Jacky Ha-Ha Read online

  When we’re done refolding and restacking the shirts, we’ve totally lost Dad.

  Then I see a red convertible speeding out of a parking slot near the boardwalk. Jenny Cornwall, hair blowing in the breeze like she’s starring in a shampoo commercial, is behind the wheel.

  And Dad’s in the passenger seat.

  CHAPTER 36

  Riley and I head for home, neither one of us saying a word.

  We never do buy swirl cones.

  Riley’s sniffling some. Even though we both feel incredibly betrayed by our father, she lets her emotions show more than me. Because I’m Jacky Ha-Ha.

  And no one likes a sad clown.

  Fortunately, when we get home, Sydney is there!

  That’s right, my oldest sister. The one who goes to Princeton, which, in case you didn’t know, is a big-deal Ivy League school. That means, when it comes to ivy vines crawling up the sides of old buildings, it’s one of the top schools in the whole country. Right up there with vine-tangled Harvard, Yale, and Brown, which, if you ask me, is a pretty dull name for a college. What were the other options for the school’s name? Tan? Beige?

  Dad, of course, isn’t home, seeing how he and Jenny just took off in her super-cool convertible. But everybody else is. All my sisters are thrilled to see Sydney. Even Sophia, who doesn’t mind temporarily relinquishing her crown as the “oldest sister currently at home.”

  I notice that Sydney has several suitcases, a couple of boxes filled with books, and a very large duffel bag—even though I’m assuming she’s only home for a day or two because she has class first thing Monday morning.

  “Planning on doing a lot of reading and laundry this weekend?” I ask.

  And, instantly, Sydney starts bawling her eyes out. Not exactly the reaction I was going for.

  “I’m flunking out!” she blubbers through her torrent of tears.

  At least, I think that’s what she said. When people are simultaneously crying and talking, it’s sometimes hard to understand what they’re trying to say. It comes out, “I-I-I, I-I-I, amb fa-huh-huh-lunk-k-king ow-ow-out!”

  “That’s impossible,” I say. “You’re super-smart.”

  “You’re the smartest one of all of us,” says Victoria, our resident know-it-all. “Well, at least until I take my SATs…”

  “What do you need to feel better?” asks Hannah. “How about fudge? Would fudge work? Because I have some peanut butter swirl in the fridge.”

  “I could order a pizza,” says Emma. “I’ll even tell them to put pepperoni on it.”

  “That’s still your favorite, right?” asks Riley.

  Sydney cracks a small smile, finds a tissue, and wipes away her tears.

  “You guys are the best.”

  “So,” I say, “what exactly should we tell Dad?”

  Panic fills Sydney’s eyes. “How about nothing?”

  “Nothing works for me.” I turn to my sisters. “You guys?”

  They all nod. Except, of course, Victoria.

  “Victoria?” I say.

  “Well, if you ask me, it’s very important for parents to—”

  “Victoria?” I give her a look. The one Mrs. Turner gives me.

  “Fine,” she says. “We don’t mention this to Dad. For now.”

  Sydney smiles. “Thanks, you guys.”

  Dad comes home around six. He’s incredibly thrilled to see Sydney, too. Can’t blame him. As the oldest and most responsible kid, she’s probably a breath of fresh air for him after having to deal with me.

  Later that night, after everyone’s in bed, I wake up and head down the hall to the bathroom.

  I hear sobbing.

  It’s coming from the room Sydney shares with Sophia and Victoria, but I can tell Sydney is the one weeping. It’s a sister thing. We recognize the sounds of each other’s tears.

  I tiptoe into the room.

  Sydney’s in her old bed near the window. Sobbing into her pillow.

  “Are you okay?” I whisper.

  “I’ve ruined my life, Jacky.”

  “No, you haven’t. This is a just a bump in the road.”

  “More like a pothole.”

