CHAPTER 30
Nonna, my grandmother, isn’t feeling so great.
“They called from the old folks’ home,” says Sophia on Monday. “Nonna is feeling queasy.”
“It’s probably the food they serve at that place,” says Victoria. “Did you know…”
She goes on to tell us something none of us knew (or wanted to know) about the unsanitary kitchen conditions in many New Jersey nursing homes.
“We should go see her,” I say, because I really love my grandmother—and not just because she reminds me of her daughter, my mom.
“I can’t,” says Sophia. “Mike is supposed to call. I need to be by the phone when he does.”
Yes, in 1990, you couldn’t just slip a phone in your purse and take it with you. It was attached to the house and you had to sit and wait for it to ring.
“Dad will be home for dinner soon,” says the ever-hopeful Hannah. “We sure don’t want to miss that.”
“There’s probably nothing wrong with Nonna,” says Sister Know-It-All Victoria. “She just wants attention.”
As a middle child, I can relate.
Riley and I decide to bike over to Nonna’s place to check on her.
“Tell Dad where we went,” I tell Hannah. “Don’t hold dinner for us.”
On the way over to Nonna’s rest home, I have an idea—one I know she’ll love. I stop at a pay phone booth, drop in a quarter, and call Meredith. She says she’ll call everybody else.
“Do they have a piano?” she asks.
“Yeah, in the parlor.”
“Cool. I’ll call Mr. Brimer, too.”
Nonna’s nursing home is a very nice, very old Victorian mansion. She has her own room upstairs, but she’s waiting for us down in the parlor with five or six of her elderly friends. She beams when Riley and I bound through the doors.
“Hiya, Nonna!” I say, throwing out my arms wide like singers used to do in vaudeville.
“Hello, girls,” she says, clapping her hands in delight.
“Are you feeling any better?” asks Riley.
“Eh,” Nonna says with a shrug. “Mezza mezza. I’ve felt better, I’ve felt worse.”
“Is there anything we can do for you?” asks Riley.
Nonna takes her hand. Pats it. “You’re here, honey. That’s enough. Jacky?”
“Yes, Nonna?”
She beams at me. “Make me laugh.”
CHAPTER 31
There’s a knock on the screen door.
Meredith, Bill, Dan, Jeff, Beth, Mr. Brimer, and Ms. O’Mara are out on the porch. I see Colleen, the techie, too. She’s carrying a clip-on piano light.
“Is it okay if some friends help me?” I ask.
“Sure,” says Nonna, rocking back in her chair with laughter. “The more the merrier.”
“Come on in, guys.”
Everybody piles into the parlor. Colleen organizes the furniture and wheelchairs into a half circle so Nonna and her friends can be our audience. Beth clips the portable work light onto the piano, then helps Mr. Brimer set up his sheet music.
“We thought we’d do the two numbers in the best shape,” says Ms. O’Mara. “Meredith and Dan doing ‘Schroeder.’ You and Bill doing ‘Suppertime.’”
I nod. Eagerly. I even pant a little, like Snoopy would. I’m getting into character.
When everything’s set up and ready to go, I’m choking back a tear. I can’t believe these guys dropped everything and came rushing over to help me make my grandmother smile.
“I d-d-don’t know how to th-th-thank you guys.”
“Uh-uh-uh,” warns Ms. O’Mara. “I heard your grandmother. She wanted laughter, not tears.”
“It’s true,” says Mr. Brimer. “I heard her, too.”
He sits down at the piano and plinks out the opening notes of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. Dan Napolitano is sitting cross-legged on the floor, pretending a coffee table is his toy piano. Meredith leans on it Lucy-style and launches into her Schroeder song.
Nonna and her friends are laughing so hard, tears are streaming down their cheeks.
And then Bill and I launch into our “Suppertime” number. I borrow a glass candy dish I see sitting on a doily and use it as my dog bowl.
We bring down the house.
