Jacky Ha-Ha Page 5

  Bill smiles but looks confused. “I don’t remember seeing you at auditions.…”

  “She had a family thing,” says Meredith. “So they auditioned her yesterday, right?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Y-y-yesterday.”

  “Cool,” says Bill. A bell rings. “Guess we better head to class. See you two at rehearsal tomorrow. Break a leg.”

  “Huh?” I snap, wondering why a nice boy I just met would wish me bodily harm.

  Meredith takes my elbow again and guides me up the hall.

  “It’s a theater thing,” she explains. “Break a leg means good luck.”

  “Seriously? In what world is a broken leg a sign of good luck?”

  “In the theater, break a leg means ‘I hope you’re so good you’ll be bending your knee a lot when you take all those bows after the audience gives you a standing ovation.’”

  “Why don’t they just say ‘good luck’?” I ask.

  “Because it’s bad luck.”

  Wow. Theater people are even weirder than me.

  CHAPTER 21

  At lunchtime, Meredith and I are sitting at our usual table. An eighth grader named Colleen comes to join us. I’ve never actually met her before, but she has her wallet on a thick silver chain clipped to her belt, so she’s hard not to notice.

  “You two are in the show, right?” Colleen asks. She keeps her hair cut so short, she’d fit right in with Mom and the marines.

  “Yes,” I say. “I’m playing Snoopy. Meredith’s Lucy.”

  “I’m Colleen. I’m a techie. Lights and sets.”

  “Cool,” says Meredith, scooting over so Colleen can sit next to her.

  Colleen doesn’t say much else. She just dives into her watery pudding cup.

  All of a sudden, at the table behind us, I hear a gaggle of giggles.

  It’s Beth Bennett, the girl who wanted to play Lucy, surrounded by a bevy of Beth wannabes.

  “I feel sorriest for Jeff Cohen,” Beth tells her clique. “He’s playing Linus. Lucy’s supposed to be his sister. How’s that going to look? I mean, in the comic strip, Lucy only has black hair.”

  Her whole table titter-giggles.

  “I guess this is why the show is called You’re a Good Man, Charlie… Brown!”

  Meredith drops her eyes and focuses on her sandwich.

  The fact that Meredith is African-American isn’t something I ever really think about, but now I suddenly realize this is just a single scrap of the trash she probably listens to regularly. I’m tempted to spin around and verbally rip Little Miss Blondie to shreds. Then I remember that fighting in the cafeteria comes with a mandatory minimum sentence of five detentions, and if I score just one more, I’m out of the show.

  “You want me to go have a word with that idiot?” Colleen asks Meredith.

  “That’s okay. I’m used to it.”

  “I’m not,” I say.

  I stand up. Turn around. Then I smile my sweetest smile. “We’re all so glad you’re in the show, Beth. Break a leg. Both of them.”

  Colleen and Meredith snort-laugh chocolate milk out their noses.

  I see Ms. O’Mara passing behind our table. She locks eyes with me for a second, and I’m sure she’s going to stop and whip out her pink pad of doom, but she sails on by without stopping. Wait, did she just wink at me?

  Maybe you can fight for what’s right without ending up in detention hall. You just need to find the right words.

  CHAPTER 22

  Ms. O’Mara gives me a copy of the Charlie Brown script right after the final bell.

  “Read it tonight,” she says. “Mark your lines. Our first rehearsal tomorrow will be a read-through with all the leads.”

  “Okay,” I say, fully intending to read the play as soon as I get home, but there’s a letter waiting for me.

  It’s from Mom.

  My mother is very creative with her letter writing. Somehow, in the midst of doing whatever it takes to be battle-ready over there in Saudi Arabia, she finds the time to write each and every one of us, including Dad, a separate letter. Then she puts all eight of them into a bigger envelope. She does this every week, without fail.

  My personalized envelope has something else tucked inside. A tiny plastic bag filled with Saudi Arabian sand. Since we live so close to a beach, this is a bizarro collection I started when I was three. Sand from around the globe.

