My Life Is a Joke

by James Patterson

  I take a deep breath. “Dad?”

  “Yeah?”

  “They gave me a bigger part in the show today. I might need to rehearse more. But I promise—I’ll still keep my job on the boardwalk. I’ll still bring home the exact same pay. And I can still help look after Emma.”

  Dad scrunches up his face to think. “You’ll have to work harder and longer. At play practice, on the job, and at home.”

  I nod. “Yes, sir. But acting in plays, being in shows—it’s what I love doing more than anything in the world.”

  “Good,” he says with a soft smile. “Then at least that part won’t feel like work, will it?”

  My turn to smile. “No, sir.”

  “It’ll also keep you off the beach late at night, so you won’t be running into so many wannabe punk rockers,” offers his partner. “Just saying.”

  “What new part did they give you in the play?” asks Dad.

  “Puck.”

  “Like in hockey?” says the other cop. “Do you have to skate? Is it like one of those Disney on Ice shows? Because, not for nothing, the ice is going to melt if you put it on the beach.…”

  Dad just laughs and drapes his arm over my shoulder.

  “Come on, Puck,” says Dad as we walk up the beach to his police cruiser. “Let’s get you home. Sounds like you have a very busy day tomorrow.”

  Yes, that night I rode in the backseat of a police car for the first time. To anyone who saw me, it looked like I’d just been arrested, when in fact, I’d just been rescued.

  CHAPTER 39

  The next day, Ms. O’Mara and I are hanging out at the church before rehearsal.

  It’s just the two of us. She’s sipping hot tea with honey out of a cardboard cup (it soothes her vocal cords, she tells me). I’m slurping a cherry-flavored Icee. Fast. I give myself a brain freeze.

  We both arrive half an hour early for rehearsal all the time because that’s what theater nerds do.

  We’re making small talk when, all of a sudden, Ms. O’Mara thanks me for making sure Schuyler has some kids close to his own age to hang out with over the summer.

  I’m trying to muster up the courage to tell her about the attempted shoplifting episode at the taffy store. But I’m torn. Maybe I didn’t see what I thought I saw even though I’m pretty sure I saw it. Plus, I don’t want to hurt Ms. O’Mara’s feelings. Then again, they might be hurt even worse if Schuyler does something stupid and ends up in jail.

  But then, as if she’s reading my mind, Ms. O’Mara says, “Jacky, there are some things you may not know about my nephew.”

  Oh, good, I think. She knows the truth. She’s going to tell me she already knows that Schuyler is a one hundred percent kleptomaniac. That he’s seeing a psychiatrist and they’re working on a cure for his sticky-finger-itis.

  “Schuyler’s mother, my sister, died two years ago,” she says.

  I put down my Icee. I have a feeling this is not the kind of story you want to slurp slushy mush through.

  “His dad is still over in the Middle East,” she continues. “He was one of the ones who didn’t get to come home right away.”

  My mom, like I said, came home almost as soon as the bad guy with the bushy mustache, Saddam Hussein, was back in his Baghdad box and Operation Desert Storm was over.

  “Schuyler’s father is still in Kuwait—sweeping the desert for land mines and unexploded bombs. He also has to help them put out all the fires in the oil fields that the Iraqis started. It’s dangerous work and it may not be finished until sometime next year.”

  I nod. I realize how lucky we are that Mom was a reservist who came home with the first wave of returning warriors.

  “Anyway,” says Ms. O’Mara, “this school year, Schuyler lived outside Philadelphia with his grandparents.”

  “Your mom and dad?” I ask.

  Ms. O’Mara shakes her head. “His father’s folks. They’re kind of old and kind of old-fashioned. They’re also extremely strict. So Schuyler, being a sixteen-year-old boy who’s still grieving his mother and super-angry about his soldier father not coming home with everybody else, started acting up.”

  “He got into trouble?”

  “Big-time. The authorities were about to ship him off to a juvenile detention facility. I went to Philly and promised everybody that I would take care of Schuyler this summer. That I’d have him crew this Shakespeare show. That I’d supervise him and keep him out of trouble. So far, it’s been working.…”

  “That’s great,” I say, because I don’t want to burst her bubble.

