My Life as a Cartoonist (8 page)

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.

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.

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.

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?”

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
Garfield
s. 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

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.

“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.”

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.”

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.