My Life as a Cartoonist (6 page)

Matt and I Spy on Carly

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?

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.

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.

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?”

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.

“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?”

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.

“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.

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.