My Life as a Cartoonist (7 page)

I pack up my drawings and head to school.

Why am I worried about this new kid anyway? He's a transfer student, and I've been with most of the kids in our class since kindergarten. HE'S the one who should be worried, not me.

“Derek, my man,” Umberto says as he wheels his chair behind his desk.

Be friendly
, I think.
Don't let him get to you.

I open my math book, probably for the first time in my life without being told to. I pretend to study the isosceles triangles until I hear maniacal laughter.

“These are hilarious,” Umberto says.

When I look over, Umberto's got my comic panels spread out on his desk.

“Those were in my folder,” I say. “Stop going through my stuff!”

Although I don't like the invasion of privacy, I DO like someone laughing at my comic strips. Before I know what I'm doing, I find myself fishing for a compliment.

“So you think they're funny?” I ask.

Umberto holds up the first page and points to Super Frank. “They're REALLY funny.”

“Thanks.”

“Is this supposed to be a monkey? It looks like a mental patient drew it.”

I grab for the paper, but Umberto pulls his arm back before I can reach it. “Were you trying to be ironic?” he asks. “Because Super Frank doesn't look so super to me.”

Stephen, who sits behind Umberto, lets out a loud guffaw. Just as I'm about to jump out of my chair, the bell rings and Ms. McCoddle tells us to take out our reading. Umberto hands me my drawings, laughing as if he's just seen a squirrel playing piano on YouTube.

As we read, I try to concentrate on all the tips the reading specialist has given me, especially visualizing the story in my mind. I picture the boy in the book painting the fence in his front yard, but in my version of the story, the main character takes the paint and dumps it on the kid sitting beside him. I've got the kid sitting next to me. Now all I need is a bucket of paint.

Matt's out sick today. I think he's faking, but in his texts he insists he really does have the flu. So I find Carly during recess and tell her about Umberto mocking my drawings.

“What is it about you that drives him so crazy?” she asks. “He's been perfectly nice to me.”

“I know—people love him!” As if to prove my point, I gesture to the other side of the yard where Umberto's got two of our classmates in stitches near the picnic tables.

“Do you think they're making fun of you?” Carly asks.

“I didn't think so before but thanks for putting that in my head. I need something new to worry about. I just want this day to end.”

She reminds me it's not even ten o'clock.

The rest of the day isn't much better. (The person in front of me at lunch gets the last slice of pizza.) When I finally gather my things at the end of the day, I'm surprised to find a piece of paper ripped out of a spiral notebook on my desk. I figure Carly took pity on me and wrote a note to cheer me up. But it's not a note; it's a drawing. Of a monkey. Wearing a cape. Hurling poop at masked bad guys running down the street with bags of money. The caption printed along the bottom reads
SUPER FRANK TAKES MATTERS INTO HIS OWN HANDS.

I don't have to ask who the artist is; Umberto leans across the aisle between our desks with a giant smirk.

“You inspired me,” Umberto says. “I can't wait to draw some more panels.”

I make a big show of loudly crumpling the drawing and shoving it under my desk. But as the class heads out for the day, I'm only focused on one thing.

Umberto's comic is a thousand times better than mine.

The Sad Truth