My name is Nico, and this is my illustrated journal. I write in it because my brain is full of important things, like school, snacks, and why my socks always disappear. Today at school, I tried to do a basketball shot in gym. I say “tried” because the ball bounced off the rim, hit the floor, and rolled right into Mr. Bender’s whistle basket. Mr. Bender blinked. “Interesting strategy, Nico.” My best friend, Lena, snorted so hard she had to hold her pencil case like it was going to float away. I am not athletic. I am more of a “think very hard while standing still” kind of person. At lunch, I sat with Lena and told her my newest plan. “I’m going to become cooler,” I said. Lena took a bite of her apple. “By doing what?” “I don’t know yet. But definitely by tomorrow.” That evening, I told my family at dinner. My family is a little unusual. Dad wears bright socks that never match on purpose. Mom talks to houseplants like they are her coworkers. My little sister, Tilly, has a collection of toy frogs and names every one of them after a different sandwich. Dad said, “Cool is overrated. You need a signature move.” Mom nodded. “Or a talent.” Tilly raised a frog. “Or a sandwich name.” I wrote all three ideas down in my journal and drew a star next to “signature move,” because stars make things seem smarter. The next morning, I practiced my cool plan. I leaned against the school wall like the popular kids do in movies. Then my backpack strap slipped, my notebook fell open, and five pages of doodles flew onto the sidewalk. One page showed a giant potato wearing sunglasses. Another showed my math teacher as a wizard. Another was just a sandwich with feelings. Lena picked up the pages and laughed. “This is actually amazing.” I stared at the ground. “It was supposed to be mysterious.” “It is,” she said. “Mysteriously funny.” That made me feel a little better. Then came the holiday disaster. For the school winter party, each class was supposed to bring something homemade. I decided to bring star-shaped cookies, because stars are cool and also because my math says circles are boring. At home, I helped Mom mix the dough. Tilly helped by sneaking chocolate chips into her mouth every time no one was looking. Dad said he would “supervise” and then got distracted singing to the oven timer. When the cookies came out, they were not stars. They were blobs. Very proud blobs. At the party, the fancy tray of cookies from the bakery-families sat all neat and shiny. I wanted to hide my tray under the table forever. But then the principal walked by, picked up one of my cookies, and said, “These look homemade in the best way.” Then Lena ate one and whispered, “This tastes like victory.” I laughed so hard I almost dropped the paper cups. Later, when it was time for the class talent show sign-ups, I almost wrote my name on the line for “cool trick.” Then I looked at my journal page peeking out of my backpack. It had a drawing of me failing at basketball, blobs of cookies, and Lena laughing with me instead of at me. I realized something. I didn’t need to be cooler. I needed to be me. So I signed up for the talent show with my real talent: reading one of my funny journal pages out loud. On the big night, my knees felt like jelly. But I stood on stage, held my journal, and read about the sandwich frog, the whistle basket, and the cookies that looked like they had been surprised. The room went quiet for one second. Then everyone laughed. Even Mr. Bender. Even the principal. Even Tilly, who waved a frog in the air like a tiny cheerleader. When I finished, Lena gave me a huge thumbs-up. Afterward, Dad said, “There he is. Signature move achieved.” Mom smiled and handed me a cookie she had saved in her pocket. Tilly said, “I named this frog Toast.” That night, I wrote in my journal: Being myself is weird sometimes. But weird can be wonderful. And funny. Especially funny. Also, my socks still disappear. I think Dad knows where they go.