Confessions of An Imaginary Friend - Softcover

Chapter One

Yes, world, I am writing my memoir, and I have titled the first chapter simply this:

EVERYONE HATES JACQUES PAPIER

I think it captures the exact drama of my first eight years in the world rather poetically. Soon I’ll move on to chapter two. This is where I’ll confess that the first chapter was, in fact, the truth stretched, much like the accordion body of my wiener dog, François. The stretch would be the word everyone. There are three exceptions to this word. They are:

My mother.

My father.

My twin sister, Fleur.

If you are observant, you’ll notice that I did not include François the wiener dog on this list.

Chapter Two

A boy and his dog are, quite possibly, the most classic of all classic duos.

Like peanut butter and jelly.

Like a left and right foot.

Like salt and pepper.

And yet.

My relationship with François more closely resembles peanut butter on a knuckle sandwich. A left foot in a bear trap. Salt and a fresh paper cut. You get the picture.

In the interest of truth, it is not entirely François’ fault; the cards of life have been stacked rather steeply against him. For starters, I do not believe the person in charge of making dogs was paying attention when they attached François’ stumpy legs to his banana-shaped body. Perhaps we’d all be ill-tempered if our stomachs cleaned the floor whenever we went for a walk.

The day we brought him home as a puppy, François sniffed my sister and grinned. He sniffed me and began barking—a barking that has never ceased in the eight years I’ve been within range of his villainous nose.

Chapter Three

It is true that Papier is the French word for paper. However, my family does not make or sell paper. No, my family is in the imagination business.

“Are there really that many people who need puppets?” Fleur asked our father. To be honest, I had often wondered the very same thing about our parents’ puppet shop.

“Dear girl,” our father answered. “I think the real question is, who doesn’t need a puppet?”

“Florists,” Fleur answered. “Musicians. Chefs. Newscasters . . .”

“Oh hello,” Father said. “I’m a florist. They say talking to plants helps them grow, and now the puppet and I are chatting and our flowers are thriving.” He spun around. “Why, look at me, the piano player, with a puppet on each hand, so now I have four arms instead of just two. I’m a chef, but instead of an oven mitt, I have a puppet to pretend with. Oh look, I’m a newscaster who once delivered the news alone, but now have a puppet for witty banter.”

“Fine,” Fleur said. “Lonely people without anyone to talk to need puppets. Luckily Jacques and I have each other, and we are going outside to play.”

I smiled, waved to our father, and followed Fleur out the door. The bell rang as we left the cool gaze of puppets and greeted the sunshine, winking at us through afternoon clouds.

Chapter Four

School. Who thought of this cruel place? Perhaps it is the same person who matches together the various pieces of wiener dogs. School is a great example of a place where everyone (and I mean everyone) hates me. Allow me to illustrate with examples from this very week:

On Monday, our class played kickball. The captains chose players for their team one by one. When they got to me, they just went and started the game. I wasn’t picked last; I wasn’t picked at all.

On Tuesday, I was the only person who knew the capital of Idaho. I had my arm in the air, even waving it around like a hand puppet on the high sea. But the teacher just said, “Really? Nobody knows the answer? Nobody?”

On Wednesday, at lunch, a very husky boy nearly sat on me, and I had to scramble from my seat to avoid certain death.

On Thursday, I waited in line for the bus, and before I could get on, the driver shut the door. Right in my face. “Oh, COME ON!” I shouted, but the words disappeared in a cloud of exhaust. Fleur made the driver stop, got off, and walked home beside me.

And so, on Friday morning, I begged my parents to let me stay home from school. They didn’t even say no. They just gave me the silent treatment.