  “So, thanks again, Jacky. You guys are helping Schuyler have the normal summer a teenage boy deserves. Especially one who’s been through everything he has.”

  I smile nervously and don’t mention that my big sister Sophia is also trying to help Schuyler have a great “teenage boy” summer, what with the romantic rendezvous under the boardwalk that I interrupted.

  We finish our drinks and run a few lines.

  And I don’t say a word about Schuyler’s taffy snatching.

  If the “authorities” find out, they’ll probably come cart him off to that juvenile detention facility Ms. O’Mara was talking about.

  It sounds like they already have his bed picked out for him.

  CHAPTER 40

  After our chat, I, of course, am determined to help Ms. O’Mara do everything she can to help Schuyler. She’s done a lot for me, so it’s the least I can do. Plus, I really like her and I don’t want to see her hurt. If her nephew ends up in kid jail, she’ll be really hurt.

  The next day, which just happens to be my day off from the balloon booth, I decide it’s time to introduce Schuyler to Jersey Shore food.

  “Take your pick,” I say as we stroll down the boardwalk a little after noon. “Italian sausage sandwiches. Pizza. Calzones. Zeppoles.”

  “Lots of Italian food, huh?” says Schuyler.

  “Are you kidding?” I say, doing my best Italian tough-guy accent. “Fuhgeddaboudit. Bada bing, bada boom. You want Polish instead? We’ve got pierogies. Greek? How about a gyro? Philly? Cheesesteaks…”

  Yes. I did accents for each ethnic food. Except Philly. I don’t know how to do that accent.

  “I’ve got an idea,” says Schuyler. “Let’s eat one of everything—starting with funnel cakes!”

  “Um, no thanks,” I say. “Been there. Done that. Have the puke-stained T-shirt and the ruined sombrero to prove it.”

  “Huh?”

  “Long story,” I tell him.

  “Okay. So let’s start with a sausage and pepper sandwich.”

  We head to a booth where a coiled tube of sausage is sizzling next to a mound of greasy chopped peppers (green and red) and glassy onions.

  “We’ll take two,” I tell the woman working the grill.

  She scoops up some toppings with her spatula. Then she cuts up the sausage, mixes it all together, and dumps everything into two soft hoagie buns.

  I pay for our sandwiches and pocket the change.

  “Thanks,” says Schuyler, chowing down on his hoagie. “This is fantastic.”

  “Definitely. Your intestines should start gurgling any second now.”

  “I thought you didn’t have any money,” says someone behind us. I turn around to see who it is.

  Ringworm.

  Bob isn’t with him. Guess Ringworm’s tired of being a wingman. He’s ready to launch his solo bullying career.

  “H-h-hello, Jacky Ha-Ha-Hart,” he says, exactly the same way he and Bubblebutt said it back in kindergarten. “Your daddy and his po-po friends aren’t here to protect you today.” He makes a Gimme-gimme gesture with his hand. “I saw you pocket the change. Fork it over.”

  “Not going to happen,” says Schuyler, who, by the way, is older and bigger than Ringworm.

  So all Ringworm can do is give Schuyler a dirty look. “Who the heck are you, dorkface?”

  “Jacqueline Hart’s theatrical colleague.”

  “From that stupid Shakespeare show?
” sneers Ringworm.

  “Indeed,” says Schuyler, giving him a grand bow. And while he’s bent over, he farts. “Ah, sausage sandwiches. Such delicious gas refineries. Or, as Sir William Shakespeare once said, ‘Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks!’”

  I turn to Schuyler. “Shakespeare made fart jokes?”

  “Totally. Aunt Kathy’s teaching me his best stuff.”

  Ringworm goes nose to nose with Schuyler. “Well, I don’t care about Shakespeare or farts.…”

  “You should. I’m breaking some serious wind here. Now, begone from here, you roguish knave! I desire that we be better strangers.”

  Schuyler is seriously cracking me up.

  Ringworm starts backing up. Fast.

  “Thou art a boil upon mine buttocks!” Schuyler shouts after him. “Were I like thee, I would throw myself away!”

