Jacky Ha-Ha, Page 4

  “I sing more like an elephant.”

  “Doesn’t matter. You’d be a good Snoopy. Funniest part in the show.”

  “But I told you—I c-c-can’t sing.”

  “It’s true,” says Bubblebutt. “She k-k-keeps adding extra n-n-notes.”

  Ms. O’Mara eases around and stares the creep down. “Why are you here, young man? Shouldn’t you be home watching Thomas the Tank Engine with the rest of the kids in your kindergarten class?”

  “I-I-I…” Bubblebutt is the one sputtering now.

  “Gesundheit,” says Ms. O’Mara. She turns to face me again. “Snoopy doesn’t really have to sing. You can kind of talk-sing through it—if you have enough stage presence, which you do, Jacky. Besides, if you’re at play practice, you can’t be in detention.” She looks at the detention list. “Yowzer. Twenty detentions? Already?”

  I shrug. “I’m an overachiever.”

  “Okay. Here’s the deal.” She folds up the detention sheet and stuffs it into the pocket of her skirt. “One play practice equals one detention. We’ll have twenty rehearsals and four performances.”

  “That’s twenty-four. Do I get four Get Out of Jail Free cards?”

  “I’ll talk to Mrs. Turner. See what we can work out. Plus, you can’t earn any new detentions. So what do you say, Jacky? Are you in or out? Because if you’re in, I’m letting you out.”

  I look around. Bubblebutt and Ringworm stare back at me with equal parts stupidity and menace on their pasty faces.

  So what do I have to lose except twenty torturous detentions… and my last shred of dignity when an entire audience laughs at me, not with me?

  Still, there’s something about Ms. O’Mara.

  And if Meredith might be in the show…

  “I’m in,” I finally say.

  “Good!” says Ms. O’Mara.

  That’s when Coach Harris, the gym teacher, lumbers into the room. The man has so many muscles he doesn’t have a neck, just a head stump.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he says. “Guess I should give myself a detention. Oh, hi, Ms. O’Mara. What’re you doing here?”

  “Jacky and I got lost,” she says, taking me by my elbow. “I’m still so new to this building. We were looking for the auditorium?”

  “It’s down the hall and to the right.”

  “Thank you.”

  Coach Harris is fumbling around on the desk. “Did you see the detention sheet, Ms. O’Mara?”

  “Nope. But I think everybody in this room knows exactly why they’re here. Come on, Jacky.”

  We hurry out the door.

  “You’re not in charge of detention?” I whisper when we hit the hall.

  “What?” deadpans Ms. O’Mara. “Do you think you’re the only one at this school who likes to pull pranks?”

  CHAPTER 16

  Of course I’m smiling like crazy as I march down the hall with Ms. O’Mara.

  I’ve never had a teacher bust me out of detention before. We’re moving pretty briskly because Ms. O’Mara does everything with oomph. She probably even sleeps in a hurry.

  “So,” I say as we bustle down the hall toward the auditorium, which is all the way over on the other side of the building, “can I ask you a favor?”

  “You can ask, Jacky, but I’m not a genie, so there’s no guarantee I’ll be able to grant your wish.”

  “By the way,” I say, before I get around to asking my real question, “do you ever wonder why everybody who rubs a genie lamp doesn’t just use one of their first three wishes to ask for like three million more?”

  “All the time,” says Ms. O’Mara. “But you know what I’d ask for, probably on wish number two?”

  “What?”

  “The ability to grant my own wishes—with no limitations.”

  “Why wouldn’t you ask for that first?”

  “I wouldn’t want the genie to think I’m greedy. So what’s your magic wish, Jacky?”

  “That you write a note to my dad and let him know about our detention–play practice swap agreement.”

  “Why?”

  “He has me on this double detention deal. Every hour of detention I serve, I have to serve another hour at home. Cleaning toilets.”

  “Really?” says Ms. O’Mara, sounding shocked. “How many toilets do you guys have?”

  “Just the one.”

  “And it takes you an hour to clean it?”

  “No, but there are other toilet-level chores, like oven scrubbing, freezer defrosting, kitty litter scooping, bathtub drain dehairing—”

  “I get it,” interrupted Ms. O’Mara. “Fine. If you get into the show, I’ll write the note.”

