My Life as a Book (18 page)

The final week of Learning Camp reminds me of the last week of school—neither the teachers nor the students work too hard. Margot lets us do our summer reading, even helping us edit our reports. I spend most days leaning against one of the trees, slowly making my way through the book Ms. Williams gave me. It's hard, but I take my time. If Bodi could be here with me, I almost wouldn't mind.

Margot knows the book I'm reading, so at the end of every chapter I close my eyes and she asks me questions about what I see. Soon there are a bunch of us underneath the tree picturing the story in our heads. Afterward, I wonder how alike our scenes were, if we saw similar or different details. Then I come to my senses and join the water balloon fight in progress on the basketball court.

On the last day, Margot taps the side of her head when she says good-bye to me. “That imagination of yours can really help you. Make sure you use it.”

I give her a wave, then race to my mother's car.

Since I've been back from the Vineyard, I haven't seen Michael and Pedro because they were in San Diego on vacation. Today they're finally home, so we drive across town to see them.

When Michael answers the door, Pedro's on his lap in the wheelchair. Michael tells me about the basketball tournament in San Diego. They knew Pedro would be overwhelmed by the crowds, so they didn't take him to watch Michael play.

I make a flip-o-rama out of my sketchbook and show Michael the story of my summer. I ask Michael if he can teach me more about how to animate my drawings on the computer.

We spend the rest of the afternoon making my pictures come to life onscreen. When we're done, Michael burns them onto a DVD so I can show Dad.

But the most amazing part of the day isn't making my vocabulary words come to life, it's watching a different kind of movie. The facility where Pedro learned how to be a companion for humans made a video of Pedro in training. Michael shows me Pedro trying to turn on a light switch over and over again. Pedro makes several mistakes, but when he finally does it correctly, the trainer rings a bell to tell Pedro he succeeded at the task. I marvel at how Pedro doesn't get frustrated, just continues to try his best.

In the next training exercise, a woman wearing scrubs aims a laser pointer at the “play” button on the DVD. Pedro fails at the task a million times, but when he finally gets it right, she gives him just as many compliments and hugs. It's embarrassing to admit, but Pedro takes direction better than I do.

“These tasks aren't natural activities for monkeys,” Michael says. “It's amazing how they adapt.”

I think about that first video and how much Pedro struggled with the light switch, then I look at him now, running to pick up the remote that Michael dropped. I cheer on the young Pedro in the video.
Don't give up
.
Believe it or not, you will master these tasks.

I remember Ms. Williams talking about evolution in class last year. Maybe evolving is what we're supposed to do—all of us, all the time.

The next week and a half of summer flies by—I help Mom walk dogs at the “spa,” learn new stunts with Matt, practice animation techniques with Dad, and build Carly's new burglar system. When I run into Joe Brennan at the playground, he tells me his new story about a duck that lays exploding eggs. It's not really a bad idea and I spend a few minutes collaborating with him. And I miss Grandma's chocolate cake with coconut frosting almost as much as I miss her, which is a lot.

Amy has left for college, so my parents let me accompany them on their Thursday-night date. At the Japanese restaurant, we take turns making up new inventions. I tell them I want to create a machine that slows down time so summer never ends.

“I assume you want one that speeds up time too,” my father says, “so you can fast-forward through the school year.”

“But then I'd miss the good stuff that happens—like hearing Bodi snore or getting a pet monkey.” My mother shakes her head, but I get the feeling I'm wearing her down.

When the chef throws water on the fire, the flames rise three feet into the air. While everyone else oohs and aahs, I dive to the floor. “Fire!” I yell. “Stop, drop, and roll! Stop, drop, and roll.”

Everyone laughs except Mom and Dad. Mom uses her chopsticks to point to my seat, and Dad slumps in his chair, but for a second I detect the beginning of a smile.

“Your son really took those fire prevention lessons to heart,” another customer tells Mom.

“He's our pride and joy.” She gives the man a huge smile while gripping my leg under the table like a vise.

I suddenly realize there are only a few days left until the first day of school and I haven't finished the book from Ms. Williams. But that doesn't stop me from bugging my parents to let us see a movie on the way home.

Or asking one more time about getting a monkey.

My mother doesn't even try to buy new school clothes for me anymore. When the Day of Torture finally arrives, I wear my rattiest T-shirt as a form of protest. I haven't taken off the necklace from Lauren since she gave it to me, and I wonder if the gods will send down messages with answers to any pop quiz.

“Good-bye, Bodi, buddy.” I stick my face into his fur, hoping his comfy smell will get me through the day. I know I'll be counting the minutes till I see him waiting by the door for me after school.

A lot of the kids look different than they did a few months ago: Robert Orlando got glasses, Peter Chapman has braces, and Maria Ramsey grew at least three inches. Ms. Williams waves at me from her desk and smiles. I guess things could be worse than having a teacher who plays softball, loves dogs, and appreciates rock and roll.

After morning meeting—when can we stop having
those
things?—Ms. Williams asks us to read our book reports out loud. When she calls my name, I head to the front of the room.

“Derek, did you read three of the books on the list?”

“Uhm…one of them.” I don't tell Ms. Williams my grandmother read a big chunk of it to me. “And I think I'm a more interesting character than any of the kids in those books.”

“That might be hard to determine, since you read only one of them.”

“Good point.”

“Can you tell us about the one you
did
read?”

“I can do more than that.” I take my father's laptop from my pack and bring up the animation we worked on last week. The stick figures act out the book I read, the story of a boy and his dog.

When it's over, Ms. Williams wants to see it again, so we watch it one more time. She asks me questions about the characters, the setting, the plot, and I nail every one.

“Well,” she finally says, “you didn't complete the assignment, but you definitely digested the book you did read. Between that and your animation, I guess we're even.”

A few months ago, Carly would've been furious that I didn't get into trouble, but now she smiles and gives me a thumbs-up. I can tell by Matt's face he wishes he had done some extra work too.

“I learned a few other things this summer,” I continue. “That we all mess up sometimes and struggle with things that are difficult. That even if reading is hard, everyone needs stories. I didn't want to read the books on the list, but I wound up surrounded by stories anyway—a heroic dog, a brave monkey who learned to help an even braver boy, a girl who drowned, and the friend she left behind.”

Ms. Williams leans back in her chair. “That's a lot of stories for one summer.”

“That's what I'm saying—they're
everywhere.
I even met a woman who told herself a story about why her daughter died. It wasn't a true story, but it was an important one to help her deal with the pain.”

I can tell some of the other kids are ready for me to sit down, but I keep going anyway.

“I also realized it's in our nature to learn new things. And that even though they're called permanent markers, they eventually do wear off. I also learned that avocados make messy cannonballs and monkeys can wear diapers.”

“Okay, Derek. On to Maria.”

“Also, if you spit into the wind on a ferry, it totally gets all over your face, and guys with muscles and Boston accents should
not
be tormented with poop.”

“Thank you. It's Maria's turn now.”

I slide into my seat, pretty proud of my report and animation project. I feel like a rock star until Maria takes out
her
laptop and presents a slide show she created to accompany all three books with music she wrote and performed on the cello in a dress she made during her summer sewing class.

As my mother always asks, “Does it ever end?”

No, I don't think it does.