The first rehearsal is after work. I meet Bill at the T-Shirt Hut so we can walk over to the church together. We need to talk.
“Sorry about saying that stuff about you being jealous,” I tell him.
“No. I’m sorry.”
“Bob is turning into a decent human being,” I tell Bill. “I think we should encourage that.”
“Definitely,” says Bill. “The more decent human beings, the better.” He pauses. “So does this mean we can’t call him Bubblebutt anymore?”
“Not if we want to be, you know, decent human beings.”
Bill nods. “What about Ringworm?”
I think about that for a second. “I guess it’s okay for now. I don’t even know his real name.”
“Cool.”
“Pals?” I say, holding out my hand.
“Pals,” says Bill, taking it.
We shake. But Bill doesn’t let go of my hand exactly when he should, if you know what I mean. He lingers. I don’t mind. Lingering feels good. You know what else feels good? Being able to just talk to him.
The church basement rehearsal hall is buzzing with electricity, and not just because that’s where the circuit breaker box is located. Everyone is super-excited about our first read-through of the script.
I still get that tingly feeling every time I start a show. The sense that anything is possible. That adventure awaits. And that my fellow travelers are just as jazzed as I am to be making the trip into the unknown together.
Dan, Meredith, and Jeff come into the basement a few minutes after Bill and me.
We all say hello to Latoya Sherron and she says hello to us, just like she weren’t a big star, which, of course, she totally is. Riley has cartoons of her and MC Hammer on her lunch box (which used to be my lunch box).
Ms. O’Mara introduces us to Oliver and Quinn Reinhardt. They’re twins, even though they don’t look exactly alike. Oliver will be playing Lysander, one of the young lovers in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. His brother, Quinn, is playing Demetrius.
“Shakespeare was big on twins and mistaken identities,” says Quinn.
“But not in Dream,” says Oliver. “In this play, my character, Lysander, loves Hermia and she loves Lysander.”
“But,” says Quinn, “my character, Demetrius, used to love Helena, but now he loves Hermia, too. Hermia’s dad thinks I’m a better match for his daughter than Lysander, so he gets the duke of Athens to force Hermia to marry me.”
“Even though Hermia would much rather marry me,” says Oliver.
“And Helena still has the hots for me,” says Quinn.
We all just stand there and nod. Shakespeare is more complicated than a soap opera that’s been on TV since forever.
“A lot of Shakespeare’s plays start with a father trying to block his daughter’s true love or passion,” explains Ms. O’Mara.
Hmm, I think. Sounds vaguely familiar.
“Okay, is everybody here?” asks the guy with the goatee. He is, indeed, our director. His name is Scott.
“We’re still missing Travis Wormowitz,” reports Ms. O’Mara.
“Right,” says Scott. “Our Puck…”
“Sorry I’m late!” booms Travis, appearing, right on cue, at the top of the staircase. He does some dainty fairy skips down the steps, making a grand, dramatic entrance, while reciting Puck’s final speech from the play.
I could have said the lines with Travis because I’ve memorized them. It’s what we understudies do.
We just don’t always get a chance to say them out loud.
CHAPTER 29
There’s a saying in the theater: There are no small parts, only small actors.
So when it comes time for us to read our fairy scenes with the full cast, I give my five Mustardseed lines everything I have. No way do I want to let my cast down. Even if I had only one line instead of five, I would say it as if the whole show depended on me and that one sentence.
I think it was that first rehearsal of my first Shakespeare show down in that musty church basement that made me decide, once and for all, that I wanted to be a professional performer for the rest of my life—no matter what. As the late, great Ethel Merman once sang, “There’s no business like show business like no business I know.”
The song is correct. And I just had to be a part of that big, crazy showbiz world.
But Travis Wormowitz? I think he wants to be a star. The kind that throws hissy fits and ends up in gossip magazines, usually after punching a photographer.
“Excuse me,” he huffs during our first read-through of the whole play. “But what is a Tartar’s bow? Is that like something fairies wear in their hair?”
I raise my hand.
“What?” snaps Travis.
