My Life Is a Joke Page 4

  Shakespeare is starting to sound pretty cool. An old-fashioned version of a savvy street performer who knows how to keep his audience hooked and stop them from growing restless.

  But then I remembered my main stumbling block.

  The w-w-words. Shakespeare’s plays are filled with w-w-words I don’t recognize or understand. Words that will definitely trip up my tongue and send me sputtering into a stupid stutter. If I do the show with Ms. O’Mara, I’ll turn into Jacky Ha-Ha-Hart all over again.

  “Fairy auditions are at two o’clock on Saturday,” Ms. O’Mara tells us. “I really hope you guys will be there. I know Travis Wormowitz will.”

  “Um, who’s this Travis Wormowitz?”

  “Star of the high school drama club,” says Ms. O’Mara. “He’s super-psyched about playing Puck in a show with a professional cast. I don’t know if he has the comedy chops for it, although I hear he was pretty funny in the high school musical, Bye Bye Birdie. Plus, if he’s the only one auditioning for the part…”

  O-kay.

  Now my competitive juices are starting to flow.

  “Jacky should be Puck!” says Bill.

  “Definitely!” adds Meredith.

  “Does Puck have to talk a lot?” I ask.

  “Not a ton, but he has some great speeches,” says Ms. O’Mara. “‘Thou speakest aright: / I am that merry wanderer of the night. / I jest to Oberon, and make him smile / When I a fat and bean-fed horse beguile.…’”

  From the lines Ms. O’Mara’s reciting, it sounds like Shakespeare is making a fart joke. Why else would you feed beans to a horse?

  But w-w-words like “m-m-merry w-w-wanderer”?

  “I d-d-don’t know.”

  That’s when a cow comes wobbling over to our table.

  “Ah’ll eee ooo on aturay, mizz mamara!” says the guy in a cow costume. (And you thought they only said “moo.”)

  “Huh?” says Bill, because somebody had to.

  “Ah’ll eee ooo on aturay!”

  “What?” says Ms. O’Mara.

  Nobody can understand a word the cow is saying because the head is made out of thick papier-mâché.

  “Ah’ll eee aaht duh eye outs!” The way he’s wiggling his belly, maybe he wants us to buy him a milk shake.

  CHAPTER 15

  The guy inside the cow costume stops talking and tries to heave off his head with his huge cow hooves because he’s figured out that it’s totally muffling his voice.

  He wrestles with the cow head. He’s twisting and turning so much, he looks like he’s inventing a new dance—the funky cow. There’s a lot of wiggling, but he can’t get the costume piece to budge.

  “Hang on,” says Bill. “There’s a hook around back. It’s rusty.”

  I lend a hand. So does Meredith. We also lend our feet. It’s hard to get a grip on a furry cow suit, especially with a wiggly person inside.

  Finally, working together, the three of us are able to remove the cow head (without removing the head of the guy inside).

  “Thanks!” says a very sweaty Jeff Cohen. His curly hair is soaked like a wet Brillo pad.

  “Um, Jeff?” I say. “What’s with the cow costume?”

  “I got the job!”

  “What job?”

  “Ladies and gentlemen, you are looking at the new Bossy D. Cow for Swirl Tip Cones. Moi! Or, should I say, ‘Moo!’”

  “And this is your dream job?” I ask.

  “Of course it is!” says Jeff. “It’s showbiz, Jacky. I’m on all day. People love me. I’m a star. Kids want to shake my hoof wherever I roam. Plus, I get free ice cream on all my breaks.”

  “But you’re lactose intolerant,” I remind him. “Wouldn’t that give you gas?”

  “Yeah. It does get kind of stinky inside this suit from time to time.”

  “Yeah,” says Bill, waving the air under his nose. “Maybe we should put that headpiece back on.”

  “No!” jokes Jeff. “I had a bean burrito for lunch! I’m dying in here.” He waddles over to Ms. O’Mara. “Is Travis Wormowitz really going to be there? At the Midsummer auditions?”

  “So I’ve heard,” says Ms. O’Mara.