  So far I’ve got New Jersey. Lots of New Jersey. Most of the beaches up and down the shore. A cousin sent me some sand from Marina del Rey, California. And now Mom has added the Middle East. Okay, it’s a small collection. Someday, I think, I’ll make a couple of egg timers out of it.

  My mother, aka Big Sydney, is a staff sergeant in the Marine Corps with an Air Control Group. They’re sort of like air traffic controllers for fighter planes and bombers. In her letter this week, she tells me about her bus rides to the control tower, about thirty minutes away from her base and barracks.

  “The buses are always packed,” she writes. “Worse than New York City at rush hour. And riding on the Saudi highway is no picnic. Especially when it’s one hundred and seven degrees in the shade… except there’s absolutely no shade. Just sand. For the full effect, put the sample I sent you in the microwave. No, don’t. Forget I wrote that.”

  “I miss you guys like crazy, and I don’t want you worrying about me. We’re miles away from where any real fighting might take place. The bad news is, we don’t know when Uncle Sam will send us home. The good news? I’ve already picked out my Halloween costume for next year.”

  Clipped to the letter is a photo.

  Of Mom in her gas mask.

  It’s funny. And scary.

  Because everybody knows Saddam Hussein, as evil as he is, has used poison gas before. On his own people.

  When I write to Mom, which I do at least once a week (and sometimes twice or three times), I try to be light and positively “Jacky Ha-Ha,” just like her.

  I write about Riley and Emma and the silly stuff they’ve done that’s crazy cute. I write about Sophia’s rotating boyfriends and soap opera love life. And Hannah’s continuing crush on Mike Guadagno. I let Mom know what I learned from Victoria this week and why I’ll never play Trivial Pursuit against her.

  I skip the part about my twenty detentions (I figure that’s on a need-to-know basis and she definitely doesn’t need to know, at least from me). Instead, I tell her that I tried out for (and got into) the school play and how much fun I’m going to have, because I know she’d love that.

  But secretly? Just between us?

  When I’m alone, behind a closed bedroom door, working on my letters to Mom, I start to cry when I think about how much I miss her. And when I think about her being halfway around the world in a place so sweltering hot and dangerous, I cry even harder.

  My mother might try to keep things light and fluffy in her letters, but I know the truth: She’s currently in what sounds like the most dangerous place on earth.

  So no way am I mentioning Dad’s late nights or how he doesn’t come home for dinner like he’s supposed to.

  That would just make Saudi Arabia even more miserable for Mom.

  I finish my letter and move on to something even more depressing.

  Homework.

  CHAPTER 23

  English is my first class in the morning.

  Ms. O’Mara, as you might recall, teaches Honors English. I am not in Honors English, even though English happens to be my best subject.

  Okay. It used to be my best subject.

  All of a sudden, I’m flunking it. Pulling a big fat F.

  I went into Mrs. Bucci’s classroom that day with an A-minus or maybe a B-plus average.

  Okay, I had a B-minus. But it was a solid B-minus.

  Then Mrs. Bucci read my essay on The Short Stories of Nathaniel Hawthorne.

  I don’t think she likes the fact that I spent my first two paragraphs writing about how Hawthorne added a W to his last name so he wouldn’t be connected to his Hathorne
ancestors, who were involved in the Salem witch trials.

  “In the same manner,” I wrote, “I might change my last name to Hawrt, if, say, my sister Sophia seriously starts dating this preppy guy named Chad. Chad is not a person. It’s a country in Africa.”

  “Miss Hart?” Mrs. Bucci says over the edge of her reading glasses after she finishes glancing at my essay. “Did you read any of the short stories or just the author’s name?”

  “The s-s-stories.”

  Right away, I start stuttering.

  Mrs. Bucci knows I read the material. But she really doesn’t like my attitude, so she keeps coming at me.

  “What was in Dr. Heidegger’s study?”

  I crack a joke. “St-st-st-uff for him to study.”

  She writes something at the top of my paper. “C-plus. Want to go down another grade? Maybe go for two?”

