My Life Is a Joke

by James Patterson

  “I have a couple of days off this week. So I thought I’d come home and spend them with you guys.”

  “She missed the pizza,” adds Emma.

  “And,” says Sydney, “more importantly, I missed my sisters. Because family is more important than anything in this world, Jacky. Especially boys.”

  “Things just got a little jumbled,” I try to explain. “You see, I meant for Sophia to wind up with Schuyler, and Victoria with Jeff.”

  “Instead,” says Sydney, “they all ended up here at home. Crying.”

  “Hannah, too,” says Riley, trying to be helpful. “She just locked herself in her room. With fudge.”

  “In a way,” I say with a giggle, hoping Sydney will lighten up on me, “the whole thing is semi-Shakespearean. You know—summer love, mistaken identities, fudge.”

  Sydney does not see the humor in the situation. Not right away. Instead, she quotes her own Shakespearean verse at me. She can do that in a snap. Don’t forget, she goes to an Ivy League college.

  “The time is out of joint,” she says. “O cursed spite, that ever you were born to set it right, Jacky.”

  “That’s not a direct quote, is it?” I say. “I don’t think any Shakespeare characters were ever named Jacky.…”

  “It’s from Hamlet,” Sydney tells me. “Perhaps Mr. Shakespeare’s best-known tragedy. Because if you don’t make things right for your sisters, and fast, that’s exactly what this will turn into. A tragedy!”

  CHAPTER 50

  When my mom was over in Iraq, I used to write her letters all the time. I found that telling her stuff was a lot easier when I wrote it down, instead of keeping it all locked up inside me.

  Now that she’s home, she’s so busy taking her cop class, we hardly have time to talk about anything except who’s watching Emma and what to microwave for dinner and where her missing keys might be.

  So, that night, I decide to write Mom a letter.

  For old times’ sake.

  And to ask her advice.

  Dear Mom:

  Things aren’t going so great. In fact, this is turning into the weirdest and worst summer of my young life, even though it should be one of the best. I mean, I have a big part in a big show. I have a pretty fun job. Bill still has gorgeous hazel eyes and acts like he’s crazy about me.

  But that’s the thing. I’m twelve. I think I want to go back to being eleven, when boys were just annoying creatures who picked boogers out of their noses and ate them.

  I don’t like feeling all giggly and goofy around boys. Well, actually I do. And then I don’t.

  Have I mentioned that Bubblebutt has turned into Bob and he’s not as bad as I thought he was during the first decade of my life? He needs new friends besides Ringworm, but he’s actually kind of sweet.

  Maybe it’s Shakespeare. But, all of a sudden, I’m running around Seaside Heights thinking about love, and when I’m not thinking about love, I’m playing matchmaker for other people to fall in love. The problem is, my matchmaking is making everybody sad, when all I wanted was to help them be happy.

  And then there’s Schuyler. He might be a thief. Or he might just really like taffy. I know he likes Sophia, but do we, like, want her to be with a boy who might like to shoplift? Is there, like, another word besides like I could use in that sentence?

  I wonder what it was about Dad that made you fall in love with him, besides, of course, him being the most handsome boy on the beach.

  If you get a second, send me a reply.

  You don’t need to waste a stamp.

  You can just slip it under my door. I’ll probably be in my room. Crying.

  Because I’ve messed up my summer and everybody else’s.

  Sincerely,

  Your daughter JACKY

  That’s what I wrote. I could show it to you. It’s still in the shoe box where I stashed it that night.

  That’s right. I never mailed that letter to my mother. Even though I didn’t even need a stamp.

  I figured she had enough problems without me giving her all of mine.

  CHAPTER 51

  The next morning, Sydney goes back to Princeton and I go back to work.

  Physically, I’m behind the counter in the Balloon Race booth, but mentally, I’m trying to work out some way to set things right for Sophia, Hannah, Victoria, Jeff, and Schuyler. Shakespeare wrote a play called All’s Well That Ends Well, and that’s exactly what I need: a way to end up with everyone happy.

  Because their unhappiness is all my fault.

