My Life as a Cartoonist (5 page)

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.

“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
.”

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.”

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.

“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

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.

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.

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.

“Your technique is really coming along,” my father says when he examines my work. “You remind me so much of myself at your age.”

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?

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.