  “If I…? I thought I was already in the cast.”

  “I hope so. I mean, I definitely want you to play Snoopy. You’re absolutely my first choice. But…”

  “B-b-but what?”

  “Well, first you have to convince my musical director, Mr. Brimer. He thinks Dan Napolitano should be the one to play Snoopy, but I like Dan better for Schroeder. And then there’s Mrs. Yen.…”

  “The g-g-gym teacher?”

  Ms. O’Mara nods. “She’s my choreographer.”

  “There’s c-c-choreography? I have to d-d-dance?”

  Ms. O’Mara holds up her finger and thumb to show me a half inch of empty air. “Little bit.”

  “B-b-but I can’t dance.…”

  “That’s okay, Jacky. Just as long as you move well.”

  “Move well? What does that mean?”

  “Well.” Ms. O’Mara puts her hand on the auditorium door. “It means you kind of, sort of have to dance.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Ms. O’Mara leads the way into the semidark auditorium.

  I’m scared to death, but I’m also kind of excited.

  To tell you the truth, I still feel the same way every time I step onto a stage or in front of the cameras. Terrified and electrified, all at the same time. Those butterflies beating their wings against the walls of my stomach never go away.

  They also never shut up.

  They scream all the way up to the inside of my head (usually in a very loud, nasally voice because butterflies have those long pollen-snorting snouts), saying, “Go on, Jacky! Get out there. Show ’em they’re wrong. Show ’em you can do this! Show ’em you’re better than they think you are.”

  My stomach butterflies are, basically, my semipsychotic cheerleaders.

  Mrs. Yen, the plucky phys ed teacher and gymnastics coach who always reminds me of Peter Pan, is sitting in the front row.

  Mrs. Yen is wearing workout clothes. I’m in shorts and a red T-shirt from the Gap.

  Up onstage, I see Mr. Brimer, sitting on a bench in front of a battered upright piano.

  Mr. Brimer, who teaches chorus and band, is lean and lanky. He wears those glasses that turn dark in the sun and clear when you’re indoors, but they never actually undarken all the way, so he always looks mysterious behind tinted shades. He has his legs crossed so he can prop his elbow on a knee and rest his chin on his hand and look bored and irked at the same time. I think we’ve kept him waiting a little too long.

  “Sorry we’re late,” says Ms. O’Mara, coming down the center aisle behind me. “I had to spring Jacky out of jail.”

  Mr. Brimer flutters open some sheet music propped up on the ledge above his keyboard. “‘Suppertime’ from the top?”

  I have no idea what he’s talking about.

  “Sounds good,” says Mrs. Yen, springing up out of her seat, stretching sideways, and cracking her neck.

  “Here are your sides, Jacky,” says Ms. O’Mara, grabbing a stack of paper off a seat.

  One thing I learned pretty quickly about “thee-ah-tah” people: they use a lot of backstage lingo. For instance, strike the set means “take down the scenery,” not “grab a protest sign and start a labor dispute.”

  Sides, I discover, are not the mashed potatoes, creamed corn, or French fries that come with your main course. In the theater, sides means a
short selection from the script on cue cards.

  “I’ll read Charlie Brown’s lines,” says Ms. O’Mara.

  I look at the script. “So, I, um, I read Sn-n-n-noopy?”

  Mr. Brimer gives me a very aggravated chord of sour notes.

  “Hello?” he says (dramatically, of course, since these are the drama club auditions). “There are only two parts in this scene. Snoopy and Charlie Brown.”

  “And WHISTLES,” I say, because I see the word typed in all caps halfway down the page.

  I earn another jarring chord—mostly black keys.

  “That, my dear girl, is a stage direction! You whistle that part. Honestly…”

  I just nod. And kind of stare at Mr. Brimer.

  And the little butterflies down in my stomach start screaming into my head again. “Show him, Jacky! Show him who you are!”

  So I do.

  CHAPTER 18

  I kill it.

  Sorry. That’s more backstage lingo.

  Killing it has nothing to do with murder or mayhem. It means you nailed your lines and cracked up the audience.