“Um, according to what I found at the library, a Tartar’s bow was a recurve bow that was shorter than most archery bows.”
“It was also made out of horn and other seriously stiff material,” I continue, “so a Tartar’s bow had more power than a regular bow. More power meant faster arrows. So Puck is basically saying he’ll be really, really, really speedy.”
Everybody laughs. Except Travis Wormowitz, of course.
“Thank you, Jacky Ha-Ha,” he snarls through a fake smile. “That is what they call you at school, isn’t it?”
“Because she’s funny,” says Bill, defending me.
“Hysterical,” sneers Travis. “Tell you what, Jacky: Since your part is so teensy tiny in this show, you can do all my homework for me.”
“Jacky is just doing her job like a pro,” says Scott, the director. “After all, she is understudying the role of Puck.”
“What? Why?”
“For the same reason I’m understudying Latoya’s part,” says Ms. O’Mara. “The show must go on, even if one of our leads can’t.”
“Well, if you play her part, who plays yours?” Travis asks Ms. O’Mara.
“My understudy.”
He rolls his eyes. The guy is extremely babyish. “It seems sort of stupid. All these people learning all these different parts. Everybody just don’t get sick, okay?” He turns to me. “I know I won’t. I’m healthy as a horse. A thoroughbred. The kind that wins races and becomes super-famous, like Seattle Slew!”
“Who’s Seattle Stu?” cracks Jeff. “Never heard of the guy.”
The room laughs.
“Okay, everybody,” says Scott. “Let’s circle back to Shakespeare. Travis, pick it up with your line again, please.”
Travis recites the Puck speech without stopping to ask any more questions about what words mean. He sounds very singsongy, like he did at his audition. But he also sounds like he doesn’t really know what he’s saying. It’s all just words, words, words to him.
And I might not be the only one thinking that way.
Maybe it’s just my overactive imagination, but Scott, Ms. O’Mara, Ms. Sherron—even the Reinhardt twins—are kind of giving Travis a skeptical stink eye!
CHAPTER 30
At the end of the rehearsal, a moody dude with shaggy hair lopes down the steps into the basement with his hands stuffed into the front pockets of his hoodie.
It’s Schuyler! The boy Sophia was gaga over underneath the boardwalk. I recognize his wavy John Stamos hairdo.
“Hey, Aunt Kathy,” he says to Ms. O’Mara.
“Hey, Schuyler,” says Ms. O’Mara.
She wraps her arms around him in a big hug. Instead of hugging back, he keeps his hands tucked inside his pockets.
“Did you have fun today?” Ms. O’Mara asks.
He shrugs.
“What’d you do?”
“Nothin’.”
O-kay. The boy is definitely moody and melancholy. His skin is kind of pale and pasty, too. I suspect he might live in a cave. Too bad Shakespeare Down the Shore isn’t doing Hamlet this summer. Schuyler would be perfect for the title role of the gloomy prince.
“You guys?” says Ms. O’Mara. “This is my nephew, Schuyler.”
“Hey, man,” says Jef
f, reaching out to give Schuyler a cool-dude handgrip. “’Sup?”
(Yes, that’s how we said “What’s up?” in 1991.)
“Hey,” says Schuyler, halfheartedly returning Jeff’s flashy handgrip. “Just so you know, bro—I’m in high school. I don’t hang out with middle school nerds.”
“Schuyler?” says Ms. O’Mara, shaking her head.
“That’s cool,” says Dan. “I won’t hang out with nerds like me when I’m in high school, either.”
Schuyler grins. Slightly. “Sorry, bro. No disrespect.”
“None taken,” says Bill.
“I’m in high school,” says Travis. “You can hang with me. Maybe. But not right now. I need to see my stylist. Gonna get a man-perm so I can play Puck with curly hair.”
Travis bows and makes a flashy exit up the stairs, skipping up two, down one, up two the whole way.
When Travis is gone, Schuyler asks, “How old is that doofus?”
“Sixteen,” says Ms. O’Mara. “Just like you.”