  “H-h-he also had a sk-sk-skeleton in his closet,” I say, which, by the way, is correct. But I can’t stand the fact that Mrs. Bucci just made me so nervous I’m stuttering in front of my seventh-grade English class, so I add, “How m-m-many skeletons are in your closet, Mrs. Bucci?”

  The class cracks up. Mrs. Bucci does not.

  “Let’s make that a D-plus,” she says.

  “F-f-fine. By the way, in the story, Dr. H-H-Heidegger f-f-found the fountain of youth. It was in Florida.” I take a beat. Study Mrs. Bucci’s wrinkled face. “You’ve never been to Florida, have you, Mrs. Bucci?”

  More “ha-has” for me, another step down for my grade.

  “F-plus. No, wait. Let’s make it an even F.”

  I still don’t stop. “F f-for funny?”

  “No, Jacky. For failure. Complete and hopeless.”

  The bell rings. Everyone races for the door.

  “Jacky, come here.”

  “Y-y-yes, Mrs. Bucci?” I ask, very politely. Remember how Ms. O’Mara said I’m not allowed to get any more detentions, or I’m out of the school play? Well, neither did I, until that moment. Better late than never.

  “Be careful of your urge to entertain, Jacky,” Mrs. Bucci warns as if she is a spooky oracle straight out of Greek mythology. “Beware of wanting to be liked too much.”

  I just nod, because she’s creeping me out.

  “You have the gift of making others laugh, but don’t forget about your own happiness. Is everything all right, Jacky?” she asks suddenly.

  “Uh, yes?” Usually it’s obvious what answer you’re supposed to give, but I’m a little lost because this conversation just took a right turn into Weirdsville.

  Mrs. Bucci sighs. “No more antics from now on. You may go.”

  I walk out feeling good that I didn’t get another detention.

  And what’s so wrong about wanting to be liked? It’s a lot better than not being liked, right?

  Teachers.

  CHAPTER 24

  I make it through another day with no detentions.

  Our first rehearsal starts in the auditorium fifteen minutes after school is out. The show’s six leads, all the actors with lines, are supposed to sit in a circle at center stage. Mr. Brimer, his chin propped in his hand again, is off to our left at his upright piano.

  I’m sitting between Meredith and Bill (our Charlie Brown). Beth Bennett, who’s playing Patty, is seated directly opposite me on the other side of the circle. She’s between Dan Napolitano (Schroeder) and Jeff Cohen (Linus). Dan is so skinny, he’d probably blow away in a strong gust of wind. Jeff is a bundle of nervous energy, curly hair, and quirky eye tics.

  “I brought a blanket,” he says, his left eye seeming to stutter the way my tongue does. “Linus always has his security blanket, so I brought one even though this is just a read-through and not a run-through. The blanket might help me get into character.”

  We all just nod.

  Except Beth Bennett. She exhales audibly. Looks at her watch. If she were chewing gum, she’d probably snap-pop it, too.

  At precisely 3:15 p.m., Ms. O’Mara strides out of the wings (those are the sides of the stage that are hidden by the curtains, not a greasy bucket of spicy chicken bits).

  “Good afternoon, everybody,” she says. “And congratulations. The competition for these six roles was pretty intense. So give yourselves a round of applause.”

  We do. It’s fun.

  “Before we start our first read-through,” she continues, “I want to warm up your ears. Because listening to your fellow cast members—really, sincerely listening—is a very important part of acting. Meredith?”

  “Yes, Ms. O’Mara?”

  “I don’t mean to put you on the spot, but could you sing your Schroeder song for us?”

  “Right now?”

  “If you don’t mind. I want the cast to hear it. To really listen to it.”

  “Come on, Meredith,” says Mr. Brimer as he starts plunking out the opening notes of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata on his keyboard. “Don’t be modest. Show these guys what you’ve got.”

  Meredith smiles and pops out of her chair.

  “This ought to be good,” I hear Beth mutter to Jeff Cohen, who shushes her. She gives him an eye roll.

  Meredith scampers over to the piano and leans on it with both arms, the way Lucy always leans on Schroeder’s baby grand in the comic strips.

  The Moonlight Sonata piano vamp keeps looping while Meredith glides into her lyrics.

