My Life as a Youtuber

by Janet Tashjian

  Even I can tell Matt’s lying.

  “Here’s what concerns me,” Mr. Ennis says. “You never know who’s going to click on your videos. Someone could watch this video, think it’s a real exercise show, try to copy you, and get hurt. We talked about making responsible videos in our first class—I’m not sure this one is.”

  Why is everyone missing the point?

  “The background is great,” Umberto says. “Really nice lettering.”

  “Nice lettering?! I worked hard on that video!”

  “We can see you put a lot of time into getting expensive props and building a professional set,” Mr. Ennis says. “I’m just not sure a potentially harmful exercise show is the way to go.”

  Why did I think that just because I’m kind of creative my work would automatically be good? After years of being at the back of the pack, I had the tiniest sliver of hope that I’d be able to ace this class. Will there ever be anything I’m good at in this world? Because school certainly isn’t one of them. I thought even I couldn’t mess up a YouTube video, but I guess I was wrong.

  Riding back home, the only thing Matt and I can talk about is class.

  “The good news is that we BOTH have to reshoot,” I say.

  “We’re two of the funniest kids in school,” Matt says. “How did we end up with the lamest videos?”

  I tell Matt his video wasn’t lame—just a little boring.

  “Same thing,” he argues. “But yours was definitely lame.”

  I skid my skateboard to a full stop.

  “How is lifting three hundred pounds lame?”

  Matt doesn’t stop, just yells as he passes me on his board. “It looked fake.”

  Which is worse—boring or fake? All I know is that I don’t want to be either.

  I jump on my board and catch up to him. “Of course it looked fake—it WAS fake.”

  “I know that,” Matt says. “You couldn’t lift that much weight if your life depended on it.”

  “That was the JOKE!”

  “I thought jokes were supposed to be funny.” This time Matt’s the one who pulls over on his board. “I’m as surprised as you are that Carly’s video was the class favorite, but you have to admit, it was real.”

  “I wish someone had told me that’s what we should be going for.”

  Matt tugs at his hair which he’s growing out. “There are a million directions to go in, with no way to know what’s going to work. Your video could’ve been the one everyone loved—it just wasn’t.”

  I’ve been wondering something since we left Mr. Ennis’s class. “But what if OTHER people like my video?” I ask. “Just because no one in class did doesn’t mean that EVERYONE will think it’s lame.”

  Matt agrees. “There could be some kid in Argentina who thinks it’s the funniest thing he’s ever seen.”

  I laugh so hard I snort. “One kid in Argentina? That’s the only viewer I get?”

  “Don’t feel bad,” Matt says. “My only viewer is probably some grandmother in Kansas who found my channel by mistake.”

  “She was trying to buy some medication online, made a typo, and accidentally found your channel.”

  “The thing is,” Matt says, “she leaves really thoughtful comments. She’s improved my game tremendously.”

  Matt and I continue to make our silly stories even more ridiculous, and just like that we both feel better. We still have work to do, but we’re entertaining ourselves and making each other laugh—which is what our videos were supposed to do.

  TODAY IS WHAT?

  Dad’s not too happy that I don’t want to use his friend’s props anymore. He tells me Doug gave us a lot of time and that I should make another attempt to use them before bringing them back after just a few days. Unfortunately, I’m determined to come up with something fresher and more original than the Tank. As we load the barbells and bowling balls into his car to bring back to Doug, Dad loosens up a little and we pretend we’re being crushed by all their weight as we lift them. It’s stupid and funny and neither of us can stop laughing. I wish my classmates had thought my stunts were half as funny as Dad does.

  When I get to school the next day, it becomes evident that something out of the ordinary is going on. Maria and Perry are both wearing dresses, and they NEVER wear dresses. Teddy’s hair is actually combed and Matt is wearing a BLAZER. And there’s only ONE day a year that Matt gets dressed up.

  Class picture day.

  Matt gestures to my striped shorts and T-shirt. “What’s with the outfit? Did you forget again?”

  “You know I forget half the stuff McCoddle tells us in class.” My mother’s going to KILL me. Just like last year.

  Umberto slides up in his wheelchair, looking as dapper as Matt. “Maybe everyone will think you’re just one of the cool kids who doesn’t care how they look in the yearbook.” He and Matt exchange glances, then burst out laughing. “Nah.”

  The only person who looks unhappier than I am is Carly. She’s got on a plaid skirt with leggings and a black T-shirt and looks kind of cute. But the expression on her face is pure anxiety.

  Then I realize why. Her braces.

  “I could have postponed getting these a few weeks until after picture day! Why didn’t I look at my calendar?” she complains.

  Carly stops ranting as soon as she sees what I’m wearing. “Oh no—did you forget again?”

  “Kind of.”

  A slow smile creeps across Carly’s face. “That makes me feel the tiniest bit better.”

  Matt pulls the collar of his shirt. “Let’s get it over with so I can take this stupid jacket off.”

  The lady from the photography studio is set up in the gym. She looks pretty old, hunched over and with thick glasses. She must be trying to disguise the fact that she’s ancient, because her hair is dyed jet-black with an inch of gray roots showing where her hair is parted. She’s barking instructions to an assistant as she points with an arthritic finger to each kid in line. The bent fingers remind me of Grammy, who has arthritis too, but I’ve never seen a scowl like this on her.

  Matt couldn’t look more uncomfortable if he tried.