“Wow,” I say. “You’re ancient.”
“He’s only four years older than us, Jacky,” says Meredith.
“Right. Four years. One-third of our entire lives. Do the math, Meredith.”
“No thanks. School’s out.”
“You’re right. But sixteen means he’s still two years younger than my big sister Sophia.”
Schuyler nods, but I can tell he has no idea who Sophia is and why I’m talking about her.
“That’s cool,” is all he says.
“Schuyler’s going to be on the tech crew,” says Ms. O’Mara.
“Awesome,” says Jeff. “Have you checked out the venue yet?”
“Huh?” says Schuyler.
“The stage. It’s the same one they use for the Battle of the Bands.”
“It’s right on the beach,” I add.
“Let’s go have a look,” suggests Dan.
“Yes,” says Meredith. “Let’s go see where we’re going to be rock stars!”
Jeff looks a little sheepish. “Um, I thought we were going to be, you know… fairies.”
“Rock star fairies!” I say, doing my best heavy metal arm pump. “Let’s hit the beach.”
So we take Schuyler down to the Seaside Heights Band Shell—an outdoor amphitheater with a stage built out of risers. There’s no ceiling, so the whole show will take place under the stars. It is awesome. It is my favorite place to be in the whole world.
A stage!
CHAPTER 31
The audience usually brings beach chairs or just sits on blankets,” I tell Schuyler as we check out the stage. “Last summer, I actually saw the Drifters, Gary U.S. Bonds, and Southside Johnny—all right here.”
“I might’ve been wrong about you middle school nerds,” says Schuyler, who seems to be loosening up a little. “You guys are okay.”
“Yes, we are,” says Meredith. “We are also extremely phat.”
(Trust me, girls, phat meant “cool,” not “chubby,” back in the ’90s.)
“And of course,” I tell Schuyler, “the stage is conveniently located right next to the boardwalk. In case, you know, you want to hang out under there with my sister again.”
“Huh?”
“Sophia. Or, you know, Olivia. I think that’s what you called her after Sandfleas growled and chased you away.…”
I can tell from his eyes that a lightbulb just flipped on inside his brain. “You were the girl with the dog.”
“Yep. Still am.”
“Well, aren’t I just the rankest compound of villainous smell that ever offended nostril.”
Now it’s my turn to be confused. “Huh?”
“It’s a Shakespearean insult. Aunt Kathy has been teaching me a bunch of them.”
When he’s done cracking me up with all the Shakespearean insults he’s memorized, Schuyler asks if there’s “anything fun to do around here.”
“Are you kidding?” I tell him. “You see that pier there? It’s called the Funtown Pier. You can’t get more fun than that. Come on. How about we go over to the boardwalk and play a few games?”
“Cool.”
“So you guys—who’s up for a quick game of Ringtoss?”
“It’s rigged,” groans Bill.
“So is the baseball game,” says Jeff.
“And the basketball hoops,” says Dan.
“They’re not rigged,” I say with a sly smile. “You just have to know how to beat ’em.”
“And you do?” asks Schuyler.
I nod. “At least the ringtoss.”
It’s time for Jacky Ha-Ha to show off her special skills and boardwalk superpowers.
The Ringtoss booth is conveniently located directly across from my Balloon Race stand. That means I’ve spent several hours’ worth of fifteen-minute breaks learning how to beat the bottles. To win, you have to land your rubber ring on the neck of a glass bottle crowded into a battalion of bottles all lined up in tight and tidy rows.
“Aim for a close bottle,” I tell everybody. “That way, your ring won’t get knocked off course.” I crouch down. “Try to make sure your ring is on the same plane as the bottle tops before you fling it.”
“Whoa,” says Jeff. “Listen to Ms. Geometry.”
I ignore him. We have to do that a lot with Jeff Cohen.
“Snap your wrist as you fling the ring, like you’re throwin’ a Frisbee, to get as much spin as possible. It’s easier to land on the target cleanly if you’re kind of hovering over it like a UFO. You want it to drop straight down to minimize the bounce factor.”
