Once upon a time, Mac Hart left New Jersey and went to the University of South Carolina on a baseball scholarship.
He was even drafted by the New York Yankees. Okay, he played for the Oneonta Yankees in Oneonta, New York, but still, it was the Yankees and, technically, they were in New York State. Plus, lots of big baseball stars came out of the Oneonta minor-league team over the years: Don Mattingly, Bernie Williams, Jorge Posada. But not Mac Hart. Instead, he met Big Sydney, got married, put away his glove and cleats, had seven kids, and became a professional lifeguard down the shore in Seaside Heights, New Jersey.
I wish I could’ve seen him play.
“What happened?” Dad asks when he looks down and sees my soggy beach hat filled to the brim with a pool of semidigested junk food.
“W-w-we ate too much?” I say.
“And whose idea was that?”
I raise my hand. “M-m-mine.” I’ve always been a prankster, but never a liar.
Dad just shakes his head. I am a major-league disappointment.
“Come on, girls. I’m driving you home.”
“That’s okay,” I say, stifling a burp because, believe it or not, my stomach is still sort of full. “I’d rather w-w-walk.”
“Young lady,” says my father, whipping off his very dark sunglasses so I can see that he is scowling at me. “You’re in no condition to walk.”
“I’m fine,” I say.
“No, Jacqueline, you are not. You’re coming with me.”
Yes, all of a sudden, I have my father’s undivided attention and I wish I didn’t.
“See you at home!” I say as cheerily as I can while patting my tummy. “The w-w-walk will do me good.”
I turn tail and take off running like a marathoner.
“Jacky!” Dad hollers. “Stop! Stop this instant!”
I don’t stop. I keep running.
Dad starts blowing his whistle.
And I start blowing chunks. While I run.
Never a good idea, guys. You sort of run through your very own smelly Technicolor rainbow.
Which is why I never wore that New York Giants T-shirt again, either.
CHAPTER 7
And that brings us to me climbing the Ferris wheel in Seaside Heights, because I don’t think either of you wants to hear that I spent the rest of my last day of summer sitting in my room thinking about what I did, which is what my father told me to do.
Actually, the whole sitting-in-your-room thing isn’t that bad if you have books, which I did. Especially funny, spoofy, snarky books like Mad About Town and Fighting Mad, written by the “usual gang of idiots” who also write Mad magazine.
Around midnight, when everybody else is asleep, I crawl out my bedroom window. Good thing it’s on the first floor… it makes sneaking out much easier. I wind up with fewer broken bones.
By the way, what I’m doing is extremely dangerous. No one in their right mind would, should, or could really do this. But I promised you I’d tell you the truth, so here I go.
First, I have to weave my way through all the sketchy characters and rowdy college kids bumbling around in the shadows of Seaside Heights after midnight.
And then… I have to climb a Ferris wheel.
Don’t try this at home, kids. Or at the county fair. Or Disney World. Or anywhere there might be a huge wheel made out of steel.
The Ferris wheel in Seaside Heights is on the Funtown Pier, which juts out over the Atlantic Ocean. I creep up on it from the beach, which means my sneakers will be full of sand when I start climbing. I probably should’ve worn socks.
In the daylight, you can tell the gondola cars are painted red, white, and blue. Very patriotic. At night, they just look like gray, kind of gray, and darker gray.
The first half of the climb is actually pretty easy. I ladder up the nicely spaced struts on the support beams that form a triangle to anchor the wheel’s giant axle.
To get to the top, however, I have to hoist myself, monkey-bar style, up the slanted supports between crossbeams like I’m climbing a very slippery rope.
Once more, I’ll remind you that I was crazy when I was twelve.
And fearless.
With one last “mmph,” I swing around and sort of straddle the edge of the wheel and just sit there, staring out at the ocean and the twinkling sky.
It’s beautiful. Almost worth the trip.
I look for signs of my future out on the horizon. It’s kind of dark. Hopefully that’s because it’s one o’clock in the morning and not because my future is extremely grim.
