Jacky Ha-Ha Page 11

  “You guys can’t tell Dad I’m doing this,” I say. “Okay?”

  “Why not?” asks Emma.

  “Because I said so,” Sophia says in her sternest oldest-sister-still-living-at-home voice.

  Emma nods. “Oh. Okay.”

  “When’s the contest?” asks Hannah.

  “The American Legion contest is still a couple of weeks away. But I have to give my speech to the whole school this Thursday.”

  “What?” says Riley. “You only have three more days. Aren’t you freaking out?”

  “A little,” I say with a nervous laugh. “Okay—a lot. Ms. O’Mara is going to help me work on some t-t-technical stuff.”

  “Is she going to make you do tongue twisters to warm up?” asks Hannah.

  “I hope not.”

  My sisters start a round robin of their favorite, funny tongue twisters. Everything from “Betty Botter bought some bitter butter” to “If two witches were watching two watches, which witch would watch which watch?”

  I elect not to join in.

  But I’m laughing hysterically. So is everybody else.

  In fact, we’re all laughing so loudly, we almost don’t hear the phone ring.

  Sophia snatches up the receiver. “Hello?” she giggles into the phone.

  Then she holds up her hand. Her face freezes into a frown. She signals us all to quiet down.

  Sophia says “Thank you” to whoever is on the other end of the call.

  And then she starts crying.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “That was the hospital. It’s Nonna. She’s gone.”

  “Where’d she go?” asks Emma.

  I gently place both hands on my little sister’s shoulders. “That means she passed away, Emma. Right, Sophia?”

  All Sophia can do is nod.

  “Nonna is dead?” asks Riley.

  Sophia keeps nodding.

  All of us sink down on whatever chair or sofa is closest.

  There’s no more laughter in the Hart house. I wonder if there ever will be again.

  “We need to tell Mom,” says Hannah, who thinks with her heart more than the rest of us. “We’ve all lost a grandmother, but she just lost her mom.”

  “How do we call her?” I say.

  “Dad will know,” says Sophia.

  And so we wait for him to come home. For two—no, three—long, quiet hours. My sisters and I spend the whole time sobbing.

  When Dad finally does come through the front door, he gives us his usual greeting.

  “Good evening, girls. What’d I miss?”

  Everything is what I want to say.

  But I can’t. I’m too busy crying.

  CHAPTER 51

  My whole world becomes one long, sluggish dream.

  Everything is murky. We’re all moving around in a slow-motion daze. I want to hop on Le Bike, pedal over to Nonna’s rest home, and tell her favorite joke. I want to do an encore performance of You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown for her and her friends in the parlor.

  I want to hear her laugh again so badly.

  But I never will.

  My grandmother had a rare gift. She could always make me feel good about who I am. All she had to do was turn to a friend and say proudly, “That’s my Jacky.” And then she’d always brag a little: “When she’s a famous star, I can say I’ve known her since she was so small, I could hold her in my arms.”

  But she never got to see me be famous, which I’ll always regret.

  In the days after Nonna passes, Dad is actually home more than he has been since school started. Unfortunately, he’s dealing with a lot of what they call logistics. In other words, funeral details.

  For instance, since Mom isn’t home, he’s the one who has to rummage through Nonna’s closet and decide what dress she’s going to wear to her own burial. After that, he has to go to the funeral home and pick out a coffin.

  If you ask me, coffin salesmen are just used car salesmen in darker suits. Sure, they whisper and keep their hands clasped politely in front of their pants while guys on the car lot shout and slap you on the back, but coffins have as many features to sell as cars. Wood or steel? Satin cushions? Embroidered lid? Brass or chrome handles?

  Poor Dad. For the first time in a long while, I actually feel sorry for him.

  At school, Ms. O’Mara is, of course, totally sympathetic.

  “Will your mother make it home in time for the funeral?” she asks.