I toss my ring. It lands on a bottle.
“Woo-hoo!” shouts Dan.
“Jack-ee, Jack-ee,” chants Bill.
“My girl is the bomb,” says Meredith.
Schuyler laughs. “This is so cool.” He goes to grab a ring.
“Sorry,” says the guy running the booth. “We’re closed for inventory.”
He grabs the bucket of rubber rings.
“What?” I say. “Inventory?”
“Yeah. I gotta count the rings. So do me a favor, little lady. Go back to your boss’s booth and ruin his day!”
“Fine. After you give me my prize.”
“Here,” he says, handing me a slip of paper. “It’s a coupon. Ten percent off at Willy B. Williams’s Taffy Shoppe. Enjoy.”
“Huh. That’s where my sister Victoria works. Who else is hungry for chewy tubes of gooey sugar?”
Everybody’s hands shoot up.
“So let’s go see Victoria. And please—nobody call her Vickie. She’ll go nutso.”
Little did I know that our trip to the Taffy Shoppe would totally change my big sister’s life. Forever!
CHAPTER 32
When the six of us stroll into Willy B. Williams’s Taffy Shoppe, we see Victoria busily arranging the different colored and striped taffy pieces in their bins.
And since she knows everything about everything, she’s also boring a tourist family out of their gourds. As she organizes and reorganizes, she gives them an unwanted history lesson, occasionally gesturing with a fistful of candy.
“Saltwater taffy isn’t made with salt water from the ocean like you’d think,” she explains. “So how did it get the misleading name? you’re probably wondering.”
“Um, no,” says the dad. “Not really.”
Victoria remains oblivious. “Allow me to explain. In 1883, a big storm hit Atlantic City. The waves washed over the boardwalk and flooded all sorts of shops, including a candy store. When a young girl came in after the storm, hoping to buy taffy, the owner looked at his soggy merchandise and said, ‘All I have is saltwater taffy.’ The little girl didn’t get the joke. She just bought the saltwater taffy. The store owner thought it was a catchy name. So it just sort of stuck. The same way taffy sticks to your teeth…”
Jeff Cohen’s eyes go wide as Victoria explains the history of the shoppe. His jaw drops. “Wow. That girl is soooo smart.”
“That’s Victoria,” I tell
him. “She’s my sister.”
“Really? She’s so much prettier.…”
I want to slug Jeff in the arm, but I can tell: He’s been hit by an arrow from Cupid’s bow, which is even stronger than that one made by a Tartar.
If Jeff’s heart were a big red balloon, and Victoria’s gaze were a squirt gun, it’d probably be popping right about now.
Jeff actually swaggers forward.
“So, Victoria, do you guys sell Laffy Taffy?”
“Um, no. Just our own.”
“No problemo. You don’t need Laffy Taffy. Because I’ve memorized all the best jokes from their wrappers.”
“Is that so?” giggles Victoria, something I’ve never heard her do before. She’s also twisting her hair around a finger. Will wonders never cease?
Bill, Dan, and Meredith are rolling their eyes. We’ve all heard Jeff recite Laffy Taffy jokes before. He swears the crinkly wrappers are the best joke book ever written.
“Where does the general put his armies?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” says Victoria.
“In his sleevies! What are the strongest days of the week?”
Victoria shrugs.
“Saturday and Sunday,” Jeff tells her. “Every other day is a weekday. What did the finger say to the thumb?”
“I dunno.”
“I’m in glove with you.”
Victoria blushes.
“Me too,” she gasps.
“Huh?” says Jeff.
“I, uh, I’m in ‘glove’ with Laffy Taffy jokes, too.”
Yes, the romantic sparks are definitely sizzling between Victoria and Jeff—even though she’s two years older than him. I guess age doesn’t really matter when you have laughter and taffy and goo-goo eyes.
While we’re all staring at Victoria and Jeff’s love scene in the Taffy Shoppe, which could’ve been written by Shakespeare if, you know, he liked corny jokes, I notice something out of the corner of my eye.
My Life Is a Joke Page 7