  Ringworm hightails it down the boardwalk.

  “Thanks,” I tell Schuyler.

  “No problemo,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. “That guy is a real doofus.”

  “I owe you.”

  “Okay.”

  “Huh?”

  “Invite me to your house for dinner. I’d like to say hello to your big sister. Again.” He wiggles his eyebrows. I laugh.

  “Okay,” I say. “Come over to dinner.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Sure. We eat at six.”

  “Cool. I’ll be there.”

  “Great. I’ll tell Sophia. Should I also tell her to wear a gas mask?”

  “Nope,” says Schuyler, patting his bloated belly. “My gas tank should be empty by then!”

  CHAPTER 41

  That night, Dad is working the late shift (again) and Mom is at cop school (again).

  So it’s up to me and my sisters to put dinner on the table.

  Sophia is too busy primping to help. “Schuyler’s coming? Here? For dinner? Schuyler? Here? Dinner?”

  “Yes,” I tell her for the five hundredth time.

  “I need to fix my hair.”

  “You already did that!”

  “But it’s all wrong! It needs to be more Cindy Crawford–ish!”

  She dashes off to her room to fire up her whirring blow-dryer. Again.

  “We’re having pizza for dinner,” announces Emma, who always reverts back to Her Little Bossiness whenever Mom and Dad aren’t home. “Cheese pizza.”

  “We should order two,” suggests Riley. “In case Schuyler is extra hungry.”

  “Fine,” says Emma, picking up the phone to call the pizza delivery place. “Two cheese pizzas.”

  “But what if he likes pepperoni?” asks Hannah.

  “He’ll deal,” says Emma.

  “You know,” says Victoria as she sets the table, “Americans eat approximately one hundred acres of pizza every day, or three hundred and fifty slices per second. Pepperoni is America’s favorite topping.…”

  “No it’s not,” says Emma. “Cheese is.”

  “Actually,” says Victoria, “cheese isn’t a topping.…”

  “It’s on top of the sauce, isn’t it?” says Riley.

  Victoria sighs one of her Why am I the only person in the world who understands this? sighs.

  “Hey, maybe someday I could invite Jeff Cohen home for pizza.”

  Victoria’s eyes nearly pop out. “Jeff and I are destined to be together, Jacky. We’re like Mr. Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. Without the dying stuff at the end.”

  “You realize,” I tell her, “that Jeff’s two years younger than you.…”

  “It doesn’t matter,” gushes Victoria. “He’s so mature! And have you seen him on the boardwalk in his cow costume? He makes a very handsome heifer. Can you arrange a rendezvous?”

  “What’s a rendezvous?” asks Riley.

  “It’s French,” I say. “For a meeting. Usually under the boardwalk. I’ll see what I can do, sis.”

  Victoria hugs me just as Sophia rushes into the kitchen. Her primped and plastered supermodel hairdo makes her look like a lioness who just escaped from a wind tunnel.

  “He’s here!” she screeches. “He’s walking up to the front door! He’s going to ring the doorbell!”

  The doorbell rings. I let Schuyler in.

  He comes into the kitchen and says the three words that make Sophia practically swoon.

  No, not those three words.

  These: “Hi again, Sophia.”

  It’s all it takes.

  CHAPTER 42

  As I plot how to help Jeff Cohen casually bump into Victoria (in his cow costume, of course) and watch Schuyler flirt with Sophia over pizza, I wonder why I’m still thinking about Bob when, according to Meredith, I really like Bill.

  It’s the summer. All that sun makes everybody go a little boy-or girl-crazy. I guess that’s why there are so many songs about summer lovin’. I think that’s why they put Valentine’s Day in the middle of the winter. There are no winter love songs. When it’s February and freezing outside, you need a romantic reminder on the calendar. And cards. And chocolate. And those tiny little candy hearts that say stuff like BE MINE and LET’S KISS and LET’S NOT AND SAY WE DID.

  Anyway, that night after dinner, Schuyler entertains us all with his new Sony Walkman.

