My Life as a Cartoonist (3 page)

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

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.

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.

“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.”

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.

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.

“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

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.