Popcorn - Hardcover

Harrell, Rob

 
9780593697924: Popcorn
Hardcover
ISBN 10: 0593697928 ISBN 13: 9780593697924
Verlag: Dial Books, 2024

Inhaltsangabe

The beloved author of Wink is back with a hilarious and moving story about coping with anxiety on a day when everything is going wrong

Andrew’s just trying to make it through Picture Day, which is easier said than done when it seems like the whole world is out to get him—from a bully to a science experiment gone wrong to a someone else’s juice snot (don’t ask).

But as Andrew goes through the school day, and as one thing after another goes wrong, that little kernel of worry in his stomach is getting hotter and hotter, until it threatens to pop and turn into a public panic attack, his worst fear. He tries to keep his anxiety at bay, but the news that his grandmother with Alzheimer’s is missing is too much.

Interspersed with humorous spot art and “anxiety file” panels that depict the real, difficult feelings of anxiety and OCD and real tips for coping, this is a poignant, personal, and laugh-out-loud funny story about letting go of control and accepting help—all while trying to get the perfect school picture.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Rob Harrell is the author/illustrator of Wink and the Batpig series, created the Life of Zarf series, the graphic novel Monster on the Hill, and also writes and draws the long-running daily comic strip Adam@Home, which appears in more than 140 papers worldwide. He created and drew the internationally syndicated comic strip Big Top until 2007. He lives with his pup in Indiana.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

1: Final Preparations

Okay. Let’s start this awful, one-for-the-books day at the beginning. That’s where most stories start, I guess.

I’m looking in the bathroom mirror, and what I see is decent. A bit gangly and skinny, but not terrible. Inside, I have the regular stew of butterflies and worries and some irritation that a certain someone’s nasty, yellowednighttime mouthguard was leaning on the bristles of my toothbrush this morning—but I take a couple of deep breaths. I actually feel halfway all right about what the mirror is showing me for once.

I clean up okay, as every adult likes to say when a kid puts in the slightest effort.
I wash my hands one more time—I’d used a tissue to move the mouthguard, but who knows if that’s at all effective. Gross stuff can probably pass through a tissue like air through a screen door.

I walk out into the kitchen, and my mom is there, waiting excitedly.

“Oh. You look absolutely perfect.”

She says that, but then she must see something wrong, because she does that disgusting mom move where she licks her thumb and wipes at something beside my mouth. A stray bit of scrambled egg? A toast crumb?

“Gross.”

As I wipe any residual spit away, she sits back, grabs my shoulders, and holds me at arm’s length.

“Look at this. Yes sir. That’s my handsome man.” Her eyes dart around from my new shirt to my fresh—one day old!—haircut. She smiles.

I haven’t seen much of that smile lately. I’ve seen a lot more of the stressed side-frown. The Susan Yaeger Chewing-Her-Lip Worry Face—which typically gives me the Andrew Yaeger Worried Stomach.

She pats my shoulders twice. “Mika and Jonesy’ll be here any minute, and I need to get to my Big First Day.” Today is her first day as executive assistant to some big important business guy, and we’re both stomach-churningly aware of how much she needs it to go well.

My grandmother, G, shuffles into the room in her neon-pink housecoat. She’s been living with us for the past year and a half or so. She stops in the middle of the kitchen and looks around, confused. Her graying hair looks like she got in a fight with her pillows.

My mom turns on her caregiver smile. “Hi, Mom. Can I get you anything?” She pulls a few cinnamon graham crackers—G’s favorite—out of the cupboard. G takes them, scratches her butt, and stands there staring at me like she’s not quite sure who I am.

“Doesn’t Andrew look nice, Mom? You always said looking nice for school photos was super important. It’s Picture Day!”

At the words Picture Day, my grandmother’s face lights up a bit—like the old G I used to know. She holds up a finger and croaks a quiet “Oh, yes, yes, yes.” Then she hurries (as much as she can) out of the room.