  While I go through the motions of drumming up a crowd, my mind wanders to one of my solo speeches from the show, during the middle of all the love misunderstandings. It’s about Puck putting a magic potion on the confused lovers’ eyes so they’ll wake up and realize who their true loves are.

  I just have to find my own magic elixir.

  Then it hits me.

  Ice cream!

  No. Frozen custard!

  It’s creamier, which makes it even more magically delicious than ice cream. And nothing against Jeff Cohen, Bossy D. Cow, or Swirl Tip Cones, but nobody makes better custard in Seaside Heights, New Jersey, than Kohr’s. They’ve had their stand on the boardwalk since forever. Their specialty is orange-and-white swirl cones—where the orange custard curls through and hugs the vanilla stuff. It’s very romantic, especially for a dairy product.

  I’ll stage an event. Offer my confused lovers a free Kohr’s cone, which I’ll pay for out of what little money I have left. I won’t tell any of the guests who else I’m inviting. Everybody will just accidentally meet at the same time in the same place to be sprinkled with my magic potion, which I can order with sprinkles.

  It could work.

  But wait a second, I tell myself.

  Jeff Cohen works at an ice cream shop. He won’t be wowed by the offer. He can help himself to all the free samples he wants.

  “No, he can’t,” Bill tells me when he drops by the booth after knocking off work at the T-shirt shop around three o’clock.

  I just told him my goofy idea for getting everybody together and why it won’t work.

  “His boss, Mr. Peterson, is a real stickler about employees dipping into the ice cream tubs for freebies. He won’t even let them eat the broken cones. Jeff would love a free orange-and-white at Kohr’s.”

  “But how do we get everybody in the same spot at the same time?”

  “We do what Shakespeare would’ve done,” says Bill. “We send them missives. You know—those fancy, scrolled invitations sealed with wax.”

  Since I have to keep working, Bill volunteers to make up the invitations and deliver them to Schuyler, Jeff, Hannah, Victoria, and Sophia. I let him borrow La Bicicletta to deliver our anonymous invitations.

  Nobody will know they’re coming from me. Because if they did, they probably wouldn’t show up.

  CHAPTER 52

  Bill goes to a hippie candle shop on the boardwalk and buys the cheapest sand candle they have so he can drizzle hokey-looking wax seals on his scrolled invites, which he makes out of rolled-up paper pizza plates.

  Everyone is to meet at the Kohr’s Frozen Custard stand at 6:30 p.m. (thirty minutes before play practice) for their free treat.

  I know the guys working in the Kohr’s stand, so they let me pay in advance and hide behind the counter until everybody else shows up.

  If they show up.

  Bill arrives first. I see him through a knothole in the wall.

  I pop up.

  “Get back down!” he says. “They’re all coming.”

  Ten seconds later, I hear familiar voices.

  “Victoria!” says Jeff. “Are you here for Schuyler?”

  “Don’t be immature, Jeff. Why would I be here for him? I’m here for you!”

  “Wait, you mean you don’t want to date Schuyler?” asks Sophia.

  “No way,” says Victoria.

  “Why not?” jokes Schuyler. “What’s wrong with me?”

  “Nothing!” coos Sophia.
Then I think I hear a smooch. It’s followed by dainty clapping.

  “Oh, goody,” says Hannah, the one doing the applauding. “Victoria’s got Jeff, and Sophia’s got Schuyler, so Mike Guadagno is all mine!”

  “Who’s Mike Guadagno?” asks Schuyler, because he’s new in town.

  “A rich kid from Stonewall Prep,” says Bill, helping out. “Nice guy.”

  “He’s dreamy,” says Hannah.

  I take that as my cue. I pop up from my hiding place with a tray full of orange-and-white swirl cones.

  “And here’s your ice creamy.”

  Everyone groans at my rhyme, as they should.

  “You’re right. It’s actually custard. And this is me saying I’m sorry for last night. Or, as Puck might put it: If Jacky Hart has offended, think but this, and all is mended—you did but slumber in the church parking lot, where I gave matchmaking a terrible shot. Give me your hands if we be friends. And now, Jacky Ha-Ha her paycheck spends!”