  A Walkman was sort of like an iPhone but without the phone part or the apps—just the music. Instead of earbuds, it came with foam-covered headphones. Plus, you needed to pop a cassette tape into its clunky case before you could hear any music. Downloads did not exist in 1991. Except on elevators.

  I guess Sony called it a Walkman because it was easier to carry while you walked than a record player, something you guys have probably only ever seen at a museum or inside a hipster’s house.

  “This is the kind of Walkman that college professors use,” Schuyler explains. “You can record stuff on it.”

  “Like love poetry?” says Sophia, batting her eyelashes.

  “For sure,” says Schuyler. “Or, you know, speeches. TV shows. Songs off the radio.”

  “Or poems about love,” says Sophia.

  “How about music?” I say this so we don’t have to listen to any more mushy stuff while our stomachs are full. “Can you play music on your Walkman? Like, right now?”

  “Sure,” says Schuyler. “But so far, I only have one cassette.”

  Turns out, it’s the brand-new Paula Abdul album, Spellbound. Schuyler cranks up a funky tune. We all take turns slipping on the foam-covered headgear and listening to it. It has a good beat. You can really dance to it. So we do. One at a time.

  When Schuyler needs to head home, Sophia walks him out the door.

  And probably down to the boardwalk. I don’t tag along. I can’t handle smoochy-face yucky stuff immediately after dinner. It makes me hurl.

  The next morning, over a classic cop breakfast (doughnuts with a side of doughnuts), Dad explains why he was working so late the night before.

  “We’re dealing with a theft and shoplifting crime wave,” he reports.

  “Where?” asks Mom.

  “On the beach and the boardwalk. It’s really snowballed in the past few days. Stores are reporting all kinds of petty thefts. Tourists are having things stolen right out of their beach bags.”

  “That’s horrible,” says Mom.

  “Yes,” says Dad. “And if we don’t put a stop to it soon, it could really hurt the town’s tourist business.”

  “But, Father,” says Victoria, who, as you recall, is a know-it-all, “look on the bright side. If you’re the police officer who cracks the case, you’ll definitely be offered a full-time job in the fall.”

  “Hmm,” says Dad. “I guess you’re right. I should go interview that angry professor again. Dig up some clues.”

  “What angry professor?” asks Mom.

  “He’s from Princeton.”

  “Does he know Sydney?”

  “He didn’t say. He just yelled at us about his missing Walkman. Someone grabbed it off his towel when he went in for a swim.”

  My e
yes dart around the breakfast table. Nobody else is thinking it, but I sure am.

  Schuyler’s Walkman.

  He said it was the kind college professors use.

  Probably because he stole it from one!

  CHAPTER 43

  That afternoon, Schuyler is his usual fun and funny self.

  He stops by my booth on the boardwalk.

  “I’m on my way to see Sophia,” he tells me. “But she doesn’t get her lunch break at the restaurant for another twenty-five minutes.”

  I think about confronting him about the Walkman.

  But Vinnie, who’s in the booth behind me, has other ideas. He gives Schuyler a dirty look.

  “Someone’s goin’ on a break?” he says. “Fuhgeddaboudit, kid. I never get one of those because my hired help here is always too busy schmoozing with the customers.”

  “That’s not true,” I say. “Not always.”

  “Well, it sure is true today, Jacky. You’re so busy with your new boyfriend, you’ve forgotten all about drumming us up a crowd.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” I say, blushing a little. “He’s my sister’s.”

  Vinnie throws up both hands. “Then what’s he doin’ here with you?”

  “He can’t hang out with my sister because she’s waitressing over at the Rusty Scupper and she doesn’t get her lunch break for another twenty-five minutes!”

  “Again with the break?”

  “Sir?” says Schuyler. “Would you like to take a break?”

  “Wouldn’t everybody?” says Vinnie.

  “How about I cover for you?” says Schuyler.

  “You a trained carnie all of a sudden?”

  “No, sir. But I won a stuffed gorilla at the Frog Bog once.”

  Vinnie shrugs. “Works for me. Here.” He takes his money box off a shelf and hands it to Schuyler, which, I’m thinking, might be a huge mistake. “I’ll be back in fifteen.”