  First, I do a quivery-voiced, melodramatic rendition of Snoopy complaining about how he’ll probably die of starvation because Charlie Brown forgot to feed him. I only stutter maybe once on the first letter of the first word. It’s an M.

  Ms are tough.

  But the more I “get into character,” the less I worry about stammering or stumbling across the consonants.

  So I really throw myself into the role. I thrash around in agony.

  Mr. Brimer’s piano is backing me up with a very melancholy “dum-dee-dum-dum”-style funeral dirge. The music makes me emote even more. They call being hammy onstage “chewing the scenery.” Since I’m playing a dog, I figure chewing on stuff is okay.

  Ms. O’Mara reads out Charlie Brown’s lines about bringing me my supper bowl and water dish. I decide to treat the arrival of my food as the greatest achievement in the history of the world. I sing my first couple of lyrics like it’s a grand opera, complete with dramatic yodeling.

  Ms. O’Mara was right. I can talk-sing and mug my way through Snoopy’s number. When I’m done mocking opera, I move into a pretty good mime act, opening invisible doors and bumping into walls that aren’t there.

  “Keep it nice and easy, Jacky,” Mrs. Yen coaches. “Just feel the beat in your feet.”

  I slip and slide across the stage and wave my one free arm around a little because the other arm is busy holding my sides (meaning, of course, the sheet of paper with my lines and lyrics, not my rib cage).

  I pantomime that I snatch up my dog food bowl and start twirling it around like I’m dancing with it. I pretend to be slinging loose kibble all over the place because I know Charlie Brown is going to come in and tell me to “CUT THAT OUT!” so I really want to give him something to scream about.

  It’s wild. Being Snoopy, I get to be the me I wish I could sometimes be—especially when Dad starts yelling at me, telling me to “STOP THAT, JACKY!” and all I want to do is keep dizzily spinning along, spiraling out of control.

  Ms. O’Mara reads Charlie Brown’s line, which, basically, asks why Snoopy can’t be calm like most other dogs.

  To which I, as Snoopy, reply, “So what’s wrong with making mealtime a joyous occasion?”

  When I say that, I really, really, really want to be in the show.

  I do my last stanza of “Supper, supper, supper, suppertime!” without caring that I’m acting nuttier than a porta-potty at a peanut festival.

  Mrs. Yen and Ms. O’Mara applaud. It’s only two people so the applause sounds a little pitter-patterish, but I love it.

  Mr. Brimer closes up his sheet music and squeaks down the lid to cover the piano keys.

  “Fine,” he says. “Dan Napolitano is Schroeder. Jacky is our Snoopy. But please, Miss Hart—in the future, be on time.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Because of my mini-detention and last-minute audition, I’m a little late coming home from school.

  But I’m not the only one who’s late.

  It’s way after six and Dad isn’t home.

  “Where is he?” wonders Sophia in her role as the oldest-sister-still-living-at-home-and-therefore-in-charge-of-everything-including-worrying. “Is the beach still even open after Labor Day?”

  “No,” says Victoria, because she knows all the municipal rules and regulations better than the mayor of Seaside Heights. “The last day of the season is, officially, Labor Day, and even then, lifeguards are only on duty from ten in the morning until five at night, weather permitting. However, since Dad is the head lifeguard, he has other responsibilities, such as…”

  As usual, Victoria babbles on. And, as usual, nobody listens to her.

  “I wonder if there was a big cruise ship wreck somewhere,” says Sophia, even more dramatically than Mr. Brimer would. “What if Dad had to go help rescue people?”

  “I hope he remembered to take his paddleboard,” I crack.

  We go back and forth about Dad for maybe thirty minutes. Everybody has a theory. Pretty soon, we’re popping some microwave popcorn to tide us over until suppertime (yes, I almost break into Snoopy’s big number) because none of us knows when suppertime might actually be. We always try to eat dinner as a family, but that’s extremely difficult when the “head of the family” is working late doing paperwork about shark bites. Or something.

  While we’re passing around the popcorn bowl, Sophia changes the subject to her favorite topic: boys.

