided by publisher
ISBN 978-0-8050-9850-1 (hardback)
ISBN 978-0-8050-9864-8 (e-book)
1. Children’s art. [1. Maturation (Psychology)—Fiction. 2. Friendship—Fiction. 3. Middle schools—Fiction. 4. Schools—Fiction. 5. Family life—California—Los Angeles—Fiction. 6. Los Angeles (Calif.)—Fiction. 7. Children’s art.] I. Tashjian, Jake, illustrator. II. Title.
PZ7.T211135Myd 2014
[Fic]—dc23
2013046395
eISBN 9780805098648
First hardcover edition 2014
My Life as a Joke Page 9