I know opening night is still three weeks away and I know it will be extremely exciting when we’re all in our costumes and performing on the set Mr. Foster is building for us. But to tell you the truth, I don’t think the world premiere of Charlie Brown—at school or even on Broadway—could possibly feel as wonderful as doing those two numbers for my grandmother.
We made Nonna laugh.
Jacky Ha-Ha is happy.
CHAPTER 32
Late that night, I relive the whole glorious event and the smile on Nonna’s face when I write all about it to Mom in another letter.
But then the sun rises. Time for school.
“Have you seen Mrs. Jordan?” Mrs. Turner asks me.
I try to buy some time. “I think so. She’s the nice lady who teaches social studies, coaches the debate team, and eats at McDonald’s, right? She’s about yay tall…”
“Jacky.” Mrs. Turner is giving me her look. Raised eyebrows are involved. “Mrs. Jordan is waiting for you. In her room. Now.”
“Gee, I have—”
“A pass.” She hands it to me. “This will let Mrs. Bollendorf know that you are late to biology because I sent you to see Mrs. Jordan.”
“But we’re dissecting worms today. Of course, I sort of wonder why. I mean, what’s inside a worm? Dirt?”
“Jacky, there’s no use trying to distract me. My mind is made up. You will be participating in the oratory contest or you will be suspended.”
“F-f-for what?”
“Dereliction of duty. Willfully refusing to perform your duties and/or utilize your God-given talents.”
“B-b-but—”
“No buts. The school play has been good for you. The speech contest will be even better. Go. Mrs. Jordan is waiting.”
I’m ready to burst into tears, but I don’t really want to let Mrs. Turner know she can do that to me. So I fume and sputter instead. “A sp-sp-speech? D-d-do you r-r-really expect m-m-me to get up in f-f-front of p-p-people and sp-sp…” I’m so furious I can’t even spit out a complete sentence. “S-see wha-wha-what you’re do-do-doing to me?”
Mrs. Turner sighs. “Jacky,” she whispers, “did you ever think that, maybe, studying public speaking could help you speak in public?”
And I finally get it.
This speech contest is another one of those “it’ll be good for you” things. Like broccoli and literature (also known as boring books without pictures).
I slump down the hall to Mrs. Jordan’s room, or, as I like to think of it, the lobby of hell.
“Good afternoon, Miss Hart,” says Mrs. Jordan quite crisply when I enter her classroom. She’s sitting—ramrod stiff—at her desk in the otherwise empty room. She’s very prim and proper: buttons the top button of all her blouses, wears pearls. Seriously. Pearls.
“Hello,” I mutter as I close the door behind me. I don’t want anybody wandering the halls to pick up a juicy new piece of Jacky Ha-Ha gossip.
“I am given to understand that Assistant Principal Turner is very keen on your joining my oratorical team,” says Mrs. Jordan.
“That makes one of us,” I say under my breath as I study my shoelaces.
“Specifically,” Mrs. Jordan continues with very clipped diction (you can hear every consonant), “Mrs. Turner suggests that you would do well in the local American Legion Oratorical Competition. In fact, she has so much faith in your rhetorical abilities, she even suggested that you might move on to the state round and, afterward, the national finals.”
Something about her voice makes me look up from my shoes so I can study her face.
Well, whaddya know? From her extremely sour expression, I can tell: She’s about as interested in me joining her speechifying team as I am.
>
“Well,” I say, as cheerily as I can, “if you already have enough people…”
The door creaks open behind me. Someone else steps into the room.
“Nonsense,” says this new person. “There’s always room for one more.”
I recognize the voice.
It’s Ms. O’Mara.
CHAPTER 33
Hello, Mrs. Jordan. I’m Katherine O’Mara.”
“Yes?” says Mrs. Jordan, in the same tone the Queen of England would say, “We are not amused.”
“I’m new in the English department, teaching the honors class and directing the fall play.”
“So I have been told.”
“Any idea about the assigned topics this year?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The American Legion Oratorical Contest. The year I was in it, I gave my prepared oration on a citizen’s duties, and then we had to talk for at least three minutes but no more than five about the Eighth Amendment to the United States Constitution.”