  “We hope so,” I say slowly. “But it takes almost twelve hours to fly from Saudi Arabia to Newark. And she has to ask the marines to grant her leave, which, of course, they’ll do because Nonna was her mom. We just don’t know how fast the paperwork will move through the system.…”

  The whole time I’m spilling out my heart, taking as much time as I need to tell Ms. O’Mara everything, I don’t stutter.

  Ms. O’Mara notices it before I do.

  “Stuttering,” she tells me, “happens when we try to squeeze out words faster than our mouth can handle them.”

  That’s me.

  My mind always seems to race ahead of my mouth. My brain is scripting the next “bit” while I’m delivering the first “bit,” because when you live for audience approval, there is nothing worse than what radio disc jockeys call dead air. I hate the sound of silence.

  Ms. O’Mara and I talk about the body’s built-in, adrenaline-charged “fight or flight” response. As in, “Do I stay here and slay this dinosaur, or do I run away and hope it doesn’t chomp my butt?”

  “Making a speech,” says Ms. O’Mara, “triggers the same kind of adrenalized reaction. How can I stand in front of these people and talk when I really feel like running away? When your adrenaline starts pumping, you feel panicked. You’ll want to talk fast and finish as quickly as you can. That’s when you need to take a deep breath and give yourself permission to take up your audience’s time. As much time as you need.”

  It’s actually good for me to spend my study hall period talking about stuttering and panic attacks and public speaking. It takes me out of Funeral World, if only for an hour. While we work on my speech, I don’t worry about Mom missing her flight home, Dad ordering the wrong flowers, or Emma telling the catering company that all we want at the reception after the funeral is plain cheese pizza.

  When our time together is almost over, Ms. O’Mara asks me the big question we’ve both been avoiding: “Do you still want to do this thing, Jacky? Do you still want to make your speech?”

  I think about it.

  About how much I want people to hear what I’ve written.

  Then Ms. O’Mara drops her next bombshell. “How about Charlie Brown? Dress rehearsal is Friday. Opening night is Saturday. If we make the switch today, Colleen could do Snoopy. She’d have to be on book and we’d cut some of your songs, but we’d be okay.”

  I think about Nonna. In her rest home. In her hospital bed.

  “Yes,” I tell Ms. O’Mara. “I still want to do both. The speech and the show. I’ll make it work. Somehow.”

  “Yes,” says Ms. O’Mara. “We will.”

  After that, we actually hug. Ms. O’Mara takes my mother’s place and whispers softly, “Everything is going to be all right, Jacky. You’ll see.”

  I nod.

  I know I’m making the right choice.

  But what I don’t know is how I’m going to tell my father.

  CHAPTER 52

  Talk about your “fight or flight” situation.

  The instant I step through the front door after play practice (also known as detention), guess who’s just about to step out?

  You got it. Dad.

  He’s standing in the foyer, toting this small leather briefcase I’ve never seen before. Then, behind me, I hear a car crunch across the seashells at the edge of our driveway.

  It’s that hot little red ragtop again. Jenny Cornwall’s convertible.

  So, I want to shout, I see you packed a suitcase. Are you and Jenny going someplace speci
al? Want to squeeze in one more romantic rendezvous before Mom comes home?

  Of course, I don’t say any of that. But the mere thought of saying it actually gives me the courage to say, “Dad, there’s something I have to tell you.”

  “Can it wait, Jacky? I’m in a hurry.”

  “Fine. I’ll make this short. I’m giving my American Legion sp-sp-speech at school this Thursday.”

  “What?”

  “And then, on S-S-Saturday, I’ll be appearing in the opening-night performance of You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown.”

  “Your grandmother’s funeral is Saturday, Jacky.”

  “Saturday night?”

  “No, but that’s irrelevant. You’re grounded. And as part of your punishment for climbing the Ferris wheel, I specifically told you that you could not appear in the school play or participate in the speech contest.”

  “Well,” I say, summoning up every ounce of courage I can muster, “you made a mistake.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Okay, maybe not so much a mistake as a bad judgment call—like me being dumb enough to climb a Ferris wheel.” (I leave out the part about doing it twice.)