  “Yeah. Me too. These high school girls were getting a free sample of Moose Tracks from me, and they were going gaga over this Travis guy. Guess he’s been the star of every high school show since, like, forever.”

  “He’s been going to high school since forever?” I say. “Do they keep holding him back? Maybe freshman algebra was a little too tough for Mr. Wormowitz. And let’s be honest, if the guy really wants to be an actor, he really needs to change his name. If he’s a Wormowitz, all he can do is fish bait commercials on TV.”

  Jeff ignores me. “Count me in, Ms. O’Mara. If a high school superstar like Travis Wormowitz is going to be doing Shakespeare with you guys this summer, then that’s what I want to be doing, too! I’ll be there at the audition on Saturday.”

  “Is that what you were saying?” asks Ms. O’Mara.

  “Yeah.”

  Aha! So that’s what “Ah’ll eee ooo on aturay, mizz mamara!” means in Cowese.

  CHAPTER 16

  I’m still torn first thing Saturday morning.

  I’m at home, stirring my Froot Loops, watching the milk turn into a swirling paisley of colors, and trying to decide whether I want to go to the auditions for A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

  I’d love to be in the Shakespeare show with a bunch of professional Broadway actors and my middle school theater buds. Especially if it means I could play an awesome part like Puck.

  I’d also love to beat out this high school hotshot Travis Wormowitz for the primo Puck role.

  But I’m not even sure I could say W-W-Worm-o-w-w-witz at the audition if it’s a cold reading (that means without practicing first) and my nerves kick in.

  I guess I could’ve gone to the library one day after work and copied Puck’s lines from the play to practice them. But I was having way too much fun hanging out with Meredith and Bill on the boardwalk. You’d be surprised how many times I went on the pirate ship ride without wanting to walk the plank.

  At the time, I figured I could just wing it at the audition. If I decided to go.

  Now I’m not so sure.

  Plus, I’m supposed to babysit Emma this afternoon and work at the Balloon Race booth after that. I don’t stutter when I’m on the job because I’m playing a role: the fast-talking boardwalk carnival barker.

  Yes, Puck would be a role, too. But it would be a SHAKESPEAREAN role.

  While I’m doing my own personal Hamlet bit—To audition, or not to audition: that is the question—the phone rings.

  Victoria brings me the receiver, which is tethered to the kitchen wall by a long, sproingy cord. (In those days, our phones weren’t smart. They were actually sort of dumb and anchored to the walls with cords.)

  “It’s for you, Jacqueline,” reports Victoria, who, as you might recall, is fifteen going on fifty. “I believe it’s your boyfriend. William Phillips!”

  “Bill’s not my boyfriend,” I say, grabbing the phone and covering the mouthpiece so Bill can’t hear me say it. “He’s just a friend who happens to be a boy.”

  “Jacqueline,” says Victoria with an exasperated huff, “I know a thing or two about L-O-V-E. I’ve read a ton of romance novels. Did you know that the average age for a first crush is—”

  “Don’t you have to go to work?” I say to Victoria.

  “Yes. They have me running the taffy-pulling machine at the Taffy Shoppe. It’s the most important job in the whole store, you know. I’m right there in the front window where all the tourists can watch me. As Mr. Willy Williams himself says, ‘When you’re in the window, you are Willy B. Williams’s Taffy Shoppe.’ And—”

  “Hello?” I say to Bill, cutting her off.

  “Hey. You ready to go to that audition?”

  “I have to babysit Emma.”

  “Get Riley to take your slot.”

  “I dunno.…”

 
; “Tell her you’ll pull a double for her next weekend.”

  “But I have to go to work at the booth this afternoon.…”

  “The auditions are in a church basement, like, a block away from the boardwalk.”

  “But—”

  “That guy Wormowitz is going to be there. Are you gonna let him get the part without even trying? Besides, William Shakespeare just called. He wants you to play Puck, not some high school guy.”

  Yes, Bill Phillips was very persuasive, even back in 1991. It’s why he’s such a good lawyer today.

  “Fine,” I say. “I’ll meet you there. And, Bill?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Pick up some rotten produce on the way. Maybe a stinky cabbage and a couple of wrinkled tomatoes.”