  “Well,” I say, climbing into bed next to Sydney and spooning her, “they can fix potholes. You just need to pour in hot asphalt. It’s stinky, what with all that smoldering tar and chunky asphalt gunk, but it works. Of course, pothole repairs always back up traffic, so don’t be surprised when everybody starts honking their horns and shouting, ‘Get out of the street, lady!’ But you’ll just say, ‘Sorry, can’t right now. Need to smooth out this bump in my road.…’”

  I keep spinning my silly story. Sydney is half-laughing, half-crying.

  But she’s drifting off. I lower my voice and keep going.

  “Of course, they say the road to Princeton is paved with potholes. And dips. Lots and lots of dips. I’ve met a few alumni…”

  When I hear my big sister’s regular, steady breathing beside me, I finally stop.

  I roll over and stare up at the ceiling.

  And then (please don’t tell anybody), I cry myself to sleep.

  CHAPTER 37

  Sunday’s actually a fun day.

  After church (and many silent prayers for Mom, Nonna, and Sydney), we go to the Sand Dollar Pancake House to celebrate Sydney being home. I devour a stack of cinnamon-crusted flapjacks. Sydney goes for the Nutella French toast, which, she says, “is to die for.”

  After brunch, Dad asks Sydney when she’s heading back to Princeton.

  “Not tonight” is all she says in reply.

  “Don’t you have classes tomorrow?”

  “No,” says Sydney. “It’s Columbus Day.”

  “Then how come we have school?” moans Riley.

  “Because,” I say, “Christopher Columbus didn’t discover New Jersey.”

  “Princeton is in New Jersey,” says Victoria. “In fact, the school’s original name was the College of New Jersey, but they changed it in 1896…”

  And off she goes! While the rest of us wolf down our pancakes, guzzle orange juice, and chomp bacon, Victoria tells us everything we never wanted to know about Princeton.

  At least her babbling lets Sydney off the hook. She doesn’t have to tell Dad that the real reason she’s not going back to her very expensive college is because she’s flunking out.

  How can Sydney afford to go to an Ivy League university on a lifeguard and soldier’s salary? Easy. Our practically perfect big sister won a ton of scholarships. I guess she’ll lose all that money now that her grades are in the toilet.

  Dad leaves for work (or wherever) earlier than usual on Monday morning—before any of us are even out the door to school. Sydney is moping around the kitchen. Sighing a lot. Stirring her coffee without drinking a drop.

  “So, Sydney?” I ask.

  “Yeah?”

  “What do you say we hit AC?”

  “Atlantic City? Don’t you have school?”

  “I’m declaring a holiday. Come on. It’ll be fun.”

  “I don’t know.…”

  “We don’t have to go into any of the casinos for entertainment. There are all sorts of performers working the boardwalk for spare change. Magicians and jugglers and mimes.”

  I can tell Sydney’s thinking about it. Sort of.

  “There’s a New Jersey Transit bus in fifteen minutes,” I add.

  Riley tugs on my sleeve. “We’re supposed to go to school.…”

  “Can’t. I’m not feeling good.”

  “You’re not?” says Riley.

  “Nope. And neither are you. That’s why Sydney is calling the school office to let them know she’s keeping us home today.”

  Sydney looks surprised. “I am?”

  “Your voice sounds the most grown-up-ish. Tell them you’re our aunt and you’re here looking after us while Mom serves her country over in the Middle East and Dad guards lives on the beach.”

  Sydney hesitates until I start doing a countdown to bus departure time. />
  “Ten minutes. Nine minutes and fifty-five seconds…”

  “All right, already!”

  Riley and I are, officially, skipping school to hang with our big sister.

  So much for solemn vows made on the top of Ferris wheels.

  Jacky Ha-Ha is back.

  And she’s not leaving until she sees her big sister smile.

  CHAPTER 38

  After a three-hour-and-twenty-minute bus ride, my two sisters and I are ready to hit the Atlantic City boardwalk.

  Right after we find an Atlantic City bathroom.

  I can’t believe that Sydney actually went along with this whole wacky idea. It’s so not Sydney that it’s perfect. Which means it is very Sydney after all. Someone will probably give her another scholarship for excellence in aunt impersonation.