  “So, Chad and I are going to the movies next weekend. He wants to see Die Hard 2 but I want to see Ghost.”

  I raise my hand. “Um, hello? Who’s Chad?”

  “This guy I’m dating. He goes to Rutgers Prep.”

  “What happened to Mike Guadagno?” With Sophia, it’s hard to keep up with the boy parade.

  Sophia shrugs. “Mike was nice. But Chad is dreamy.”

  “I still like Mike,” says Hannah. “I think he’s dreamy, too.”

  “I’m hungry,” Emma, the Little Boss, blurts out.

  “We should wait for Dad,” suggests Hannah.

  “We’ve been waiting for Dad,” says Riley.

  “I think we’re past the two-hour rule,” I say, checking out the kitchen clock. It’s nearly seven.

  “Should we call the police?” says Hannah.

  “No,” says Emma. “We should call the pizza guys.”

  Emma bulldozes her way across the kitchen to the wall phone. (Yes, back then, we actually bolted telephones to walls, and the handsets were attached to their base by long, curled cords. Weird, huh?) She speed-dials Three Brothers from Italy Pizza, our family fave, I guess because we’re Seven Sisters from Seaside Heights. Emma’s order is the same as it always is: two plain cheese pizzas.

  Emma hangs up the phone and opens up the cookie jar, where Dad and Mom keep our “emergency cash.”

  “Dinner will be here in thirty minutes,” she announces. “Everybody finish your homework and wash your hands.”

  The pizza shows up around seven thirty.

  Dad?

  He doesn’t show up until after eleven.

  CHAPTER 20

  The next morning at school, Meredith Crawford comes running up to me the second I set foot in the building.

  “I didn’t know you were auditioning for Charlie Brown!”

  “Me neither.”

  “We both got in!”

  “Really?”

  “I’m Lucy, you’re Snoopy. Ms. O’Mara just posted the cast list on her door.”

  Meredith grabs me by the arm and hustles me down the hall to where a crowd of kids has formed a tight semicircle. One or two squeal and bounce up and down. Others slump their shoulders, clearly wishing they had invisibility cloaks, and quietly slink away.

  “Come on,” says Meredith, elbowing her way through the mob.

  “Hey, watch it,” snaps a blond girl named Beth Bennett, who’s never been very nice to me.

  “Sorry,” says Mered
ith.

  “You should be,” mutters Beth as she spins around and pushes her way out of the mob. She’s kind of huffy and puffy about it, too. The last thing I hear her say is “I wanted Lucy, not Patty.”

  “See?” says Meredith. She points at a sheet of paper Scotch-taped under the little rectangular window on Ms. O’Mara’s classroom door.

  And there it is. A simple typed list that, more or less, changes my whole life.

  CHARLIE BROWN–Bill Phillips

  SCHROEDER–Dan Napolitano

  LUCY VAN PELT–Meredith Crawford

  LINUS VAN PELT–Jeff Cohen

  PATTY–Beth Bennett

  SNOOPY–Jacky Hart

  LITTLE RED-HAIRED GIRL–Somebody

  WOODSTOCK–Somebody Else

  CHORUS–A Whole Bunch of Other People

  To be honest, there are a couple of characters and a whole boatload of chorus people listed after me, but I don’t even know if they have names. All I really see are Meredith’s name and mine.

  LUCY VAN PELT–Meredith Crawford

  SNOOPY–Jacky Hart

  Time shifts into super slo-mo and I stare at our names for hours.

  Okay, it’s really about fifteen seconds.

  “Way to go, Bill,” I hear some kids say as they clap a cute guy on his back.

  “Will you still help me with my math homework now that you’re a star?” some other guy says to him.

  Bill laughs and says, “I’ll try to squeeze you in.”

  “Hi, Bill,” says Meredith, because she’s sort of bold that way. Me? I may act crazy in public, but I’m actually very shy.

  “Hey,” says Bill.

  “I’m Meredith. Meredith Crawford. Congratulations on Charlie Brown.”

  “Thanks. Same to you. I heard you sing at the auditions. Man, your Lucy is going to be incredible.”

  “Thanks! Oh, this is my friend Jacky. She’s Snoopy.”