  Everyone applauds when I finish my speech.

  “That was the bomb, Jacky,” says Schuyler, pulling a roll of cash out of his pocket. “Let me pay for this.…”

  “No, that’s okay,” I say. “I already took care of it.”

  “I insist. Aunt Kathy just—”

  He doesn’t get to finish that thought.

  Bubblebutt and Ringworm cruise up the boardwalk.

  “We’ll take that,” says Ringworm. “We need more money for the Battle of the Bands entry fee.”

  “You can be, like, our official sponsor,” says Bubblebutt, trying to be nice.

  Schuyler strikes a pose and points his finger toward the sky. “Begone from this place, ye fat guts!”

  “Who you calling ‘fat guts’?” demands Ringworm.

  “You!” says Schuyler.

  “Takes one to know one.”

  “Good sirrah, I bid you adieu!”

  “Huh?” says Ringworm.

  “Get outta here!” shouts Jeff, translating Schuyler’s overblown words.

  “I’m sorry, Jacky,” says Bob.

  “He called us ‘fat guts’!” says Ringworm, elbowing Bob in the ribs. “Let’s get him, man.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t wimp out on me, Bubblebutt.”

  “Yo. Who are you calling ‘Bubblebutt’?”

  “You, fat guts!”

  “You’re a fat guts!” says Bob.

  “No, you are!” says Ringworm.

  The two sulking bullies walk away, pushing and shoving each other. After they’re gone, I don’t let Schuyler even think about paying for the swirl cones.

  He’s already done his good deed for the day.

  CHAPTER 53

  After rehearsal—which is pretty short for Puck, the fairies, and Tom Snout because the director wants to focus on all the scenes with the romantic leads—I head back to the boardwalk and the Balloon Race booth.

  Vinnie needs me to cover what he calls the “late-late shift.” Seems he has a “hot date” with Madame Maria, the lady who tells fortunes two booths down from ours.

  “She read my mind,” Vinnie told me. “Asked me out right before I was going to ask her. Bada bing, bada boom. It’s in the stars, Jacky. The stars.”

  They’re heading to the mainland to catch a movie. Billy Crystal in City Slickers. He’s also paying me double to work eight to eleven.

  Schuyler has no plans for the night (Sophia is working until midnight at the Rusty Scupper). He has some time to kill and decides to kill it with me in the booth. Bill doesn’t join us because his dad needs him at home.

  “The toilet’s gurgling. Dad can’t reach the shutoff valve. Needs me to crawl behind the commode. Good times.”

  I wish him luck and thank him again for all his help setting things right with my sisters and their assorted suitors.

  Later, I wish Bill had been with me.

  We have a lot of college-age kids trying to impress their girlfriends on the boardwalk late at night. They’ll keep playing until they win a prize big enough to make their dates squeal.

  As you might imagine, we rake in a lot of cash on the late shift. I’m drawing the crowd, Schuyler is manning the money box.

  “Is this legal?” he asks, flapping a five-dollar bill some guy just handed him. The money’s been defaced with a rubber stamp that turns Abraham Lincoln into Mr. Spock from Star Trek.

  “Vinnie will take it to the bank,” I say, because Schuyler can’t remember which one of the half dozen fraternity boys lined up on the squirt gun firing range handed it to him. Plus, we’re way too busy to worry about it right then and there. “If it’s a problem, they’ll figure it out.”

  That’s when Jeff Cohen, in full costume, stumbles up to our booth. Both hands are on his cow head.

  “Uh ee a ittle elp, acky.”

  I think he needs a little help. I’m getting better at deciphering his muffled cowspeak.

  “It’s uck.…”

  Sounds like the head is stuck.

  “Come on,” I tell him. “Slip around to the back of the booth where no kids can see you. We don’t want to violate that mascot code of ethics. Can you watch the booth?” I ask Schuyler.

  “No problemo.”

  I hurry out of the booth and guide Jeff behind the back wall. I grab a pair of needle-nose pliers we keep under the counter for fixing squirt gun nozzles. Hopefully, it’ll work on the cow head’s rusty hook.

