Jacky Ha-Ha

by James Patterson

  I clear my throat.

  “Careful,” I joke, because joking is what I always do to mask what I’m really feeling. “You two keep that up, you could wind up with ten detentions each.”

  “Well,” quips my mother, “at least we’d all be serving them together.”

  And then, I kid you not, my father actually jumps to my defense. “Jacky hasn’t had a detention in, what, six weeks?”

  “Something like that,” I answer. “I’ve been working them off—”

  “At play practice,” says Dad. “She’s starring in You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown. Opening night is Saturday.”

  O-kay.

  I am now totally confused. Is Dad really proud of my accomplishments? Or is he trying to buy my silence?

  After all, I’m the only one of his seven kids who’s directly confronted him about what he’s been doing with Jenny Cornwall while Mom’s been over in Saudi Arabia.

  But then Mom comes over to wish me luck.

  She wraps her arms around me and squeezes me tight.

  And, once again, the whole world and all my worries melt away.

  CHAPTER 55

  Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen.”

  Mrs. Jordan, the teacher with the pointedly precise pronunciation skills and clipped diction—the one who wasn’t too crazy about me being invited to this speechmaking rodeo—runs the assembly. You can make out every single vowel and consonant in her sentence as if they were individual countries on a map. (And yes, the idea for my Saturday Night Live character, Priscilla the Prude, was born during this very same middle school speech tournament.)

  Mrs. Jordan goes over the rules of “The Prepared Oration.” How we have to talk about some aspect of the Constitution, with emphasis on a citizen’s duties and obligations to our government. How we can’t bring a copy of our written speech to the microphone with us. Then she gets into so many of the nitpicky rules that at least half her audience takes a nap. Hey, it’s the middle of the afternoon. In some countries, naps are mandatory at this hour. They call it siesta time.

  Finally, she introduces the first contestant. He’s wearing a suit and looks like a grown-up.

  Oops. Wish I’d thought of that.

  I mean, not that I would’ve borrowed Dad’s one blue suit, just that I might’ve worn something besides my best pair of jeans.

  “Our first presenter,” says Mrs. Jordan, “is Mr. John Valeri, a ninth grader, who placed second last year at the New Jersey state level of the American Legion Oratorical Contest, where he earned a one-thousand-dollar scholarship.”

  Wow. When she says it, you can hear both ds in thousand-dollar.

  John Valeri is pretty good. So are the four other contestants coached by Mrs. Jordan. I hear every single one of their consonants, too. I also feel sorry for the folks in the front row when Catherine Hendee speaks. The girl uses a lot of p words. Each one explodes out of her mouth in a misty puff of spittle.

  “And finally,” says Mrs. Jordan, looking over the frames of her glasses like she just spied a water bug skittering across the gym floor, “last but not least, Miss Jacqueline Hart.”

  I get a thunderous ovation from one section of bleachers. It happens when you have six very boisterous sisters who aren’t afraid to clap their hands and whoop like they’re at a Giants game.

  I take a deep breath.

  And tell myself, “Take your time.” Own this moment.

  Jacky Ha-Ha is on.

  “Uh, h-h-h-hi.”

  I hear a loud “Ha-ha” from the crowd. Bubblebutt and Ringworm.

  “I’m Jacky Ha-Ha-Ha-Ha-Hart.…”

  This is worse than kindergarten. My eyes start to fill as they dart around the auditorium. I see a lot of horrified faces. Jaws are dropping. Whispers float their way up to me. All I want to do is bolt off the stage and out of the school, but I’m frozen.

  And then I see Mom.

  Her gentle smile reminds me so much of Nonna, I hear my grandmother’s voice in my head: “Make me laugh, Jacky. Make me laugh.”

  A joke.

  My speech starts with a joke. I know I can tell a joke. Aren’t I Jacky Ha-Ha?

  I take another deep breath.