  “What for?”

  “If we don’t like this high school kid’s performance, we can give him the old-fashioned groundling treatment!”

  I seal the babysitting-swap deal with Riley. It’s not a very good deal. I think I said yes to watching Emma when I’m also supposed to be at work. Oh, well, I decide, I’ll jump off that bridge when I come to it. Who knows? Emma might have fun with the squirt guns and balloons.

  Bill, Jeff, Dan, and Meredith meet me outside the church.

  “Wormowitz is in there right now,” reports Dan.

  “He’s reading for Puck,” says Jeff.

  “Puck’s the best part for a kid,” says Bill.

  “And you’re the best actress at Seaside Heights Middle School, Jacky,” says Meredith.

  “Actually, I’m more of a comedian.…”

  “And Puck’s supposed to be funny!”

  “Not as funny as a cow,” says Jeff. “Cows can do more slapstick shtick and moo puns. ‘You look moovalous. Simply moovalous, darling…’”

  “Shhh!” whispers Dan, gesturing toward an open window behind a dusty clump of dead weeds. It opens into the basement. “We can hear his audition!”

  We huddle together and spy into the audition room below.

  I can see Ms. O’Mara at a long table with three or four very theatrical-looking people. One of them has a goatee. Another one is in a black turtleneck sweater. In June.

  The high school superstar is auditioning for the table, doing one of Puck’s major speeches.

  The guy finally gets around to doing the Puck speech the judges want to hear. “‘Through bog, through bush, through brake, through briar…’”

  Yes, it has a lot of b-b-b’s in it.

  And Tr-Tr-Travis is good.

  Really good.

  But I don’t care.

  I’m going to go down there and be b-b-better!

  CHAPTER 17

  Let’s go,” I say.

  “Home?” asks Bill.

  “No. Downstairs. The auditions have already started!”

  “Booyah!” says Jeff. “Or, you know, moo-yah!”

  “Are you going to stay in cow character all summer long?” asks Dan with an eye roll.

  “Probably. Do you have some kind of beef with that?”

  We all groan.

  “Okay, Jeff,” I say. “We’ve herd enough puns.…”

  “Yeah,” says Bill. “Stop milking it, dude.”

  We all crack up. My friends are the best.

  “Come on, you guys,” says Meredith. “Unlike Jeff’s cheesy jokes, these auditions won’t last all day.”

  She leads the way into the church and down the steps to the basement.

  We all nearly have a heart attack.

  Not from running down the steps too fast, but from who we see sitting behind a card table in front of the auditions door. It’s Latoya Sherron.

  The Latoya Sherron.

  The beautiful actress who starred on Broadway in all sorts of shows, like Dreamgirls and Ain’t Misbehavin’. She’s also a huge pop star and has even danced in a couple of MC Hammer videos.

  We all stand there with our mouths hanging open for probably five minutes.

  Awkward.

  “Um, hey,” says Ms. Sherron. “Are you guys here for the auditions?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” says Bill.

  “Are you in the show?” asks Meredith.

  Ms. Sherron nods. “I’m playing Hippolyta, queen of the Amazons.”

  (No, girls. Hippolyta was not the queen of online shopping. The Internet wasn’t really a thing in 1991. The Amazons were the original girl group, except they fought instead of singing.)

  “Then sign us up!” I blurt out, because I’m super-excited even to have a shot at being in a show with a superstar like Latoya Sherron.

  She holds a finger up to her lips. We are being kind of loud. And Travis Wormowitz is still on the other side of the door behind Ms. Sherron, auditioning for my part!

  “Great,” says Ms. Sherron, sliding a sign-up sheet across her card table toward us. “Are you Kathy’s kids?”

  “Who’s Kathy?” asks Jeff.

  “Ms. O’Mara,” I say. “Her first name is Katherine.”

  “Really?” says Dan. “I thought it was, you know, Miz.”

  Ms. Sherron laughs a little. “Kathy and I were in Annie together, a long, long time ago. Just put your names on the sheet there and write down what role you’re most interested in playing.”

  “Just a fairy,” says Meredith, writing down her information.