  After a few false starts and several grunts, the head pops free.

  “Thanks, Jacky. I want to go see Victoria as the real me, not a cow. Is she at the Taffy Shoppe tonight?”

  “She’s at home,” I tell him.

  Jeff sighs. “That taffy shop will always have a special place in my heart. It’s where I first saw your sister in the front window. An angel. All in white. Pulling taffy. Rolling it out on a marble slab. Made me wish I didn’t wear braces.…”

  “How’d you like to have dinner with me and Victoria and all my sisters one night?” I ask him, feeling like Puck, sprinkling the world with love potions. Or love pizzas, in this case.

  “For real?” says Jeff.

  “Totally. We should probably wait until after the show opens, though.”

  “I guess,” says Jeff, his shoulders sagging.

  “Of course, I’ll make sure Victoria comes to the opening-night performance. And the cast party!”

  Jeff lights up. “You’re the best, Jacky. Now I know why Bill is so crazy about you!”

  That makes me smile. Jeff heads for home, happy. I head for the booth, happy. But it doesn’t last long.

  Because Schuyler is gone.

  He left a note, taped to the money box: “Sorry. I had to go take care of some stuff.”

  I panic slightly.

  Then I open the money box.

  It’s empty.

  That’s when I panic big-time!

  CHAPTER 54

  Of course, that’s when Vinnie and Madame Maria come strolling down the boardwalk, hand in hand, after their date.

  “Yo, Jacky, you gotta check out this flick, City Slickers. It’s about cows.”

  “And cattle, too,” says Madame Maria, whose real name is Maria Bonadonna. Maria starts telling me about Jack Palance’s character, Curly, while Vinnie goes to check out the money box.

  I don’t hear much about Curly.

  “Yo, Jacky?” says Vinnie, seeing the emptiness inside the tin box. “Where’s the moola-boola?”

  I swallow hard. Try to make a joke. “Gone?”

  It goes over like a lead balloon.

  Long story short, I lose my job. I promise Vinnie that I’ll find out who stole his cash. He promises me I better or I’ll wind up in jail.

  “How much was in the box, Vinnie?” asks Maria.

  “On a night like this? Fuhgeddaboudit. Had to be two, three hundred clams.”

  That’s a lot of clams.

  It’s after eleven. Walking home, wishing I could make everything go back to the way it was, I come upon Dad and his partner i
nvestigating the scrawl of graffiti somebody spray-painted on the rolled-down gate of the T-shirt shop where Bill works. It’s a tag from an artist who labels himself Fat Guts.

  I, of course, recognize Schuyler’s handiwork. I mean, it has to be him. Who else goes around armed with Shakespearean insults like “fat guts”?

  I find a pay phone without Dad seeing me.

  I call Ms. O’Mara’s house. Schuyler answers.

  “Hello?”

  “Where did you go?”

  “Home. Aunt Kathy came by, said I had to hurry home right away.”

  “And you left the money box right there? In the booth?”

  “No. I tucked it under the counter and hid it on the shelf behind the Garfields.”

  “Do you know how much trouble I’m in? The money box was empty.”

  “What?”

  “Somebody stole all the money! Vinnie fired me.…”

  “I’m sorry, but I had to book. Aunt Kathy needed me to come home right away.”

  “Why? What was so important?”

  “My dad. He was able to organize a phone call from Kuwait, but he only had, like, fifteen minutes. Look, where are you? We need to talk.”

  “I’m on the boardwalk.”

  “Stay there. I’m on my way. I can explain everything.”

  “You better.”

  I hang up the phone.

  I’d hear him out.

  And then I’d go ahead and make the biggest mistake I ever made in my whole life.

  CHAPTER 55

  I meet Schuyler at the one place on the boardwalk still serving cheese fries that late at night.

  “I’m sorry you lost your job,” says Schuyler as I silently pump a pool of ketchup into the corner of an oil-splattered cardboard box filled with shoestring potatoes swimming in a puddle of bright-orange cheese, which should probably be spelled cheez, since I don’t think there is anything remotely cheese-ish in the greasy glop.