CHAPTER 27

 

Travis Wormowitz is going to be our Puck,” Ms. O’Mara tells me. “He handled the language a little better.”

I nod. It’s true.

If the part went to the actor who mangled the language best, I would’ve been a shoo-in.

“Travis was better prepared than me,” I say.

“Yes, Jacky, he was,” says Ms. O’Mara, because she’s super-honest that way and doesn’t sugarcoat stuff.

I’m on my break from the booth. We’re both sipping Cokes out of waxy cups.

Was this the big, colossal mistake I made that summer? (Blowing the Puck audition, not sipping Coke out of a waxy cup.)

Well, it was a big one, girls. No doubt about it.

But, believe it or not, that wasn’t the biggest blunder I made that particular summer. This was not my colossal failure—even though, at the time, it sure felt like it.

“We’d still love for you to be in the show,” says Ms. O’Mara.

“As one of the fairies?”

She nods. “We’d also like you to understudy the part of Puck.”

“Understudy? What’s that? Do I have to crawl under Travis and study math or something?”

“No, Jacky,” Ms. O’Mara laughs. “As the understudy, you would learn the role of Puck—all the lines, all the staging—so you’d be able to replace Travis if, for whatever reason, he couldn’t go on.”

“You mean like if someone accidentally on purpose tripped him while he was Rollerblading and he went flying off the boardwalk, flipped over the railing, and sailed down to the beach, where he hit a concrete bench and twisted his ankle so badly he ended up in the hospital annoying all the nurses?”

Now it’s Ms. O’Mara’s turn to give me Mom’s patented arched-eyebrow look. (It’s like all grown-ups share the same scowl.)

“Jacky?” she says.

“Kidding,” I say, throwing up both hands.

“It’ll be a great learning experience,” Ms. O’Mara tells me. “When you memorize words…”

“I don’t have as much trouble saying them,” I finish for her.

“Exactly.”

Then I start thinking about what Dad said. I am really good at my job in the booth. It may not be Shakespeare, but it’s fun. I make people laugh. I make money. I help Mom and Dad achieve their dreams.

But it’s a summer job, and summer lasts only three months. What am I supposed to do the other nine months of the year? Repair punctured balloons for the coming season? Learn more clown jokes? Clean out squirt gun nozzles with bent safety pins?

And do I really want to be a big fish in a little pond all my life?

“Which fairy do you guys want me to play?” I ask.

“Mustardseed.”

“That’s the one who only has one line. ‘And I,’ right?”

“She has four other lines,” says Ms. O’Mara. “‘Hail.’ ‘Mustardseed.’ ‘Ready.’ And ‘What’s your will?’”

“Five lines?”

“Plus all the group lines.”

I nod. It isn’t very much, but it’s what I deserve, considering I didn’t prepare for the audition.

“It’ll give you more time to memorize the Puck speeches,” says Ms. O’Mara.

I can tell she really wants me to do this. I also have a feeling Dad (and probably Mom) really won’t want me to. It might interfere with the long-term boardwalk barker career plans they have for me.

“When’s the first rehearsal?” I ask.

“Tomorrow. The same church. The same basement.”

I think about it for another half second and then give the only answer Jacky Ha-Ha possibly could:

“I’ll see you there, Ms. O’Mara.”