I take in a deep breath, and with the stars and the ocean and God as my witness, I make a solemn vow.
“I am doing this insane thing tonight,” I say to who- or whatever is listening, “because tomorrow, I’m going to start a sane year at school. My first noncrazy year ever. I’m going to fulfill my ‘tremendous potential,’ the one my teachers are always telling me I’m wasting. I’m going to stop being the class clown, smart aleck, and wisenheimer. I’m also going to write more letters to Mom over in Saudi Arabia, visit Nonna in her nursing home more often, and be nicer to Dad and my sisters, especially Riley.
“I also solemnly swear that, this year, I will do a lot of other things I can’t think of right now because I’m perched precariously at the top of this Ferris wheel and the steel is pinching my thighs, which makes it incredibly difficult to think of stuff to solemnly swear about. But you’ll see… I’m going to be a new me. No more Jacky Ha-Ha! This I do solemnly swear, amen.”
To punctuate my promise, I raise my right hand and start howling at the moon.
I mean I’m really AH-WOOing like the Wolf Man.
Even though I just promised I would stop doing funny stuff, I figure the howling is my last big hurrah.
As for the name Jacky Ha-Ha? We’ll get to that in a minute.
First, I have to climb down from the darn Ferris wheel.
CHAPTER 8
Here’s another confession: That particular nickname has been with me since pre-K.
I had a really bad stutter back then. In 1990, I’m more of a stammerer, except when I’m embarrassed or excited or p-p-panicked. Yes, this is why I’ve hated making speeches my whole life. And why I wasn’t too crazy about chatting with my dad on the boardwalk after I’d eaten one of everything, especially with Meredith and Riley watching.
In pre-K, the other kids would ask me what my name was and I’d sputter out “Jacky Ha-Ha-Ha-Ha-Ha-Hart!” They’d laugh so hard, milk and Oreo pieces would come shooting out of their noses.
I didn’t like that. And not just because they were squirting me with soggy cookie crumbs.
Nope, I didn’t like it because those kids were laughing at me, not with me. I needed to turn that around.
So, when I was eight and working my way through elementary school, I took on the role of the class clown. I’d make funny faces, crack smart remarks, and repeat a lot of knock-knock jokes, which, with me, were always kn-kn-kn-knock, kn-kn-kn-knock jokes. The other kids loved them. Especially the way I could make the knock-knock bit last so long and sound so silly.
In third grade, on a particularly good April Fools’ Day, I got away with murder by saying “April Fools!” after every funny thing I said about the teacher’s hair and wardrobe choices. After that epic day, Jacky Ha-Ha-Ha-Hart officially became Jacky Ha-Ha, queen of comedy. Princess of pranks. Wizard of wisecracks.
You get the idea.
All my classmates love it when I say something dumb or crack a joke. I’m also pretty famous for my pranks. For instance, one day, back in fifth grade, we heard we were getting a substitute teacher. Before she came into the classroom, I told everybody to switch seats but answer “Here” when the sub called out the name of the kid who was supposed to be sitting in their seat. Roll call was a riot. The substitute teacher probably still thinks my name is Lori Dobbins.
I can also do an awesome droplet sound. You know—that noise you make by puckering up your lips and flicking your cheek so it sounds li
ke there is a leak drip-drip-dripping somewhere in the room.
Once, during a math pop quiz, I did enough droplets for the teacher to call off the test while the janitor searched inside the ceiling for a toxic chemical spill.
Yep, being Jacky Ha-Ha has made me pretty popular at school (well, not with the janitors). Sure, it’s also landed me in the assistant principal’s office and the detention hall from time to time, but such is the price you pay for fame.
But this is the year I’m going to lose the Ha-Ha from my name and just be regular old Jacky Hart.
After all, I did make a solemn vow at the top of the Ferris wheel with all the angels in heaven listening. That should be enough to make me keep my promise.