  “D’ya know something, Schroeder? I think the way you play the piano is nice.”

  Wow. It is so stunningly simple and beautiful. I mean, I’ve only known Meredith for a couple of months, and we didn’t do much singing over the summer except when we were goofing on Vanilla Ice’s horrible hit, “Ice Ice Baby,” but I never realized she was so talented. She sings like an angel, just like Ms. O’Mara said. The one God would send down to earth for the first Christmas so she could sing “The First Noel” to certain shepherds in fields where they lay.

  We’re all mesmerized by her unbelievable voice.

  And then, BOOM! Meredith nails the joke at the end of the song, too.

  First she bats her eyes flirtatiously at Mr. Brimer and sings her final line:

  “Wouldn’t you like that if someday we two should get married?”

  Mr. Brimer plays along, pretends to be horrified at the thought of marrying Lucy, and slams her a sour chord (the same one he slammed me for real at the audition). And Meredith, channeling Queen Lucy of the comic strips, sighs and says, “My aunt Marion was right. Never try to discuss marriage with a musician.”

  The whole cast cracks up and starts clapping like crazy.

  “That was awesome!” says Bill Phillips.

  “Incredible,” adds Jeff Cohen.

  I’m pumping my arm up and down and woo-hooing a lot.

  Then Beth Bennett runs up. After all those mean, ugly, and downright despicable things she said about Meredith yesterday, I get ready to jump in and defend my best friend again.

  I guess she’s been converted. Or redeemed. Maybe both.

  “So, Meredith,” Beth says after finally breaking out of her congratulatory bear hug, “do you, like, give singing lessons? Could you be my vocal coach?”

  Meredith grins. “We’ll talk.”

  When we finally sit back down, the entire cast is pumped. We’re excited to jump into our read-through. We’re also feeling like one big, happy family.

  I catch Ms. O’Mara’s eye and she winks, just like she did in the cafeteria.

  You see why Ms. O’Mara is so good at what she does?

  She knows how to teach a lesson without “teaching a lesson.”

  CHAPTER 25

  By the end of the week, I’ve traded in three after-school rehearsals for three detentions.

  And I don’t have to do extra chores every day after school because Ms. O’Mara sent me home with a note, explaining our arrangement to my dad: “So long as Jacqueline Hart shows up for play practice on time, does her best, and, at the same time, does not earn any NEW detentions, we will deduct one detention for
every rehearsal. Perhaps you might consider also releasing Jacky from her ‘double detentions’ at home, too. She needs that time to do her homework and then memorize her lines.”

  Dad agrees.

  So now, every night, after we finish our homework, all the sisters help me “run my lines.”

  Sandfleas, our dog, is helping out, too.

  On our nightly walks, she gives me all sorts of pointers on playing Snoopy. How to scratch behind my ear. How to circle three times before peeing. How to sniff other dogs’ butts. It’s like homework, only grosser.

  I’ve even taken to singing “Suppertime” whenever I bring out Sandfleas’s food dish or refill her water bowl. What’s very interesting is that, after only three rehearsals, when I’m playing Snoopy or singing one of Snoopy’s songs, I don’t stutter.

  It’s the Mel Tillis effect.

  Mel Tillis is a big country-western singer who had his heyday in the 1970s with a bunch of songs that shot up to the top of the charts. He even won the Country Music Association’s Entertainer of the Year award.

  He also had a stutter. In fact, he called his 1984 autobiography Stutterin’ Boy. But his stutter never interfered with his singing. He never stumbled over a single note. Somehow, he was able to just shut it off.

  And when I’m playing Snoopy, I can, too.

  So I’m feeling pretty great on Monday morning when it’s time to head back to school. I’ve memorized all my lines in the opening number.

  Okay, so I just have to say “Woof.” Three times.

  Between classes, Mrs. Turner catches me in the halls.

  “Ms. O’Mara tells me you’re doing great, Jacky.”

  “You were right, it’s fun. I’m glad I tried out for the show.”

  Assistant principals all over the world beam whenever a student tells them they were right about something (especially if the student used to think they were heinously wrong).