My Life as a Book (8 page)

Bodi sticks his head between my legs, a move he always makes when he knows I need comfort. My mother brings Pedro back to her office and tells me we'll sign up for Learning Camp after dinner.

Why can't grown-ups just let a kid play with a dog and a monkey in peace?

The next day my mother hires Amy to “keep me company,” which is really just another way to say “babysit.” I overheard my parents talking in their room last night when I was supposed to be asleep. You don't need to be a brain surgeon to string the words
impulse control
and
discipline
into a story no kid wants to read. When they're done, my father tapes Ms. Williams's summer reading list onto the refrigerator. They tell me Learning Camp is all set, but
I
tell
them
the best place for me to spend the rest of the summer is leaning against the large palm tree in our backyard with a stack of comic books and Bodi. It's a discussion I don't have a chance of winning. I feel like I'm trapped in
Prison in July
, a horror movie I just made up.

When Amy first started babysitting, she used to make my lunches; now she twirls her hair and points to the cupboard for me to make my own peanut butter and banana sandwich. I can, of course. I just preferred it when I looked for funny videos online and she made lunch. I cut the sandwich on the diagonal and put the pieces on a plate to prove I don't need her help to make a nice meal.

“I killed one of my first babysitters,” I say. “So I wouldn't try anything if I were you.”

“I'm really scared,” she says, then tears off a corner of my sandwich without asking.

“Seriously. Babysitting for me can be lethal. I feel I should warn you.”

“For ten dollars an hour, I'll take my chances,” Amy says.

I think about offering her twelve dollars an hour to go home, but I'm pretty cheap when it comes to spending my own money on boring stuff like babysitters.

“Your mom told me about that girl who drowned. Don't expect that kind of service from me.”

For once I can't think of a snappy comeback, choosing instead to concentrate on my lunch.

Amy leans back in her chair. “I don't know anyone who died. My second-grade teacher's husband got killed in a car accident, but I never met him.”

“I didn't really know Susan either,” I say. I don't tell her that last night in bed, I imagined that I drowned with Susan. The thought kept me awake until Bodi made his dreaming noises and stopped me from doing any more thinking.

I give Amy the rest of my sandwich and start making another. Just then, Matt bursts into the kitchen.

“They're delivering bricks for our new patio,” he says. “There's a huge eighteen-wheeler in the driveway. Let's take my old action figures and put them in front of the tires so when the guy drives away, he'll squash them like grapes.”

Matt doesn't have to ask twice. I tell Amy I'll be at Matt's, but she barely hears me because she's back on her phone.

As Matt and I line up his old toys in front of the giant tires, I find a small plastic raccoon. I used to have this same action figure, a present in some meal package from a fast-food restaurant. Although he's made of plastic, his kind eyes remind me of Bodi's, and I don't have the heart to squish him. I put the raccoon back in Matt's toy bin and take out some happy elves instead.

Matt and I are ecstatic when the driver pulls away; he even blasts his horn several times. But the toys are not as flattened as we'd hoped, so we head to the garage to see what else we can use. We find a bag of stones and Tanya's old rock polisher that looks like a cement mixer. We lock the elves inside, then make noises like they're screaming to get out.

Surprisingly, it's not as much fun as I thought. I realize Matt is having a blast, and
I'm
the problem. Learning Camp starts Monday, and it weighs on me. Suppose I'm the worst student there? I have to work so hard to keep up during the school year—do I have to fake my way through all summer too? The thought of one more person cracking the whip about LEARNING makes me want to jump into the cement mixer with these crazy elves.

I tell Matt I have to go and spend the rest of the afternoon lying in my backyard staring up at the clouds, Bodi by my side.

Dad sits me down at the kitchen table to organize the next day.

“I'll drop you at camp at nine,” he says.

“NINE? That means I have to get up in the eights.”

“Actually, you have to get up in the sevens. It's half an hour away.”

Learning Camp is one thing, but an hour a day in the car with one of my parents trying to tell me how hard I have to work to be successful is another thing altogether. I realize I have to quickly locate my MP3 player and headphones.

Bodi barely opens his eyes when I toss him the bone from last night's dinner, so I yell upstairs and ask my mother to take a look at him.

She comes down wearing her headset and holding her cell. I'm not sure if it's because she's a doctor, but she's convinced cell phones can give you brain cancer, so she always uses a headset.

Mom hangs up with her friend and looks into Bodi's eyes. She feels his throat, then his belly.

“Is he okay?” I ask twice before she answers.

“Bodi's thirteen now. That's old for a dog.”

I pray she doesn't use this as an example of how math comes in handy in real life, but my father beats her to the punch. I hate how parents think they have to use everything that happens as some kind of lesson.

“Seven dog years equals one human year, right? So seven times thirteen equals…”

He waits for my answer like an FBI agent interrogating a spy. Thankfully, my mother saves me the embarrassment of not knowing the answer.

“Actually, seven to one is the old rule,” Mom says. “Weight and breed are factors too. It's more like he's eighty.”

I'm grateful to be off the hook, but then she spoils the moment.

“See how important math is?” They both look at me with such desperate smiles, I want to smash my head into the tile counter.

“I just care about Bodi,” I say. “Not about stupid math.”

My mom thinks he's okay but she'll give him a full workup in the morning.

“I obviously can't go to camp,” I say. “I need to be here while you run tests.”

“Believe it or not, I know what I'm doing,” she says. “Bodi will be fine until you get home.”

I try variations on this plan with no success. But maybe Bodi just needed a rest because when it's time for me to go to bed, he follows me upstairs with no problem.

The next morning when I wake up, my mother is sitting on the bed, petting Bodi.

“Is he okay? Because I can definitely stay home from camp.”

“He's fine,” she says. She reaches into the pocket of her robe and hands me a banana and a protein bar.

I ignore my mother's protests and feed half of the banana to Bodi.

As soon as he gets in the car, my father takes my headphones.

“We've got some quality time ahead of us,” he says. “I thought we could discuss one of the books you're reading.”

I try to guess our speed so I can figure out the best time to hurl myself out of the car. I imagine myself tumbling along the side of the road, then eating berries and roots in the woods for the rest of the summer.

“Derek? What do you say?”

I bang my head repeatedly against the side window. When Dad tells me to stop, I open the window, stick my head out, then press the button so the glass squishes my head on its way back up.

“Derek!”

By the time I let down the window, he's turned on the radio. He's shaking his head, probably thinking about how he's failing as a father. I'm just glad I can sit here on my way to Summer Prison in peace.