  If I get caught, though, Mrs. Turner will probably come up with something else “good” for me to do. Maybe she’ll make me run for class president. All the candidates have to make sp-sp-speeches, too.

  I am, however, glad that there’s no Charlie Brown rehearsal until tomorrow. I wouldn’t want to let the gang down. Or Ms. O’Mara. Wow. Maybe I am mellowing out.

  Or not.

  Because the instant I see the buskers (that’s what they call street performers) on the boardwalk, I want to join in.

  There’s a magician who does sleight of hand and card tricks with a bunny rabbit. A lady named Fannie clapping and singing gospel songs. Up near Ventnor Avenue, we see jugglers and a guy on stilts and one of those mechanical men, his face painted silver, who only goes into his robot moves after people drop money in his open cigar box.

  All of these “street” performers have some kind of container for folks to toss money into.

  “Good thing I brought my lunch box,” I say.

  I give Riley my sandwich and apple.

  “What are you doing?” asks Sydney.

  “It’s showtime.”

  I prop the lunch box open on the boardwalk, back up against the railing, and motion for Sydney and Riley to move to the sides of my stage.

  “Please don’t sing that Snoopy song again,” says Riley.

  “Don’t worry. I’m not singing. I’m improvising.”

  What I start doing is kind of wild. I just play off whatever happens around me. For instance, a flock of seagulls dive-bombs Riley, going for my bologna and cheese sandwich.

  “Step right up, folks, and see a live remake of The Birds, the classic Hitchcock horror movie about our feathered friends becoming bloodthirsty killers!”

  A guy walks by wearing a backpack.

  I walk alongside him. “It’s okay, sir. You can take off the parachute. You’re on the ground.”

  I’m attracting a crowd. It’s small, but it’s growing.

  When I have a pretty big crowd, I change my mind. I grab somebody’s popcorn box and, using it as my dog food bowl, I launch into “Suppertime” from the show.

  Pretty soon, my lunch box is half full. And it’s not just coins. Some people are dropping in paper money. One guy (who must’ve done pretty well at the casinos) slips in a fifty!

  When a sweet lady asks me how much she should give, I say, “Take five out of your wallet and give me the rest.”

  At least she laughs.

  In fact, a lot of people are laughing.

  I realize, Hey, maybe I could make a living like this.

  “You’re the best, Jacky!” says Sydney when my show is finished.

  “So are you,” I say. “No, wait, Riley’s the best.”

  “Thanks!” says Riley.

  “Wait a second,” I say. “We’re all the best. All the Hart girls, including Mom.”

  “We’re awesome,” says Sydney.

  “In fact,” I add, “some of us are practically perfect.”

  I see a couple strolling by holding hands. “How’d you guys like to hear a great joke for a quarter? It’s about this couple I met on the boardwalk in Atlantic City. Looked just like you two…”

  Thirty minutes and a dozen jokes later, we have more than enough money for a humongous lunch and the bus ride home.

  We also have a much happier big sister.

  CHAPTER 39

  On the ride home to Seaside Heights, Sydney tells us the awful, unforgivable truth: She got a C+ on an English paper.

  You heard that right. In her “practically perfect” world, a C+ on one paper equals completely flunking out of college.

  “Guess I overreacted, huh?”

  “Little bit,” I say.

  “Well, I’m heading back to Princeton tomorrow.”

  “So, you didn’t miss a single class?”

  “Nope. My attendance record is still perfect.”

  “Just like you!”

  And then I hug her. And then Riley hugs me. And then Sydney hugs Riley. Yes, it’s a wild and crazy hug-fest in the last row of that northbound New Jersey Transit bus.

  We get home a little late and, since Dad isn’t there (what else is new?), Emma orders everybody another pizza. Plain cheese, of course.

  We settle down with our slices in front of the TV set because Monday night at eight on the Buy a Bargain Channel is when Crazy Colonel Davies is on. He runs a call-in show where you can buy all sorts of weird and wacky faux antiques. (Faux is another word for “fake.”)

  “Call him up, Jacky!” says Riley, my number one cheerleader.

  I pick up the phone and punch in the 800 number.