  CHAPTER 56

  When Mrs. T-T-Turner invited me to p-p-participate in this sp-sp-speech contest,” I say, nice and slow, “I wanted to tell her that asking me to sp-sp-speak is like watching a dog walk on its hind legs. Even if it’s not d-d-done well, you’re amazed it can be done at all.”

  My audience laughs. I smile.

  “When it comes to a citizen’s duty to their country, some citizens have more duties than others. For instance, I’m proud to say my mother is Staff Sergeant Sydney Labriolla Hart of the United States Marine Corps.”

  I don’t dare look at Mom.

  When I wrote my speech, I didn’t know she’d be in the audience to hear me talk about her. If I see her face, I suspect I might feel the need for speed and flip the stuttering switch to on.

  So I use another one of Ms. O’Mara’s public speaking tricks: I keep my eyeline a couple of inches above my audience’s heads.

  “My mother is a citizen soldier,” I say. “She chose to do a dangerous and, sometimes, deadly job. No one forces her to put on a pair of baggy camouflage pants and a floppy hat with brown cow splotches all over it. But that’s what she does, every morning, in one-hundred-and-ten-degree heat.

  Why does she decide to get up every day, thousands of miles away from her family? you might be wondering. I’ll admit that I wonder that too, sometimes.

  It’s because it’s her duty. She made a solemn vow. How many of us have made solemn vows and then actually lived up to the promises we made? How many of us do it every day, even when it means sand in our shoes, a bad case of helmet hair, and very limited fashion options?”

  The audience laughs.

  “How many of us would keep our word when keeping it means that other people may want to kill us? And my mother is just one of the thousands of citizen soldiers who all have one very important thing in common. When they joined the military, every single one of them raised their right hand and solemnly swore to support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic, so help them God.

  “You know, I’ve spent a lot of Sundays, lately, talking to God. Asking Him, or Her, to help my mother, and all the other mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters who raised their right hands and solemnly swore to do their duty.

  All those citizen soldiers who are now in harm’s way, standing guard on a wall or huddled in the desert, or soaring across the sky—all of them out there defending our Constitution. These Americans surely know their duty to their country, because they live that duty, every day.

  “They also stand as a shining beacon of inspiration, showing us how we can choose to live our lives. How we can all choose to serve something bigger than ourselves. Something more important. We can all make the same kind of vow to do our duty, whatever that duty might be.

  “Because it is only in so swearing and so doing that those of us living in this wonderful country can secure the blessings of liberty to ourselves and our posterity, which, by the way, means ‘our children and all their children.’ What Mom has done for me, I hope to someday do for others. Maybe in the marines or the other armed services, or maybe not. But I will listen for my calling, find my duty, and then I will do it, so help me God.

  “And each of you, as citizens—I implore each of you to perform your own duties to our country, in whatever way calls to you, big or small.”

  Now I finally turn to the audience to do the bit I thought I would do to the ceiling.

  I find my mother in the bleachers again. She’s smiling at me, proudly. I smile back.

  “I need to thank you, Mom, for protecting and defending the Constitution of these United States of America so that I, and all my sisters, can fully enjoy our blessings of liberty. And that’s a lot of liberty, folks. There’s seven of us!

  “Thank you.”<
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  When I finish, the whole audience—not just my personal cheering section—rises up and gives me a standing ovation.

  Yes, kids, I win the American Legion Oratorical Contest at Seaside Heights Middle School. (I think my name might still be on a plaque on a wall someplace with all the other winners through the years.)

  When I’m finished, Mrs. Jordan (who, what do you know, can actually smile) hands me my trophy.

  Mrs. Turner shoves her way past everyone else to give me a huge hug. It’s kind of weird to be hugged by the school disciplinarian. But it’s also nice.

  Not as nice as my next hug, the one from Mom, but Mrs. Turner came in second, tied, of course, with Ms. O’Mara.

  But what makes the day special isn’t the trophy or all the hugs or the pats on the back. What makes the day incredible is the chance it gives me to tell the world how much I love and admire my mother.

  And once I got going, I didn’t stutter once.