  Dad’s staring at me like I’m a visitor from some other planet.

  I keep going.

  “We all make mistakes, Dad, because, unfortunately, life doesn’t come with an instruction manual. Besides, I’m not telling you I’ve decided to become a juvenile delinquent. I’m saying I want to give a speech about the duties of citizenship and then pretend to be a dog from the Sunday funnies.”

  “We’ll discuss this later, Jacky.”

  “No, Dad. No more discussion. I’m doing it.”

  Jenny Cornwall beeps her horn. Guess she doesn’t like her dates keeping her waiting.

  “Just a second,” Dad calls to her.

  Jenny Cornwall shakes her head as if to say, “You have six other daughters, Mac. Why are you wasting your time on that one?”

  “This is a bad week for this kind of nonsense.”

  “It’s not nonsense, Dad. In fact, it’s the opposite of nonsense. It’s a sign of intelligence in my otherwise completely screwy universe. Besides, Nonna would want me to do the show.”

  “Really? And how could you possibly know that?”

  “Because it’s what she always told me to do!” Yes, I raised my voice. My “fight” adrenaline was kicking in big-time. “‘Make me laugh, Jacky. Make me laugh!’ Those were practically her dying words to me.…”

  Of course I’m shuddering and blubbering while talking about death and how funny I plan on being.

  Dad makes a move, like he wants to hug me. The way he used to hug me when I was very little and the waves crashing against the shore used to scare me.

  But the prettiest girl on the beach toots her horn again.

  Dad has this sad look in his eye. Like it’s fight or flight time for him, too.

  And he’s all out of fight.

  “Okay, Jacky. Make your speech. Do the play. Make your Nonna laugh. I guess we could all use a laugh this week.”

  Then he dashes down the front steps with his leather satchel, hops into the front seat of Jenny Cornwall’s hot little car, and speeds off to wherever it is they go together to try to forget about me.

  CHAPTER 53

  The next couple of afternoons are eaten up by Charlie Brown tech rehearsals and costume fittings.

  That means we’re working on light cues and set changes and seeing how silly I can look in a face-framing wimple with floppy beagle ears.

  Mr. Brimer needs to work through musical cues with his small pit orchestra. That’s what they call the group of musicians on piano, flute, drums, and bass who’ll be accompanying us while we sing. Pit orchestra has nothing to do with peaches, cherries, and other fruit with stones for seeds. Or body odor issues.

  “Everybody take five” is a common refrain from Ms. O’Mara as Colleen climbs an extension ladder to refocus a light or Mr. Brimer and the pit kids pencil in notes on their sheet music.

  So for those of us in the cast, it’s hurry up and wait time.

  Since there’s so much downtime, I’m able to practice my speech backstage and in the dressing rooms. I give my Duties of Citizenship talk to Bill, Dan, Meredith, Jeff, and Beth so many times, I think they could give it for me on Thursday.

  Before I know it, it’s Thursday.

  I’m so nervous I nearly wipe out on Le Bike on my ride to school. One probably shouldn’t practice one’s oratorical skills, with accompanying hand gestures, while pedaling.

  The morning announcements, delivered over the PA system by Mrs. Turner, stir up the butterflies that have been cocooning in my stomach ever since the assistant principal first told me her nutty idea about Jacky Ha-Ha entering a p-p-public speaking competition.

  “And remember,” says Mrs. Turner’s voice over the speaker, “today’s the Big Day. Please join THE ENTIRE SCHOOL in the gymnasium during final period for the first round of the American Legion Oratorical Contest. Six of our BEST SPEAKERS will compete, ONE-ON-ONE, to see who WILL SURVIVE and represent our school at the local competition and then, after more GLADIATOR-STYLE COMBAT, move on to the state tourney in Trenton, and then, IF THEY’RE STILL ALIVE, the nationals in Washington, DC.”

  Well, that’s what I hear.

  Meredith, who’s in my homeroom, turns to me.

