CHAPTER 13

 

The very next morning, on the first day of what was supposed to be my summer vacation, I report for duty at the Balloon Race booth.

I was also in charge of making sure Emma had breakfast. She wanted pizza. Cheese pizza. Good thing we had some in the fridge.

Since school’s out, mobs of middle school, high school, and college kids are already cruising up and down the boardwalk.

“Okay, Funny Girl,” says Vinnie, rubbing his tiny hands together like a greedy raccoon. “Here come the suckers. Start reeling them in.”

My new boss likes to wear a white tank top and a thick gold necklace with a medallion the size of a hood ornament dangling from its ropy chain. I think he also combs his back hair.

Anyway, he leans back against a wall, wrapping his arms around a tin money box like he’s hugging it.

I start my spiel with a little riff on an old Motown hit. “Ladies and gentlemen, there’s nothing worse than the tears of a clown when people shoot him in the face with squirt guns. Bozo goes bananas. It’s pop-goes-the-weasel time. Step right up. Pretend it’s Ronald McDonald and he won’t tell you what’s in a Big Mac’s secret sauce.…”

We do a very brisk morning business.

“Take a lunch break, kid,” Vinnie tells me around one. “You earned it. I already doubled the take from yesterday when youse was at school.”

I meet Meredith and Bill at the pizza place that’s sort of in between all our jobs. We each grab a slice and a cup of soda on ice.

“How was your morning?” I ask.

“Slow,” says Meredith. “Nobody really wants meatball subs and cheese fries for breakfast.”

“I sold five T-shirts,” says Bill. “Three that said ‘Stupid.’ Two with the finger pointing sideways that said ‘I’m with Stupid.’”

“Guess one of the ‘Stupids’ really was,” I quip.

“Definitely.”

We’re all stuffing pizza into our mouths when, surprise, Ms. O’Mara comes over to our picnic table balancing a red plastic tray. She’s having a calzone, which is sort of like a slice of pizza folded over on top of itself.

“Hey, guys,” she says.

“Um, what are you doing here?” I ask.

She shrugs. “School’s out. I had the day off. I’m on vacation for two whole months. Thought I should eat some vacation food, which, by the way, is ten times better than cafeteria food. I also wanted to talk to you guys some more about the Shakespeare show.”

I lean back and fake a huge, arm-stretching yawn. “Bo-rrring…”

Bill and Meredith giggle.

“Jacky,” says Ms. O’Mara, pulling a funny frown face, “you’re not giving poor Bill a chance. Don’t say he’s boring.”

“Do you think I’m boring, Jacky?” says Bill.

“Of course not. You’re, you know… practical.”

“Isn’t that another word for boring?”

“You guys?” says Ms. O’Mara. “I meant Bill as in William as in Shakespeare. For instance, did you know that in Shakespeare’s day, he had to make everybody in his whole audience happy? From the rich nobles up in the galleries to the lowly groundlings down in the pit.”

“What are groundlings?” asks Meredith. “Are they like Gremlins?”

“I love that movie,” I say.

“Groundlings,” says Ms. O’Mara, “were rowdy theatergoers who paid a penny to stand on the ground at the foot of the stage while the more, shall we say, sophisticated folks sat upstairs in cushioned seats. The richer you were, the higher your box seat. And if Shakespeare didn’t make the groundlings laugh, guess what happened?”

“He felt terrible,” I say, because that’s how I feel when I tell a joke and nobody even chuckles.

“I’m sure he did. But his actors had it worse. They had to dodge a barrage of rotten fruit and vegetables.”

“Seriously?” says Bill.

“Yep,” says Ms. O’Mara. “If Shakespeare’s audience didn’t like his shows, they let him know it. They voted with their produce.”