  “Did you get through?” asks Victoria. “Because the best way to get through to a radio or TV show is to—”

  “I’m in,” I tell her.

  “Oh. Then never mind.”

  My other sisters applaud. They love when I go one-on-one with Colonel Davies.

  “This is going to be a hoot!” says Hannah.

  “Why?” asks Sydney, because she’s not home on Monday nights anymore. “What’s Jacky going to do?”

  “You’ll see,” says Sophia. “It’s very immature. But it’s also hysterical.”

  “It’s funny, too,” adds Emma.

  On the screen, Colonel Davies is holding what he calls an “antique” sterling silver ring.

  “Your friends will wonder which one of your relatives died and left it to you,” says Colonel Davies as he shows off the ring. “But don’t worry. We won’t tell them your secret. And it’s only nineteen ninety-five! Okay, I see our phone lines are lighting up already. Hello, caller?”

  And I’m on.

  “Hello, Colonel Davies,” I say in the warbly voice of a cartoon granny. You know, the one who owns Tweety Bird. “My name is Amanda Hugginkiss.”

  “Hello, Amanda,” says the colonel. He holds up the ring with his free hand. “Like what you see?”

  “Well, Colonel, that’s just it. I lost my glasses. All I can see is a blur and a blob. You’re the blob. The ring is a blur. A teeny, tiny blur.”

  My six sisters have their hands over their mouths so they don’t laugh out loud and ruin my gag.

  “Well, let me describe this absolutely beautiful antique—”

  “Who are you calling an antique, you young whippersnapper?”

  “Not you, Amanda. This beautiful ring, on the other hand…”

  “You have another ring on your other hand?”

  “Okay, Amanda, maybe we should—”

  “It’s Amanda Hugginkiss,” I snap at him. “If you ever need me, just say ‘I’m looking for Amanda Hugginkiss.’”

  And then I start howling at the moon like I did on top of the Ferris wheel.

  Colonel Davies starts seething.

  “Oh, it’s you again. The howler.”

  “Aaaaa-oooooooo!”

  “Look here, little girl,” he snarls into the phone. “We’re tracing this call. The police will be dropping by later to speak with your parents!”

  I slam the phone back into its cradle.

  On the TV, Colonel Davies slams his phone down, too, and mutters, “I hate that kid.”

  Then he realizes he’s still
on TV. Live.

  “But I love a bargain.” He gives the camera his cheesiest smile yet.

  My sisters all crack up. Except sweet Hannah. She looks worried.

  “Oh, no!” she says. “Do you think the police are really coming over here to arrest Jacky?”

  “They’d better not,” says Emma, balling up her fists.

  “We won’t let them in the door,” says Victoria. “Unless they have a duly authorized warrant, signed by a judge…”

  Yep. Thar she blows. Victoria gives us a five-minute lecture on our rights under the US Constitution, a talk I should probably pay attention to, since I’m supposed to be talking about the Constitution in my American Legion Speech-a-thon.

  But I’m too busy smiling at Sydney, who’s smiling at me.

  “Thanks, Jacky,” she says. “That’s definitely the best show I’ve seen on TV all year.”

  Mission accomplished. I’ve cheered up my big sister. It’s just what Jacky Ha-Ha does.

  And someday, I promise, I’ll do something nice for Colonel Davies to make up for all my crank calls.

  But tonight was just for Sydney.

  CHAPTER 40

  The next morning, Sydney is gone before I’m even awake.

  “A friend gave her a ride back to school,” Hannah tells me. “A guy friend.” She wiggles her eyebrows a lot when she says that bit.

  Riley and I head back to school, too.

  “How are you feeling?” asks Ms. O’Mara when I bump into her in the hall.

  “Oh, much better, thank you,” I say, making my voice sound as puny as possible. “I stopped throwing up around three o’clock. Yesterday afternoon. Not this morning. All we’re eating are soft-boiled eggs and Wonder Bread.”

  “Jacky?”

  “Yes?”

  “Are you forgetting that I have a degree in speech and theater?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Then you know I have been trained to recognize bad acting when I see it.”