  “Wow,” she says. “Sounds like you’re going to be doing some traveling.”

  “M-m-maybe,” I say. “But f-f-first I have to make it through today.”

  “Jacky?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Take your time. People will like what you have to say. And we have all the time in the world.”

  “True,” cracks Jeff Cohen. “Because if you rush through your speech and the assembly’s over early, they’ll make us go back to class. And I have math for my final period, Jacky. Math!”

  To ramp up the pressure a few more notches, last night Sydney came home from Princeton (where, of course, she’s making straight A’s again), saying she “wouldn’t miss my little sister’s big speech for anything in the world.”

  In fact, my whole family is planning on coming to the middle school this afternoon to hear me t-t-talk. This morning, before I left home, I saw Dad, standing in his boxer shorts, ironing his navy blue suit. Emma has also selected special attire for my big day.

  How can I bomb with Madonna in my corner?

  CHAPTER 54

  It’s Thursday afternoon. I’m staring at the clock as it creeps toward two p.m.

  The assembly starts at 2:15.

  Suddenly, there’s a knock at the door. The teacher opens it. Ms. O’Mara is on the other side.

  “Come on, Jacky,” she says. “It’s showtime.”

  “Good luck!” says Meredith.

  “Yeah,” says this boy in the third row. “You’re gonna n-n-n-need it!”

  Yep. It’s Bubblebutt, that obnoxious kid from detention hall, who’s been making fun of me since kindergarten.

  “Remember what we do with critics, Jacky?” asks Ms. O’Mara as we march down the hall toward the gym.

  “Yes,” I answer. “We ignore them. In fact, I’m ignoring Bubblebutt already.”

  “You mean what’s-his-name.”

  “Exactly.”

  Even though the bell hasn’t rung for seventh period, a steady line of people is already trickling into the gym. I’m guessing the other speech-givers invited their whole families, too.

  Ms. O’Mara reaches for the gym door handle and just sort of stands there, looking at me.

  There is a devilish glint in her eyes. She smiles a crooked, goofy grin.

  “What?” I say. “What’s going on?”

  Her whole face lights up as she yanks open the door. “Surprise!”

  I have no idea what she’s talking about.

  Until I step into the gym.

  And there she is.

  Mom!

  I can’t believe it.

  Mom made it home for Nonna’s
funeral. In fact, she’s early.

  Maybe she wanted to come to my funeral, too—also known as making a speech in front of the whole middle school.

  Mom looks as if she just hopped off a transport plane and raced here to be with me on my big day—she’s dressed in her desert camo uniform and I see her huge duffel bag lying on the gym floor. She throws open her arms and the whole world and all its problems melt away.

  We’re hugging like crazy. We’re both crying a bunch, too. Tears mix with laughter.

  “I missed you so much,” I say into her shoulder.

  “I missed you, too, Jacky. You are my laughing girl. My happiest baby.”

  She squeezes me tighter.

  “I’m so sorry about Nonna,” I say.

  “Thank you, hon. I’m sorry she can’t be here today to hear you speak. I know she would’ve been so proud.”

  Before I’m ready to let go, Mom’s arms loosen around me.

  “Mac?” she says.

  “Hey, beautiful.”

  Dad, looking very dapper in his navy blue suit, rushes across the gym floor, like he’s charging across the baseball diamond, trying to steal second base. Mom leaps into his arms. They kiss like crazy.

  My six sisters drop their eyes and shake their heads. This Public Display of Affection is a little too, well, public. The class change bell just rang. Middle schoolers are filing into the gym. Kids here know us. Several are giggling and pointing at Mom and Dad, who are still acting like they’re seventeen again, floating under the mirror ball, dancing the last slow dance at their high school prom.

  Me? I don’t mind the PDA.

  Hey, Mom’s been in a war zone for months. Dad’s been home, heartsick, pining for her.

  Wait a second. Scratch that.

  Let’s not forget Jenny Cornwall. Suddenly, I’m not so keen on my parental unit’s kissy face display, either.