“The instructions said NOT to wear green,” she says.
I mumble something about forgetting, even though I never read the email.
“It’s your funeral,” she says.
“My funeral?! Isn’t that a bit extreme?”
And just as my face is scrunched up and puzzled, she clicks the camera.
“Hey!” I say. “That’s not fair! You have to take another one!”
“One per student. Next!” The woman points to a large table with several sample photos. “Pick a backdrop—not that it’ll matter with that shirt.”
Why did they hire this lady? Why can’t we have some cool, NICE photographer instead of a tyrant?
The backdrop choices are totally boring—swirly gray and brown, bricks, a grassy field, a wall of books.
At this point it doesn’t matter what I chose. I select the wall of books as a joke—that no one else will get since I’m never showing this picture to anyone.
AN ANNUAL EVENT
This weekend is the annual street fair that everyone at school’s been talking about for days. All I can think about, however, is Tuesday’s incident with Carly. Over the years we’ve had plenty of arguments, and in the end, we always end up okay. This time she hasn’t responded to any of my texts, which has me worried. I even called her last night—and I never make voluntary phone calls—but it went straight to voice mail.
I hate that feeling you get when things are off with one of your friends. It’s like you’re wearing a shirt that doesn’t fit. You feel tight and uncomfortable all day, no matter what else is going on. I’ve been looking forward to the fair but hope I can still enjoy it with this weird feeling inside.
The street fair doesn’t start until eleven, so I’ve got time to hang out before walking over with my parents. Both my parents are good cooks but neither of them can compare to having lunch at a food truck. There’ll be grilled cheese trucks, lobster trucks, taco trucks, ice cream sandwich trucks, Korean BBQ trucks—how are you supposed to choose? I know I should eat a small breakfast but I wolf down two bowls of Cinnamon Toast Crunch while watching TV with Bodi and Frank.
“SMC?” My dad sticks his head into the living room. SMC is our acronym for Saturday Morning Cartoons—something Dad and I came up with when I was little. I enjoyed cartoons back then—DUH!—but still haven’t outgrown them. I don’t plan to, either. Maybe it’s because paying attention in school all week is so difficult, but by the time Saturday comes around, sitting on the couch with my monkey, dog, and a giant bowl of cereal is the perfect antidote to all that work.
Mom’s new thing is slathering coconut oil all over her hair so her head’s wrapped up in a towel when she sits down with her coffee. Hydrating your hair seems pretty unnecessary to me. I don’t have to do anything to mine and it gets oily on its own.
“I talked to the director of the capuchin foundation about Frank,” she says.
As if he knows he’s being discussed, Frank moves from his place on the couch to Mom’s lap.
“Can’t we talk about this later?” I ask. “There’s nothing worse than hearing bad news while you’re watching cartoons.”
Mom sips coffee then smiles. “It’s actually not bad news. Their training classes are so full that she gave us an extension. Frank can live with us for another six months.”
Hearing this makes the straitjacket of anxiety I’m wearing loosen up the tiniest bit. I jump up from the couch, grab Frank, and swing him around like we’re dancing. “That’s great!”
“Better than thirty food trucks?” Mom asks.
“Better than a hundred food trucks!”
Over the past few weeks, every time I started to think about Frank leaving, I pushed the thought out of my mind. I know Frank has to go someday but I’ve gotten so attached to him, it’s going to be agonizing to say goodbye. Six months may not be forever, but it’s better than losing Frank now.
“You’ve done a good job working with Frank since he’s been with us,” Mom says. “You two have really bonded.”
Frank definitely does have some kind of sixth sense, because he looks up at me with this expression so full of emotion it almost looks human.
Mom grabs her phone from the pocket of her robe and snaps a picture. “That’s a keeper.”
She holds the phone up for me to see. Frank and I look like a film poster for a cross-species buddy movie.
When Mom checks the time, she tells me we’ll be leaving for the street fair in an hour.
I suddenly wonder where Bodi is and it doesn’t take me long to spot his two paws peeking out from underneath the curtains. I scoop him up in my arms and settle back on the couch for some more SMC with the two greatest animals in the world.
The whole way to the fair, Dad tells this convoluted story about one of the women in the costume department who got transferred to a different job because she kept shrinking the actor’s clothes when she washed them.
He’s acting out all the people in the story with different voices and sound effects, but as we walk toward Wilshire the only two things I can think about are if Carly will text me back and finding a new idea for my YouTube channel that doesn’t include barbells. Maybe there’ll be a performer or vendor here who’ll ignite my creativity.
The line at the Korean BBQ food truck snakes around the entire parking lot. The lines at the chowder truck, the taco truck, and the Philly cheesesteak trucks are almost as long. NOOOOO!
“Want to get a salad with me?” Mom points to the veggie food truck with only three people in line.
“I’M NOT GETTING A SALAD AT A FOOD TRUCK!” I shout so loud