Right?
CHAPTER 9
It’s the first day of school, and I should’ve worn my I’M ALLERGIC TO ALGEBRA T-shirt, because the instant Mr. Wymer starts in with the xs and the ys, all I can think is Algebra… WHY?
And once I think it, it only takes a microsecond for the thought to reach my lips, too fast for me to stop it—vow or no vow.
“Why, oh, why, do we need x and y?”
The class cracks up. Even Mr. Wymer smiles. (Teachers are usually pretty cool if, as the class clown, your jokes are semiwitty.)
By the way, I’m pretty good at math. Have been my whole life. I just didn’t get the point of it back then.
“Factoring for y,” Mr. Wymer explains, trying to turn my smart-aleck remark into a teachable moment, “helps us find x.”
Here’s where I should have remembered those angels in heaven and the extremely serious promise I made to them, and sat back down. Instead, I say, “I can find x without y.”
“Really? And how do you find x without knowing the value of y in this equation, Miss Hart?” He picks up a chunk of chalk and writes “x + y = 25.”
“Simple,” I say, gesturing at the blackboard. “X is the first letter you wrote down. See? I found it.”
Two dozen twelve-year-olds howl with laughter.
Mr. Wymer’s ears turn bright red. He’s no longer smiling.
“Very amusing, Jacky. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to continue teaching math to those students who came to class hoping to learn something besides just how funny you are.”
He gives me a look. It’s not a pretty one.
It also makes me stutter.
“Y-y-yes, sir.”
I hate when that happens.
So, for the rest of the period, I plot my revenge. I’m thinking about going with the birdseed-in-the-parking-lot bit. You know, I buy a sack of bird feed and sprinkle it on Mr. Wymer’s car first thing in the morning. When he’s ready to drive home in the afternoon, his car is fully decorated with a ton of white gunk left behind by all the birdies who dropped by for the all-you-can-eat buffet.
“Miss Hart?”
My scheming is interrupted when, with only two minutes left in the period, Mr. Wymer calls me up to the blackboard and hands me a stubby piece of chalk. While I was daydreaming about birdseed, he’d been drawing lines on the board.
“Name a pair of vertical angles,” says Mr. Wymer.
I stare at the lines.
Mr. Wymer is smirking. He knows I haven’t been paying attention for at least fifteen minutes.
I hear a titter rising up behind me.
The math class is taking me back to my pre-K days. The awful memory of kids laughing at me starts replaying in my head.
I put an end to that fast by scribbling on the board.
“There you go, Mr. Wymer,” I say, stepping away to reveal my masterpiece. “I named two of ’em.”
While the class is hooting, I tap the C.
“I was going to name this line Mr. Pointy, but you said you only needed two names. By the way, I also know why you can’t ever find your ‘ex.’ She left. And I know why. Algebra’s boring.”
My classmates erupt in howling laughter as the bell rings. The first day of my new school year is over.
I try my best to blend in with my audience as they stream out of the room.
“Not so fast, Miss Hart,” says Mr. Wymer.
He reaches for the pink pad on his desk.
I know that pink pad.
It means I’ve just earned my first detention for the new school year.
Jeez, I was so close. I almost made it to the bell.
Mr. Wymer hands me my punishment. “Please go to the assistant principal’s office to see Mrs. Turner.”
“But school’s over.…”
He shakes his head. “Not for you, Jacky.”
He doesn’t add the Ha-Ha, but I hear it anyway. One day of school, and I’ve already blown my solemn vow.
CHAPTER 10
Five detentions for one joke?
I can’t believe it. What a total overreaction.
I take the pink slip to the assistant principal’s office.
“Ah, Miss Hart,” says Mrs. Turner. “We’re right back where we left off last June. You, darkening my doorway with yet another pink slip of paper.”
She reaches out and flicks her fingers in a “gimme” gesture.
I turn in my detention notice. She looks at it and makes like she’s impressed.
