“Some said Sonny was a strange bird,” I began solemnly. “But Sonny was just a little cuckoo.” I paused and held up a box of cereal. “He was the Cocoa Puffs Cuckoo Bird.”
I stood center stage, looking at the small audience in the auditorium. Dad, Zeydeh, and Benny sat in the third row. There were other families, too—enough to fill the center seats of four rows. The Big Three sat in the front: Mrs. Lee, my judge; Mrs. Clancy, my timekeeper; Mrs. Doris Yeats, my future.
People said you could feed off laughter and it was true. Standing up there, I felt like a human Pac-Man—swallowing up bites of laughter and growing stronger. I could hear Zeydeh’s laugh—a low rumble that always sounded on the verge of exploding into a cough but never did. And Dad. He’d heard the eulogy so many times he could probably recite it, but he still laughed like the first time. The rest of the audience was laughing, too.
I kept my face straight and blinked dramatically, pretending to dab at a tear with a white lace hanky I’d borrowed from Mom. I wore black pants and a black shirt just to set the mood.
“Sonny struggled to live a normal life. He tried low-carb diets, hypnosis, and years of therapy. But in the end, he always gave in to his love for the puffs of cocoa.”
I paused to breathe in more laughter and launched into the details of Sonny’s life. The words flowed as I moved across stage—I was totally in the zone. I dabbed a last time at my eye, then said, “One taste of the munchy, crunchy chocolaty puffs sent Sonny flying high. Until one day, he flew just a little too close to the ceiling fan. Now, just like Sonny”—another pause—“mourners everywhere are falling to pieces.”
There was a burst of groans and laughter, then applause. I smiled and bowed to the front row, careful to make eye contact, then walked down the steps and took my seat next to Sarah.
“Nice,” she whispered.
“Thanks.” I tried not to beam. Mrs. Yeats had been smiling—definitely smiling! Andrew Sawyer was halfway through his ode to Odie—a pet goldfish—before I felt the ground under my feet again.
Then Andrew took his seat and Devon climbed the stairs. He wore a suit—coat, tie, the whole works. I had a sudden image of Devon in a tuxedo. Cooler than cool—but hot. Like James Bond before he got old. Devon’s level of “hotness” was a daily afternoon-break topic with the other girls in class. I never said anything. I couldn’t exactly deny it. Still, I secretly hoped he’d show up today with a huge zit on his chin. Did guys like Devon ever get zits?
“Flighty at times, but with a heart as big as his beak. That was our cuckoo.” Devon launched into his eulogy with a seriousness that should have made me gag. But he pulled off the whole sensitive-guy thing. When he finished, I had to admit he was good.
I just didn’t have to admit it to him.
I stood to let him slide in past me.
“A standing ovation?” he said, pretending to look flattered.
“You were good,” I muttered. “But not that good.”
He grinned.
I rolled my eyes. He couldn’t even take an insult the right way. I made myself as skinny as possible so he could pass with no contact, but my face still felt warm for some stupid reason.
Twenty minutes later, everyone had presented and Mrs. Lee had tallied up all our scores. She stood at the edge of the stage, a notepad in her hands. “First of all,” she said, “nice job, everyone. And thank you, family and friends. It always adds an element of reality to have an audience.” She looked down at her pad. “I’ll have in-depth notes for each of you, but for now, I’m pleased to announce our top three. In third, Sarah McCloud.”
I shot Sarah a big smile and a thumbs-up. Then I sat forward and crossed my fingers.
“Second place, Ellie Taylor.”
Oh God! It was like someone had taken wet fingers and pinched out the flicker of hope inside me. Zzipt. Gone. Dark. I plastered on a fake smile, but I had to close my eyes against what I knew was coming next.
“And the winner,” Mrs. Lee said, “is Devon Yeats.”
That was that. My shoulders slumped in defeat. Not only had I lost, but I’d lost to Devon. It was only the first week of camp, but it might as well be over. I might as well write another eulogy. For me.