“Wait,” I say. “Y-y-you had to make up a speech on the spot?”
Ms. O’Mara nods. “We all knew it would be on one of five constitutional topics given out beforehand so we could focus our research and prep. But then, yeah, right before the last prepared speech, they tell you the topic for your second speech. And boom—five minutes later you’re on your feet talking about excessive bail or cruel and unusual punishment.”
“Forgive my curiosity, Ms. O’Mara,” says Mrs. Jordan, with the hint of a smirk. “How did you fare in the competition?”
“Pretty good. I won the local contest and was supposed to move on to the state round, but this Broadway thing opened up…”
“‘This Broadway thing’?” Mrs. Jordan crinkles her nose like somebody just fried fish in her classroom.
Ms. O’Mara waves it off. “This was a long time ago. I was just a little older than Jacky. I could sing and dance some, so they put me in Annie.”
“They did?” says Mrs. Jordan, finally sounding slightly impressed.
Ms. O’Mara nods. “I played Tessie. The crybaby orphan.” She slips into a cutesy-poo baby doll voice and says, “‘Oh my goodness!’”
“That was you?”
“A very young me. Anyway, I couldn’t go to the state competition. But when I went to teachers college, I did minor in speech and theater.”
She turns to me when she says that last part.
And I get the point. The two are linked. Hey, you really can’t do theater without getting up in front of people and saying stuff—also known as making a speech.
Ms. O’Mara smiles at Mrs. Jordan. “I’d like to help you coach the team this year.”
“No need. I don’t require a helper.”
“I know how time-consuming it can be, with all the prep and practice.”
“Fine,” says Mrs. Jordan. “You can coach her.” She flaps her flipper at me. “I’m certain Mrs. Turner will be thrilled to hear of your involvement.”
“Great. What do you say, Jacky? We can work on your prepared speech in between rehearsals for Charlie Brown. And I’ll help you organize your research for the second speech, too.”
I’m all set to protest, but I realize this really isn’t my day to get my way. So I surrender.
“F-f-fine.”
Mrs. Jordan shakes her head dismissively. “Good luck, Ms. O’Mara. I have a feeling you’re going to need it. By the way, while you were in college, did you take any courses related to speech therapy? If so, perhaps you can help Jacky overcome her very unfortunate speech impediment.”
My burning-red ears betray me. Ms. O’Mara can tell I’m about to go ballistic. But before I can, she grabs me by the elbow and guides me out the door.
“Thanks, Mrs. Jordan.”
When we’re safely down the hall, Ms. O’Mara tells me, “Critics. When you’re a performer, you have to learn to ignore them, Jacky. Especially the dumb ones, and there’s a lot of them. You can spot them when they say or write something completely idiotic.”
I put on a snooty snob voice and clip my diction. “Oh? You mean critics such as Mrs. Jordan?”
“Sorry. Don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“You’re ignoring her already, right?”
“Yep. See how easy it is?”
CHAPTER 34
That afternoon, right after play practice, when we’re all hanging out in the auditorium, I ask Ms. O’Mara about the part of the American Legion Oratorical Contest that’s freaking me out the most.
“So, did you really have to make up a speech, right on the spot?”
“Yep. The contest is done in two parts. First you give your prepared speech.”
“Which you can read off a sheet of paper, right?”
Ms. O’Mara shakes her head. “Nope. But it’s just like memorizing your lines for this show, Jacky. You write down what you want to say and practice it every chance you get. Before long, you’ve memorized it.”
“But how do you do that second speech?” asks Meredith.
“First,” says Ms. O’Mara, “you do your homework on the five topics the judges can choose from.”
“And then what?” asks Bill.
Yes, the whole cast is interested, because if they were in my shoes, they’d be terrified, too. This makes me feel better.
“You build a speech with the blocks of what you know,” says Ms. O’Mara. “It’s a lot like doing improv in theater.”