“Wow. Five big ones? On the first day of school? What’d you do—make fun of Mr. Wymer’s divorce?”
Okay, I need to say something here.
When I cracked that joke about Mr. Wymer and his “ex,” I did not realize that he had just spent his summer vacation going through an ugly divorce from a wife who thought he was boring because all he wanted to do with his life was teach kids like me how to solve math problems.
This is one of the major drawbacks of being quick-witted. You seldom give yourself enough time to fully consider the consequences before you open your mouth and say something hysterically clever (and totally offensive).
“Dumb move, Jacky,” says Mrs. Turner. “And you’re a smart girl. Or you could be.”
Yes, Mrs. Turner is one of those grown-ups who always tell me I’m wasting my “tremendous potential.”
“It was just a joke,” I say. “Jokes are not five-detention crimes.”
“True,” says Mrs. Turner. “You usually have to punch somebody to get five. Or start a food fight in the cafeteria. That’s a fiver for sure.…”
“I didn’t hurt anybody.”
“Actually, Jacky, this time you did.”
“Not on purpose.”
“Doesn’t matter what your intentions were.”
I slump down in a chair. “This is so unfair.”
“Yeah,” says Mrs. Turner. “Kind of reminds me of life. And here’s the kicker, Jacky: You’re way ahead of the curve. You’ve got five big ones and we don’t even start detention hall until next week because all of my teachers are too busy setting up their classrooms and putting together lesson plans to babysit our bad apples.”
“I’m not a b-b-bad apple.”
Mrs. Turner props her elbows on her desk. Drills her eyes into mine.
We’re about to get serious here, folks.
“Look, Jacky,” she says. “You’re a very bright, very funny young girl. I know how hard it is for you when your mom’s away… serving our country…”
How would she know how hard it is? It’s not like she—or anyone—ever asked.
But all I do is stammer. “We’re doing f-f-fine.”
“I’m glad to hear it. But, Jacky, I cannot have you constantly disrupting classes.”
“I’ll do better. I promise.”
“You’ve promised before.”
I take a deep breath. “This time I made a vow.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Last night.”
“Good. Well, I want to help you keep that vow.” She pulls a thin book out of her top desk drawer. “Over the summer, we hired a new teacher for Honors English.”
Honors English? That means I’ll never meet her.
“Her name is Ms. O’Mara. She’s also going to run our drama club. I think you should b
e in the fall production.”
Mrs. Turner slides the book across the desk.
I read the title of the play: You’re A Good Man, Charlie Brown.
“It’s based on the comic strip,” explains Mrs. Turner.
“Yeah,” I say. “I figured. Hey, do you ever think Snoopy looks dead when he’s snoozing on top of his doghouse?” Once I start, I can’t stop. I go on a nervous ramble. “And what’s with Charlie Brown? The guy only has one shirt. Does he even own a pair of pants? I mean, it looks like he’s always wearing shorts… or a dress.…”
My weak jokes don’t sidetrack Mrs. Turner. “You have so much creative energy, Jacky,” she says. “Being in the school play would be an excellent way to channel it into something productive. I’m told Ms. O’Mara knows a lot about theater. Apparently, she was a child star on Broadway.”
“And now she’s a schoolteacher in New Jersey. So much for being a star.”
“Jacky? I’ll make this simple. You have a choice. You can try out for the school play, and if you get in, we’ll forget about this pink slip and you can spend your after-school hours going to rehearsal. Or you can waste those same hours sitting in detention hall. Think about it. Talk it over with your dad.”
“That’s okay, I d-d-don’t really—”
“He’s waiting for you at his office. I told him you’d be dropping by. Don’t keep him waiting.”
Mrs. Turner gestures toward the door.
I glance down at the Charlie Brown script.
It’s a musical.
Jacky Ha-Ha doesn’t sing. Especially not in p-p-public.
CHAPTER 11
I stomp out of school, muttering under my breath.
I cannot believe this onslaught of overreactions.
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