That’s the most excitement we’ve seen from G in weeks. “You can’t take the teacher out of the lady,” my mom says. “She used to get so worked up over school photos. Said ‘Those photos are how people will remember you forever.’ She wasn’t completely wrong, either. Somebody I went to school with friend-requested me the other day. I had no idea who she was until I got out my yearbook, and BOOM. Her school photo brought it all back.”

G walks back into the room—her arms full of middle school yearbooks. They’re frommy school, but they’re ancient.

G used to teach Social Studies at my school. Waaaay back. She taught there for years. I can’t count the number of times we’ve been stopped by former students at restaurants, thanking her and telling me what a great teacher she was. It’s kind of cool, I guess—although sometimes you just want to eat your mac and cheese bites in peace, y’know? It’s like living with a minor celebrity.

G thumps the books down. The stack spills over a bit, but she grabs the top one and opens it with a shaky hand. A number of individual photos—the kind you buy to give to friends—tumble out. Maybe fifteen of them. All students. I look up and G has a huge, proud grin on her face as she pages through to the faculty page. When she finds it, she spins the book around and points at her black-and-white photo. It’s a great picture—­she’s a lot younger, her hair is darker, and she’s wearing some kind of a vest that looks like it came out of an ancient sitcom.

“Pretty good, huh?” I look up and she’s waggling her eyebrows. “Huh?” It’s so good to see her happy that my mom and I both laugh. She nods and grabs another yearbook. While she’s looking, I pick up a few of the student photos. They all have writing on them:

For Mrs. Hanley—You are the best! Kaitlyn
Thank you so much Mrs. Hanley! Marcus
Have a great summer, Mrs. H! Jennifer
I can’t thank you enough.—Bob

Seems like they liked her a lot, which doesn’t surprise me. She was super fun and cool—before she started getting sick.

She shows me a couple more of her photos, where she’s wearing different but similar vests. Vests must have been her official yearbook photo look. Then she puts her hand on my shoulder and gives it a faint squeeze.

“You look good.” She smiles, but then straightens her back and pats her chest, looking me in the eye. “Up straight.” Then she pulls a second graham cracker out of her nightgown pocket and takes a bite. (The woman would eat them all day long if my mom didn’t keep them out of sight.) She looks down at the pile of yearbooks and back up at me, then turns around and starts shuffling back to her (my old) room. As she goes through the doorway, she lets out a fairly impressive burp.

Unfortunately, G isn’t “all there” these days.

I grab my backpack. I packed it last night—perfectly, as always. Everything in its proper compartment. (I have a system.) I put both straps over my shoulders, careful not to wrinkle the new shirt. I can’t remember the last time I had a Brand-New Shirt. One that isn’t a hand-me-down from my weird cousin in Des Moines. And this sucker has a collar, no less!

“Wait. Wait. Let me get a picture.” My mom grabs her iPhone—maybe the oldest iPhone still in circulation—and waves her hand for me to get over in front of the plants.

I watch her struggling to get the camera app to come up.

“You sure you don’t want me to skip today?” I ask. “I could ride along. Give moral support. Maybe a pep talk over lunch?”

“No way, pal. I’m riding solo today and YOU are gonna go get the best school picture of your life. Your sixth-grade photo looked like you were kidnapped or raised by wolves or something. But not this year, my well-put- together friend.”

She’s nervous. Which makes me nervous. She needs this job to work out. It could change things—and we really need things to change. And yep, as she aims the phone she’s chewing at that lip again—right on schedule. I feel something in my stomach twist. It’s nerves. Anxiety. But it feels like there’s a fussy iguana in there.

“Okay, Chin up. Up straight. Big smile. Million dollars!”

I do it as best I can, but I’m in my head.

“Good luck, Mom. I know you’re gonna slay.” She’s been playing that song where Beyoncé sings about slaying on a loop for a couple of days. Psyching...

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Verlag
Dial Books
Erscheinungsdatum
2024
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0593697928
ISBN 13 
9780593697924
Einband
Gebundene Ausgabe
Anzahl der Seiten
288
Kontakt zum Hersteller
Nicht verfügbar
Verantwortliche Person
preigu
mail@preigu.de

Lengericher Landstr. 19
Osnabrück
49078
Deutschland

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