“So, when you improvise a scene, you just wing it?” I ask.
“Not exactly.” She looks around mysteriously like she’s about to let us in on a big secret. “There is a hidden structure to improv. You say ‘yes, and’ to whatever comes along. You take what you’re given and add to it—you never say no. You never deny. For instance, let’s say Meredith and I are improvising a scene. Come on, Meredith.”
Ms. O’Mara climbs up onstage. Meredith scampers up the steps to join her.
“Okay, I’ll start,” Ms. O’Mara says. “Wow! It sure is cold in here.”
“Actually,” says Meredith, “I think it’s kind of warm.”
Ms. O’Mara makes a rude buzzer noise. “Sorry. Wrong answer. You denied my setup.”
“But the radiators always make this room too hot.…”
“You’re supposed to be acting, Meredith,” says Dan Napolitano, very kindly. “You know—welcome to the world of make-believe.”
“Oh. Okay. Let’s try again.”
Ms. O’Mara pretends like she’s shivering. “Wow. It sure is cold in here.”
“See?” says Meredith. “I told you we shouldn’t have crawled into this ice chest.”
“But I wanted to skate across the ice cubes,” says Ms. O’Mara, picking up on what Meredith laid down. “That’s why we took those shrinking pills.”
“Oops,” says Meredith. “Mine is wearing off.”
She starts acting like her arms are expanding, like she’s inflating.
“Careful!” cries Ms. O’Mara in a high-pitched helium-sucking voice. “I’m still soooo tiny.”
Meredith looks at her foot. “Uh-oh. Sorry. Didn’t mean to step on you.”
“And… scene!” cries Ms. O’Mara.
She and Meredith take a little bow while the rest of us crack up and give them a standing ovation.
And that’s how I learned how to write sketches for Saturday Night Live. It all started with skating on ice cubes.
CHAPTER 35
Early Saturday morning, when our chores are finished, I dash off a quick letter to Mom. I teach her how to do improv, just in case she and some of the other marines want to start a Desert Shield comedy troupe! Then Riley and I decide we want to head down to the boardwalk for swirl cones.
We go to tell Dad what we’re up to and he’s nowhere to be found.
“So do you think he had to work again?” asks Riley.
And, practicing my own newly acquired improvisational skills, I say, “Yes. I think there might be a New Jersey state lifeguard convention in
town this weekend.”
We hike up the steps to the boardwalk.
“A lifeguard convention?” says Riley.
“Oh, yes,” I tell her. “They need to vote on next year’s swim trunks. I think Dad’s all about keeping them red and baggy, but there are a few lifeguards, mostly from the Atlantic City area, who are pushing for polka-dot Speedos.”
I’m all set to keep yes and-ing when I see Dad.
He’s at this pizza place, sitting on a stool, sharing a slice and yukking it up with Jenny Cornwall, the prettiest girl on the beach.
I nudge Riley and we hide behind a Wheel of Fortune near a booth filled with pink and blue teddy bears.
“Is that pretty lifeguard girl going to the convention, too?” whispers Riley.
“No,” I say, breaking all my new improv rules. “They won’t let her in. She’s nothing but trouble.”
“What do you mean?”
“Never mind. You’re too young to know.”
“I am not—”
“They’re going somewhere!” I see Dad crumple up his paper plate and toss it into a trash barrel. Jenny Cornwall grabs her Coke cup. The two of them stroll down the boardwalk.
They’re not holding hands, but when they swing their arms back and forth, their fingers come dangerously close to brushing each other.
Riley and I follow behind them, using phone booths, T-shirt mounds, gigantic stuffed dolls, and racks of inflatable beach toys for cover.
I see Dad glance at his dive watch. He says something to Jenny.
They pick up their pace.
So do we.
Well, I do. Riley bumps into one of those mountains of T-shirts. Knocks the whole table over. We lose valuable time picking everything up so the skeevy guy running the tourist trap doesn’t have us arrested for vandalizing his vast collection of I’M WITH STUPID clothing.
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