“Me!” we both said, and Lisa even pretended to jump up and down like a little kid, which made me laugh. Then she reached out and gave me a light punch on the arm.
“You killed,” she said. Which was super nice of her. But the way she said it was even nicer: all casual, like it was no big surprise. Like one professional to another.
“Thanks,” I said the same way. “You too.”
But all that casualness only lasted about two seconds longer, because then Azure ran up the aisle at top speed and basically hug-tackled me to the ground.
“That was amazing!” she screamed, springing to her feet and offering me a hand up.
“Oh my gosh, when I saw you freeze up at the piano, I almost had a heart attack. And then when you started pulling all those jokes out of your butt, I almost had another heart attack. And when you said the thing about Mr. Allen, I think I actually did have a heart attack!”
Then she looked around and noticed my parents, and the expression on my face, and I could tell she realized that maybe she’d said a bit too much.
“Um, hi,” she said, and gave a little wave.
“This is my friend Azure,” I said. “Azure, these are my mom, my dad, and my sister, Lisa. And her boyfriend, Pierre,” I added, because Pierre was coming up the aisle now, too.
They all shook hands, and then my dad invited Azure and Pierre to come have ice cream with us, and they both said yes.
“Sorry, dude,” she whispered as we all walked through the parking lot. “I let the cat out of the bag, huh?”
“Yeah,” I said, “but don’t sweat it.” I meant it, too. There was no reason to pretend. I’d done enough of that. Besides, I was pretty sure great comedy was based on honesty.
Also, how much cooler was it that I’d made all that stuff up on the spot?
When we got to the ice cream place, I ordered a deluxe banana split, hold the banana, and a side of sea salt to sprinkle on top, Music and Art Academy style.
“We don’t have sea salt,” the girl behind the counter told me, then added helpfully, “This is an ice cream parlor.”
Everybody else went big, too. Pierre and Lisa split a cookie/ice cream/topping concoction so huge that you were supposed to order it by saying “Oink.” Azure got a butterscotch sundae, and even my parents got three scoops apiece.
For a few minutes, we were all too busy gorging ourselves to talk. I saw my mom throw a couple of quick glances at the spiderwebs on Azure’s face, but after six years as an M&AA parent, there wasn’t much that fazed her about fashion.
Finally, when everybody’s ice cream was mostly gone or melted, Pierre leaned back in his chair and said, “So let me get this straight, Yoko Bro-no. That whole thing was improvised, for real?”
“Yup,” I said, popping a final maraschino cherry in my mouth. “Every last word, Bro-nocchio.”
My dad was quiet for a second, and then he said, “So you really did get up there planning to play the piano?”
“Yeah.”
“What happened?”
Suddenly I had a lump in my throat. I guess I was afraid of what my parents were going to think, but I swallowed the lump down and told the truth.
“I just couldn’t. I froze up. The truth is, I kind of hate playing the piano. And I’m really not that good at it.”
“Sure you are,” my mom said. “Honey, you’re so—”
“No,” I said. “I’m really not, Mom. But you know what? That’s okay. I’m good at other things. And today I figured out what one of them is.”
“And we’re proud of you,” my dad said.
“Super proud,” my mom agreed. “We just want you to be happy, Jake. You could be rolling in garbage and yodeling for all we care, if that’s what you’re passionate about.”
“It’s not,” I said.
“Thank goodness,” my mom said, and everybody laughed.
“Music and Art Academy is all about exploring,” said Lisa. “Figuring out what you want to do.”
“So is life,” Azure said, and poured a trickle of melted blackberry ice cream down her throat.
“Totally,” said Lisa. “I mean, I sure didn’t stick to ventriloquism.”
I put down my spoon. “Wait, what?”
“You’re too young to remember,” Lisa said. “But when I started at Music and Art Academy, I thought I wanted to be a ventriloquist. I had this dummy named Mr. Foo-Foo. I only switched to singing when I realized I wasn’t having any fun. Also, I was pretty bad.”
“Oh yeah, you were terrible,” Pierre agreed.
Then he started counting on his fingers. “I tried ceramics, tap dancing, miming, beatboxing, tuba, ceramics again. Heck, I’m thinking of giving up painting and trying my hand at interpretive water ballet right now. It’s about the process, not the results.”
“I think you should stick with comedy, Jake,” Azure declared. “You had everybody in stitches. I told you you were funny.”
“I did have fun up there,” I said, playing it back in my mind. “I felt like myself. I felt real.”
“That came through loud and clear,” said Lisa, who for a magical glitter-pooping unicorn is not a bad sister at all.
“Just imagine how funny you’ll be if you actually sit down and write some jokes,” pointed out Azure, who for a spiderweb-covered, symphony-composing weirdo is a pretty great friend.
“I can’t wait,” my mom and dad said together, then looked at each other and cracked up.
“Neither can I,” I agreed, and spooned the last delicious bite of banana split into my mouth.
Craig Robinson was a lot like Jake growing up—except he would never sit in wet paint. But he did attend Chicago’s first public magnet school, and, like Jake, he is a comedian. Unlike Jake, though, Robinson knows his way around a keyboard and often tours with his band, Craig Robinson and the Nasty Delicious. Robinson is also an actor, best known for his work on NBC’s The Office and in such films as Hot Tub Time Machine, This Is the End, Pineapple Express, and his upcoming dramatic debut Morris from America, which previewed to high critical praise at the Sundance Film Festival. Robinson pulled from his life’s most hilarious moments—there are lots to choose from—and his time as a music teacher to bring Jake the Fake to life. He continues to act, perform, and cheer on the White Sox from his home in Los Angeles.
Adam Mansbach is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of a picture book for adults that has been translated into forty languages and named Time Magazine’s “Thing of the Year,” but whose title cannot be disclosed here. He has also written over a dozen other books, including one that won the California Book Award, one that’s been taught at more than a hundred colleges and universities, and one that’s about a kid trading letters through time with Benjamin Franklin. He recently wrote the screenplay for the movie Barry, which is about President Barack Obama as a college student, and his work has appeared in the New Yorker, the New York Times, Esquire, and on NPR’s This American Life and All Things Concerned. He lives in Berkeley, California, and has a daughter who is already way funnier than him.
Keith Knight is a cartooning genius, which might have helped him create such masterpieces as Jake’s garbage sculpture. He is the recipient of the Eisner Award and the NAACP History Maker award, and is the creator of three highly regarded comic strips: The Knight Life, (th)ink, and The K Chronicles. His art has appeared in various publications worldwide, including the Washington Post, Daily KOS, San Francisco Chronicle, Salon.com, Ebony, ESPN the Magazine, L.A. Weekly, MAD Magazine, and The Funny Times. When not drawing cartoons, Knight has an active life as a social advocate, educator, parent, and roller coaster enthusiast. Knight and his sketch pad reside in Chapel Hill, North Carolina.
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Craig Robinson, Jake the Fake Keeps It Real
Jake the Fake Keeps It Real Page 6