My Life as a Cartoonist (16 page)

Umberto shoots me a canary-eating grin. “Why? Is my strip similar to yours?”

“You know it is! Either that or two people who just happen to sit next to each other in class both come up with bad guys who are baby seals.”

Umberto looks at me with an expression of mock innocence. “My bad guys are sea lions, which are totally different from baby seals. Sea lions have ears. They're social and spend a lot of time out of the water—”

“I don't care about sea lions!” I find myself shouting. “First you copied my monkey, then you copied my seal! You wouldn't know an original idea if it bit you in the butt!”

“That would never happen,” Umberto laughs. “Considering my butt is always stuck in this chair.”

Yet again Umberto's managed to turn an innocent comment into a crack about his disability. I have to hand it to him—he outsmarts me every time.

Matt tries to defuse the situation by asking Tommy to tell me about the new ink he found. As Tommy discusses how much better his lettering's been since he discovered the new ink, my mind projects several years into the future to Umberto and me battling it out in caps and gowns at high school graduation with him trying to run me over with his wheelchair as I accept my diploma.

I'm determined not to let the other kids suffer because of my quarrel with Umberto, so I steer the conversation back to the class outline.

The rest of the class goes by quickly and I'm surprised when Ms. Ramirez announces it's four o'clock.

Umberto looks over as I pack up my drawings. “These really are good,” he says. “Too bad I thought of mine first.”

For once I decide to listen to Carly's advice and not take the bait.

“Ready, Matt?” I ask.

Umberto blocks my path. “Hey, George. I'm talking to you.”

I continue to ignore him, which seems to make him even madder. I look up to see if Ms. Ramirez is still here but she's in the hall talking to Mrs. Taylor.

“Hey, Derek,” Matt says. “Our ride is here.”

I hurry past Umberto to Matt in the doorway. I know he's lying—we're walking home today, not getting a ride—but I appreciate Matt trying to extract me from the situation.

“You can run, but you can't hide,” Umberto calls after me. “Unlike me, who can't run at all.”

Outside, I thank Matt for bailing me out.

“You need a new strategy,” Matt says. “Umberto's only getting worse.”

I nod, knowing it's true.

“Let's go to my house,” he says. “I've got a package of hot dogs with your name on it.”

Anyone else would think Matt is suggesting an early dinner, but I know better. When we get to his house, he takes the hot dogs out of the fridge and gets a ball of thick twine from the garage. We cut the string into four-inch lengths, then get a nail to poke holes into the top of each hot dog. Using the glue gun his mom has for craft projects, we glue the pieces of string into each of the hot dogs till they look like sticks of dynamite, each with its own fuse.

We used to build these makeshift explosives back when we were in elementary school, pretending to demolish Lego cities we'd created. Now we plant the fake dynamite around his mom's container garden, making explosion noises as we imagine the clay pots blowing up all over the yard. Sure, it's immature, but for an hour or so, our lives are simple and uncomplicated again.

BOOM!

Trouble on Wheels

The next day I fully intend to ignore Umberto but as soon as I sit down, he launches in.

“Just to be clear,” Umberto says. “I didn't copy your baby seals.”

I know he's baiting me, yet I fall for it anyway. “Just like you didn't copy my monkey?”

“Exactly,” he smirks. “What are the chances?”

“One in a billion.” I know I should stop here but I don't. “About the same odds as you coming up with original material.”

Umberto's eyes flash with anger. “You want to insult me, you better be prepared to back it up.”

“Oh, I am.”

“Good, then meet me behind the school at three o'clock. I'm going to kick your butt.”

“WHAT?!” How did THAT just happen?

Before I can say anything else, Umberto takes off to the front of the room. It's not even eight thirty and the day's already heading for disaster.

If you don't count the time I stepped in the middle of Swifty and Tommy having it out last year, I've never been in a fight at school. Not to mention that I've never—nor do I know anyone else who has—been in a fight with a kid in a wheelchair. It's preposterous, and I look around to see if Umberto's kidding.

But the taunting expression is gone, replaced by eyes shooting daggers at me from across the room. He holds up three fingers. “Three o'clock—come feel the pain.”

Is he insane? As Ms. McCoddle begins her lecture on Antarctica, a rising sense of dread fills my body. This is all a giant scare tactic, right? There's no way Umberto thinks I'm actually going to fight him … IN A WHEELCHAIR. I suddenly remember his dexterity with the lacrosse stick. Maybe Umberto's some upper-body martial arts expert who can't wait to practice his latest lethal move on Yours Truly. For the first time since summer, I actually feel myself sweat.

When the bell rings to switch classes, I race out the door.

“Umberto wants to fight me,” I tell Matt.

“Yeah, right.”

“I'm serious. At three, behind the school.”

Matt tries to evaluate my expression to see if I'm pulling his leg.

“You have to help me get out of it,” I say.

“He's probably just kidding.”

Swifty walks by on the way to his locker. “Three o'clock, huh? I can't wait to watch you go down.”

“Great,” Matt says. “Umberto probably told the whole school.”

After I tell Swifty to get lost, Carly comes up behind him. “You're not going to fight, are you?” she asks. “Please tell me you're not.”