  “Can you sing?” asks Ms. Sherron.

  “A little bit.”

  “She’s being modest,” I say. “Meredith is the best singer at Seaside Heights Middle School.”

  “Wonderful,” says Ms. Sherron. “We might add some music and lyrics for the fairies.…”

  Meredith slides the clipboard over to me.

  I write down my name and the character I’m most interested in playing: Puck!

  Ms. Sherron sees that.

  “Would you be willing to play one of the smaller roles?” she asks.

  “Well, Puck is my first choice.…”

  “I understand. It’s a great part.” She nods her head toward the door. “But from what I’ve been hearing, we might already have our Puck.”

  “W-W-Worm-o-w-w-witz?” I sputter.

  “Yeah. He’s good. Memorized all the major monologues. Says he spent the whole week working on his audition.”

  I fake a queasy smile.

  M-m-memorizing m-m-monologues?

  Heck, I haven’t even read A Midsummer Night’s Dream! All I know about Puck is his name. For all I know, he’s a guy who plays hockey.

  Looks like I might have blown my audition before I even started.

  CHAPTER 18

  Wait here,” says Ms. Sherron, grabbing the sign-up sheet clipboard. “I’ll let them know you guys are waiting.”

  She opens the door to the audition room. We can hear Travis Wormowitz winding up his audition.

  “If we shadows have offended,

  Think but this, and all is mended,

  That you have but slumber’d here

  While these visions did appear.

  And this weak and idle theme,

  No more yielding but a dream…”

  The door closes, cutting off the rest of his speech.

  “Wow,” says Bill. “He’s pretty good.”

  I shoot him a look.

  “But, you know, not as good as you’ll be, Jacky.”

  On the outside, I’m smiling. Inside, I’m wondering what Bob (aka Bubblebutt) might’ve said. Would he have been more supportive? More encouraging? He’d definitely smell better than Bill because Bob would’ve dunked his head in another bucket of that Calvin Klein cologne. Bill kind of smells like French fries. The T-shirt shop where he works is next door to a hot dog and crinkle cut stand.

  Then I wonder why I’m even wondering about Bob when I should be thinking about Puck and the audition I am totally unprepared for.

  The door swings open again.

  “Thank you, kind sirs and madams!” Wormowitz says to the adults at the table as he, dramatically, backs out of the room. “It would be such an honor to work with ea
ch and every one of you! Parting is such sweet sorrow! Adieu! Adieu! I bid you adieu!”

  The door closes in front of him.

  “Why’s he yammering about Mountain Dew?” asks Dan.

  I shrug. I haven’t a clue.

  “Oh. Hello, kiddies,” he says when he sees us. He’s oozing an air of superiority that doesn’t smell nearly as good as that Calvin Klein stuff. “Are you guys here to audition for some of the other fairies, the bit parts? Because I’m pretty sure the leading role of Puck is already taken. I nailed it!”

  He raises a hand for a high five.

  Nobody offers him a palm.

  “Jacky’s still got a shot,” says Meredith, because she’s my best friend.

  “Who’s Jacky?”

  “M-m-me,” I say.

  “Oh, my,” says Wormowitz. “What a w-w-way you have with w-w-words!”

  “Knock it off, pal!” says Bill. “Don’t make fun of Jacky!”

  Wormowitz holds up both hands in surrender. “Well, excuuuuse me,” he says. “I was just being puckish.”

  “Well,” says Jeff. “Jacky can do that, too. She can be puckish. That’s why they call these ‘auditions.’ They see additional people.”

  “Um, wouldn’t those be called ‘additions’?” says Bill, because he’s super-logical that way.

  Wormowitz fixes his snooty gaze on Meredith. “Why, pray tell, are you even here, young lady? Black people weren’t allowed onstage in Shakespeare’s day.”

  YOUCH.

  Did he just insult my best friend?

  “Latoya Sherron is black,” I snarl. My stutter doesn’t dare show itself when I’m angry like this.

  “No,” sneers Wormowitz. “Ms. Sherron is a superstar. There’s a difference. Good luck in there, little guys. Ciao for now.”