My Life as a Cartoonist (10 page)

On a vacation day!

Not the Reaction I Planned On

Matt's back in school, but class hasn't even started yet and he already has a slimy stripe on the sleeve of his shirt from wiping his nose on it.

“I look worse than I am,” he says. “I could've come over yesterday but I wanted to see if I could beat my own record.”

Since Matt got a Wii for his birthday a few months ago, he's played more golf and tennis than a country club kid. Matt says the games are building good hand-eye coordination, but I'm not so sure he'd rack up as many points with a real golf club or tennis racket.

“I can't believe your plan is to offer up Frank to your mortal enemy,” Matt says.

I explain that as much as Umberto's been a giant pain in the butt, he's not my nemesis. “As far as giving up Frank, we have only a few months more with him before he has to go to monkey college anyway.”

“That's probably where you'll end up going to school too.”

I ignore Matt's lame joke. “At least if Frank's with Umberto, I'd get to visit him.”

“In your demented mind, Frank suddenly makes Umberto like you and you're hanging out at his house with Frank. Is that it?”

I wonder if Matt is trying to be difficult or if he's so congested, his brain has finally shut down. “I'm just saying if Frank ends up with some guy in Montana, I'll probably never see him again.”

“I knew there had to be an ulterior motive,” Matt coughs. “You're not the Mother Teresa type.”

I tell him Mother Teresa worked mostly with lepers, which is what he's going to be if he keeps coughing his lungs out.

When I get to my desk, I'm surprised to find several panels with neat illustrations waiting for me. My gasp is audible when I read the title of the strip:
Super Hank
.

I don't have to ask who the artist is—the illustration style is familiar. I can feel my blood begin to boil.

Umberto's strip also stars a monkey but instead of a cape like Super Frank, he's wearing a trench coat and a hat. The dialogue is neatly printed and snappy, like the old black-and-white gangster movies my uncle Bob likes to watch.

“What do you think?” Umberto asks.

I tell him it's a complete rip-off of my comic strip.

Umberto wheels himself over to my desk. “What are you talking about? Hank is short for Henry. That's a totally different name than Frank.”

By now, Matt and Carly have joined us. Carly holds up the pages and examines them. “It's too bad you couldn't come up with your own idea, Umberto,” she says. “I'm sure there are lots of other characters you could've created besides a superhero monkey.”

“He's not a superhero,” Umberto says. “He's a detective. Completely different.”

I stare at the pages while a million thoughts ricochet in my head. Why did Umberto choose ME to pick on? Why do his drawings look so good?
WHY WAS I GOING TO HELP HIM ADOPT MY MONKEY?

My initial reaction is to rip Umberto's precious drawings to shreds, but as an illustrator, I know how hard he probably worked on them and can't bring myself to do it. Instead, I dangle the pages over Umberto's head. “You want them? Come and get them.”

From his wheelchair, Umberto tries to reach them but can't.

“Um, maybe you should just give them back,” Carly suggests.

But I'm having too much fun watching Umberto struggle.

“Derek Fallon!” Ms. McCoddle shouts. “What on earth is going on?”

Before I can answer, she snatches the pages from my hands and gives them to Umberto, who's still trying to reach them. The expression on his face is that of a hungry street urchin. Forget comics; this kid should join the drama club.

I try to explain but Ms. McCoddle cuts me off. “I want to see you after class,” she says.

“Both of us?” Umberto asks in a voice that can only be called angelic.

Ms. McCoddle points straight at me. “Just Derek.”

Matt pretends to hang himself with an invisible rope, and Carly just shakes her head.

“I know Umberto started it,” she whispers. “But it looked really bad, like you were taunting a kid in a wheelchair.”

Carly doesn't need to remind me—I can only imagine how the whole scene appeared. I remember Michael telling me about two guys at a Dodgers game who made fun of him, eventually grabbing his pack and playing catch with it. He couldn't stop them, couldn't do anything to retaliate from his wheelchair. The fact that for just a moment I looked like those guys makes me feel terrible—not to mention that I'm also counting down the minutes till Ms. McCoddle lowers the boom.

Ms. McCoddle doesn't even look at me when she hands out the math test.

This wasn't how I thought today would go when I got up this morning.

Ms. McCoddle Plays Hardball

I have a detailed explanation ready to give Ms. McCoddle but she cuts me off at the knees.