  CHAPTER 57

  The next day, it’s incredible to be waking up with everybody under one roof—even though none of us are happy about the reason for our impromptu family reunion: Nonna’s death.

  Mom and Dad are handling all the last-minute details, together. (As far as I know, Jenny Cornwall is not being consulted on, say, what shade of lipstick Nonna should wear in her open casket.)

  We all head off to school, of course.

  Lots of people are still congratulating me about my speech, which, I am relieved to say, is over, done, and finished.

  Until, of course, I have to go to the American Legion Hall in a couple of weeks and do it all again, plus be prepared to do that spontaneous speech on one of five topics, too.

  But I can’t worry about that right now. As Ms. O’Mara reminds me, I have to stay where my feet are.

  Today, that means play practice, because it’s Friday and You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown opens tomorrow!

  And my mother is going to be in the audience! Not that I’m nervous or anything… I always quiver like a palm tree in a hurricane when I’m calm.

  Tonight is our dress rehearsal. That means you try to do the show exactly the way you would do it in front of an audience, but without the audience. It’s your last chance to get everything right: acting, music, costumes, lights, sets, props.

  We move through our final rehearsal with only a few minor hitches.

  Like me falling off the roof of Snoopy’s doghouse in the middle of my monologue about how hungry I am.

  Fortunately, I somehow worked my acrobatics into the speech. That’s the thing about mistakes onstage: Unless you act like you goofed up, people in the audience, who haven’t been to any rehearsals or read the script, will never know that you made a mistake. You just have to roll with whatever happens even if what happens is you rolling off the roof.

  While I’m taking off my Snoopy makeup in the dressing room (okay, it’s the girls’ bathroom), Ms. O’Mara gives me one last pep talk.

  “I’m so glad your mother will be able to see you in the show,” she says.

  “Me too.”

  “And you know what? I wouldn’t be surprised if your grandmother finds a way to be there, too.”

  I know what she means, but I don’t want to get all weepy. So I crack a joke instead. “And Nonna won’t even need to buy a ticket.”

  Saturday comes and we all put on our darkest outfits. Mom’s in her dress uniform. Dad’s in his one navy blue suit again.

  We go to our church, where I, first of all, make sure to thank God for keeping Mom safe.

  And then we celebrate the life of the late Isabella Labriolla, beloved mother and grandmother. During the funeral service, each one of us Hart girls takes a turn standing in the pulpit and sharing our fondest memory of Nonna. It’s better if we do it instead of Mom. She’s a tough soldier, but today she’s mostly a bundle of raw emotions and a bucket of tears.

  So we work our way down the line.

  Sydney, of course, is brilliant. Sophia is emotional. Victoria takes us on a historical tour of Nonna’s life. Sweet Hannah says something that none of us can really hear because she’s sobbing so much.

  And then we reach the middle of the pack.

  It’s my turn.

  “I l-l-loved N-N-Nonna so m-m-much.”

  I’m a wreck. I can’t stop stuttering.

  So I stop talking.

  I look out at the pews.

  My best friend, Meredith Crawford, is sitting in the front row. She silently mouths three words. “Take. Your. Time.”

  So I take a deep breath and start over.

  “Wh-wh-what I loved most about Nonna was how easily she laughed. Even when I had to tell her sad news—like wh-wh-when the man who wrote the ‘Hokey Pokey’ song died. But what was really sad was his funeral. They had trouble keeping his body in the casket. They put his left leg in, they put his left leg out, and… well, you know the rest.”

  For the first time ever, Nonna’s favorite joke doesn’t get a laugh.

  Just a chorus of sobs and tears. Including mine.

  CHAPTER 58

  That Saturday was also the day I first learned the true meaning of the old adage “The show must go on.”

  No matter how terrible you feel, no matter what tragedies are going on in your personal life, if you are in a play or doing a TV show, the audience is coming to the theater or turning on the TV to be entertained, not to see you bawling buckets of tears because your favorite grandmother passed away.