  “At least I’ll be relaxed in MY picture,” I say. “Not pulling at my clothes like you.”

  He looks like he’s about to smack me then suddenly starts laughing. He points to my surfing T-shirt with the migrating birds. “Your shirt is green.”

  “So?”

  He points to the large green screen set up underneath the basketball net. “You can’t wear anything green in front of a green screen!”

  He’s laughing so hard, Tyler and Umberto stop talking to listen in. I get it; Matt’s just trying to take the focus off himself. But does he have to make fun of me to do it?

  “I guess you didn’t read the e-mail,” Umberto says. “There are six different backgrounds to choose from. They insert them after they shoot us in front of the green screen. Don’t you remember from last year?”

  “Like that’s the kind of information I remember!” I’m starting to really get annoyed with my friends.

  “Hey!” Tyler yells. “Derek’s wearing a green shirt!”

  The news spreads down the line faster than if we were all playing telephone. Suddenly I’m glad I’m wearing green—it’ll hide how sick I’m starting to feel.

  Carly moves up the line until she’s beside me. “It’s okay,” she says. “No one cares about these stupid pictures anyway.”

  Sure, Carly’s trying to make me feel better but all this attention is making me think I’m REALLY going to get sick—with my luck, just as this cranky lady snaps the photo.

  Carly, unfortunately, is now the target of my pent-up irritation. “Thanks for the update,” I respond. “I hope the photographer’s lights don’t bounce off your braces. It might look like you’ve got lasers shooting out of your mouth.”

  Matt’s talking to Maria but runs over when he hears me. “Does this mean we can finally make fun of Carly’s braces? I’ve been saving up a million insults!�
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  Before I can answer, Umberto does. “No, we are NOT making fun of Carly’s braces.”

  Carly whips around to face me. “Are you sure? Because it certainly sounds that way to me.”

  I feel bad that I’m the one who started this whole thing and just want this line to finally move so I can get out of here.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell Carly. “You look great for your photo—really cute.”

  “Ohhhhhhhh,” Tyler chants behind me. “Derek likes Carly! Derek likes Carly!”

  He stops when Carly glares at him, crosses her arms, and faces down Matt and me.

  “If you think you’re going to send me running to the bathroom to cry again, you’re wrong, inaccurate, erroneous, mistaken, misguided—you want me to keep going?”

  Matt and I stare at the parquet floor and shake our heads. It stinks having a friend who’s a billion times smarter than you are—especially when she’s angry.

  Even though I ask her to stay, Carly goes back to her place in line with Natalie.

  Umberto lets out a low whistle. “That girl is a thesaurus! She thrashed you—and for good reason, too.”

  If I had a dollar for every moronic thing I’ve ever said to Carly, I’d be able to buy a plane ticket TO FLY ME ANYWHERE BUT HERE. I’m actually relieved she stood up for herself; I’d feel horrible if her picture came out bad because of me.

  It doesn’t take long before I’m first in line. I comb my hair with my hand and hope for the best.

  “YOU!” the woman yells. “Stand on the X. Now!”

  I do as I’m told and hurry to the spot on the floor marked with two pieces of duct tape. Behind me is a large screen of green fabric, pulled tight. Three large studio lamps have been lighting up this spot for hours; I hope this woman takes the picture before I start sweating through my shirt.

  “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 that a mother with two kids in a stroller turns and gives me a dirty look. So does Mom.

  “Come on, let’s get some sliders,” Dad says. “That line is long but manageable.”

  We each use our phones while we wait. (Carly still hasn’t texted.) When it’s our turn, Dad orders turkey patties with cheese and I get the bacon and mushroom sliders. The baby burgers don’t take too long to come out; even so, by the time we find Mom, she’s already finished eating.

  There are lots of people here from the neighborhood and several of Mom’s patients. It’s nice to see them, but I�
�m on the hunt for inspiration and end up walking ahead of my parents.

  Moon bounce? Too young.

  Face painting? Too messy—AND too young.

  Adopt-a-dog? Already have one.

  When I double back to see what my parents are up to, I find Mom at a booth learning how to make soap with herbs and olive oil. She ends up buying several kits to make her own lemon and lavender soap, which is probably good since I used up all her bath stuff trying to film Frank.

  Dad just shakes his head. “She’s never going to use those—you know that, right?”

  I laugh, knowing how enthusiastic Mom gets about arts and crafts projects, forgetting she doesn’t have a lot of extra time to do them in.

  Dad tries on a few T-shirts and buys one with a minnow swimming against the tide. I don’t really get it, but he seems happy so I am too.

  “You want to get something?” he asks. “There’s a vintage Pac-Man there.”

  Usually I’d take advantage of some cool free stuff but my attention is fixed on a guy in the next booth putting handfuls of earthworms into a bucket. He sees me looking at him and motions me over.

  “Did you know you can start a compost heap with worms in your backyard?” he asks. “They’ll eat your food scraps—even coffee grounds! The garbage passes through their bodies, making a rich fertilizer you can use in your garden.”

  Mom peers over her reading glasses into the bucket. “I wonder if Carly’s mom knows about this.”

  Carly’s mom’s a landscaper and their garden is full of the biggest birds of paradise I’ve ever seen. Maybe Carly’s mom uses GIANT pooping worms.

  Mom asks the guy more questions until Dad drags her away. “Making your own soap AND composting?” he asks. “Are we quitting our jobs now?”