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.

Chapter Five

For as long as I could remember, Fleur and I had been making The Map of Us. There were the easy to draw places: the frog pond, the field with the best fireflies, and the tree where we’d carved our initials in the trunk.

And there were the permanent fixtures in our world as well, like Puppet Shop Peak, the Fjords of François, and the Mountaintop of Mom & Dad.

But then there were the other places.

The best places.

The places that could only be found by us.

There was the stream full of tears that Fleur cried when a boy at school made fun of her teeth. The spot where we buried a time capsule. And the spot where we dug up a time capsule. And the much better place where the time capsule currently resides (for now). There was the sidewalk chalk art gallery we commission each summer. And the tree where I broke the climbing record, and also fell, but we didn’t tell Mom and Dad. There was the place where the flamingoose, the bighornbear, and the ostrimpanzee roam and graze. And the knothole in the oak where I kept Fleur’s smile, the one she does with her eyes instead of her mouth. There were hiding places, and finding places, and deep wells full of secrets.

Yes, like any best friends, there was a whole world that could only be seen by her and me.

Chapter Six

Sometimes, on Sundays, our family would go to the local kids’ museum, which was really just a bunch of bubble blowing, and old rocks, and baby stuff like that. But that’s not why we went. We went because on Sundays you could get free popcorn and “enjoy” the “magic” of Maurice the Magnificent.

Maurice was old. I don’t mean grandparent old or even great-grandparent old. I mean old. Old like the candles on his birthday cake cost more than the cake. Old like his memories were in black and white.

And his tricks! They were the worst. He did one where he made a dove appear out of a phonograph. A phonograph! This guy was at least a thousand years old. Every time we went to his show, Fleur would lean over so I could whisper my witty remarks.

“Maurice is so old,” I whispered, “his report card was written in hieroglyphics.”

Fleur covered her mouth with her hands to contain her giggles.

“He’s so old,” I continued, “that when he was born, the Dead Sea was just coming down with a cough.”

Sadly, on that particular Sunday, neither of us noticed that Maurice the Magnificent had noticed us mocking his show.

“Little girl,” said Maurice, pausing in front of us with a morose rabbit in his hands. “To whom are you whispering?”

“This is my brother,” said Fleur. “His name is Jacques.”

“Ah,” said Maurice, nodding. “And what did Jacques say that was so very humorous?”

Fleur’s cheeks turned red like her hair, and she bit her lip with embarrassment.

“Well,” said Fleur. “He thinks you’re . . . old. Oh, and a phony. Jacques said that none of this is real.”

“I see,” said Maurice. “Well, the world is full of people who will doubt.”

Maurice tried to swish his cape with a flourish, hurt his back, and feebly made his way across the stage using his cane.

“Doubters will say that magic is only make-believe. And you know what? You don’t need to say a word to prove them wrong. All you need is this.”

Maurice pulled an old broken compass from his vest pocket. It looked about as old as him, and the arrow only pointed one way: directly at the person holding it.

“Come up here, little girl. You will be my assistant.”

Fleur stood, and reluctantly joined Maurice on stage. I felt a twinge of guilt, and hoped he wouldn’t put her in a box and stick her with swords.

“Take this,” said Maurice. He handed Fleur the compass.

“I’m going to make you disappear,” said Maurice. He went over to a person-sized cabinet, opened the door, and motioned for Fleur to step inside. She did, and he closed the cabinet behind her.

“Alakazam!” shouted Maurice. I couldn’t help but roll my eyes.

But then, to my utter shock, Maurice opened the cabinet and Fleur was gone! An excited murmur went through the crowd.

“Now, Fleur,” hollered Maurice. “If you tap your compass three times, you can come back home.”

Maurice closed the cabinet, waited for three taps, and when he opened the door, POOF! There was Fleur.

Well, obviously the audience went wild, and old Maurice took a bow (or not; it was hard to tell since his posture was already so stooped). Fleur tried to give back the compass, but Maurice shook his head and folded Fleur’s hand over it.

“The world is a mystery with a capital M,” said Maurice. “The impossible is possible. And you, Fleur, seem like the kind of girl who knows that real is merely in the eye of the beholder.”

Chapter Seven

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Excerpted from Confessions of an Imaginary Friend: A Memoir by Jacques Papier by Michelle Cuevas
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.