  We get home from the funeral around five o’clock. The curtain goes up on Charlie Brown at eight. I’m supposed to be backstage by seven.

  In other words, I have two hours to pull myself together and plunk in some Visine so nobody sees how crying turns my eyeballs into a red, murky mess.

  While I’m staring at the mirror, I see Dad hanging at the bedroom door.

  “Can I come in?” he asks. He’s still in his suit. His hands are clasped behind his back.

  “I guess.”

  “That was good, what you said,” he tells me. “The speech at the school. And then today. The joke. At the funeral.”

  Wow. My father is actually nervous talking to me. Talk about the shoe being on the other foot. And, remember, I wear clown-sized shoes.

  “These last few weeks have been rough, Jacky,” he says. “For all of us. It’s good to have your mom home.”

  I just nod. Because I’m not exactly sure where he’s going with all this.

  “Anyway,” he says, “tonight’s your big night. At the funeral, your friend Meredith told me I’m supposed to say Break a leg. I’m not exactly sure why. I don’t see how you can be Snoopy with a cast on your leg. And I’ve never seen him in a wheelchair in the comics.…”

  “Break a leg is just a way of saying ‘Good luck.’”

  “Really?”

  I shrug. “What can I tell you? Theater people are strange.”

  Which, I could’ve added, is why I blend in so well with them. We’re all castaways on that Island of Misfit Toys from the Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer TV special they run every year before Christmas.

  “Anyway,” says my father, clearing his throat, “I got you a little opening-night gift.”

  He brings his hands out from behind his back and hands me a tin windup toy.

  It’s a Ferris wheel.

  “Thanks,” I say. “Looks a lot easier to climb than my last one.”

  Dad nods. His lips become a tight, thin line. “It’s like you said, Jacky, we all make mistakes. Me included. I’ll tell you more when the time is right. But being a father doesn’t come with an instruction manual, either. I probably yelled more than I should’ve.…”

  For half a second, I feel like we’re seriously bonding. That we’ve reached some new level of mutual understanding teetering on the verge of mutual respect.

  And then I realize, Wait a second. He’s just trying to buy my silence with a cheap little Chinese trinket that he probably bought for five bucks in a bargain bin on the boardwalk. His “mista
ke” was running around town with Jenny Cornwall while Mom was overseas.

  His other mistake was thinking I’d ever let him get away with it.

  I’m seriously considering decking him when Meredith bursts into the room.

  “I am so excited!” she gushes. “I couldn’t sit around my house waiting any longer, so I came over here to sit around and wait with you.”

  Dad smiles and backs out the door.

  “Break a leg, you two,” he says.

  And when the show’s over, I’m thinking, I’m going to come home and break both of your kneecaps.

  CHAPTER 59

  Yes, the show must go on, even when you think your father is a jerk.

  My whole family and their assorted friends—including Sophia’s boyfriend of the month, the nice preppy, Mike Guadagno—have opening-night tickets for You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown, so, once again, I have my own private cheering section.

  I’ll say this much for Dad: At least he didn’t invite Jenny Cornwall to the play. She probably would’ve worn her Baywatch swimsuit.

  The auditorium is packed. I think the entire middle school came with their parents. I see a lot of younger brothers and sisters, too.

  “Okay, guys, huddle up,” says Ms. O’Mara when it’s five minutes until showtime. We form a circle at center stage, hidden behind the curtain (but we can definitely hear the hubbub and buzz of the crowd on the other side).

  “Whatever else is going on in your life,” says Ms. O’Mara, “school stuff, boy-girl stuff, family stuff—whatever—I need you to block it out. Those people out there in the audience didn’t come here tonight to see you. They came to see Charlie Brown and Linus and Lucy and Schroeder and Snoopy and Patty. They came to be magically transported out of whatever is going on in their world and into the world of Peanuts. That’s your job—to take them on that ride. So have fun, give it everything you’ve got, and know one thing: I have never been prouder of any cast I’ve ever worked with.”