My Life as a Joke Read online

  I think about making a dog-and-bark joke, but the last thing I want to do is get everyone started on puns again, so I stand on the curb and look down the road. Thousands of people are ahead of us, also examining the floats. I had no idea this many people besides my mom would think a day like this was interesting or fun. The floats ARE pretty cool, but each one makes me wonder how people can spend so much time doing something that lasts just one day.

  Even though I have notebooks and notebooks filled with drawings of my vocabulary words, most of my time at school is spent trying to get OUT of work, not volunteering for more. The thought of thousands of people offering to help put together these gigantic projects for the sake of town pride is pretty foreign to me.

  “We should volunteer next year,” Carly suggests, as if reading my mind and trying to change it. “You and Matt are good with glue guns.”

  Carly knows full well that Matt and I mostly use his mother’s glue gun as a pretend ray gun. But the idea of working on one of these floats continues to grow. I imagine Matt and me on the astronomy float, each of us climbing farther to the top until we reach the marigold spaceships, squirting streams of glue across the sky. I picture other volunteers hurling handfuls of tulips and onions, screaming at us for ruining all their hard work.

  “Sounds awesome!” I say, and really mean it.

  Carly’s moved onto the next float—a library scene with stacks of books composed of tiny rocks. Even though it’s vacation, it’s still impossible to get away from books.

  I put my hand to my eyes to shield them from the sun and try to find my parents. They’re standing in front of a makeshift stage, watching three people in tights do something that looks like a cross between mime and ballet. The definition of what my mom thinks of as “art” is broader than anyone else’s I know.

  “So did you make a New Year’s resolution?” Carly asks.

  “Of course not. Did you?”

  “My resolution is to read one book a week for the rest of the school year.”

  “One book a WEEK? Talk about setting yourself up for failure.”

  “What are you talking about?” she argues. “It’s not that much more than I read now.”

  I knew Carly did a lot of reading outside of school assignments, but I wasn’t sure how much. A book a week?! The girl is a reading MACHINE.

  The stack of library books on the float in front of us now taunts me even more. “The only way I could get through a stack of books like that would be to eat them.”

  “Then it’s a good thing they’re made out of lentils.”

  I don’t tell her I thought they were pebbles.

  “If you did make a New Year’s resolution, what would it be?”

  Carly looks at me with actual curiosity; the last thing I want is to disappoint her with some mediocre vow to improve myself. No, this is an opportunity to blow her away with how smart and self-aware I am. A chance to show how much I’ve grown up since we started hanging out together.

  “This is the year I really figure out what I’m going to be when I grow up.”

  Carly nearly chokes on her gum. “Are you insane? You’re only twelve!” She looks me up and down, trying to figure out if she should believe me. “Come on—be serious.”

  That’s a phrase I hate, and I suddenly wonder why I invited Carly along. I mean, she’s one of my best friends but half the time she’s not happy unless everybody’s brain is working at the same breakneck speed as hers. Times like this, hanging out with Carly is worse than doing errands with my mom.

  Truth is, I haven’t spent one second thinking about a New Year’s resolution, let alone what I’m going to be when I grow up. But it was the first thing I could come up with on such short notice. “Besides, resolutions are what grown-ups make and never keep. They’re not supposed to be for kids.”

  She snaps a photo with her cell of the Eiffel Tower and Taj Mahal made out of who-knows-what natural ingredients. “Never mind,” she says. “It doesn’t matter.”

  But I can tell that Carly’s disappointed, and in a strange way, I am too. It would be nice if I had one particular character trait to work on this year; it’s not really too much to ask.

  By the time we get to the float with the penguins made of tiny rosebuds, I’ve decided on a real goal for this year.

  “My New Year’s resolution is to take things more seriously.”

  Carly stops taking pictures. “You’re making fun of me.”

  I tell her I’m not.

  “You expect me to believe that you, Derek Fallon, are going to suddenly be mature?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

  “I don’t believe you.” She goes back to taking photos of the flowery penguins.

  “I’m serious. You wait and see.” The fact that Carly can’t even IMAGINE me acting grown-up is kind of annoying.

  She gives me a long, hard look. “Okay, Derek. THIS I’ve got to see.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  I never in a billion years would’ve verbalized a New Year’s resolution if I’d known my mother was anywhere within earshot.

  She’s smiling and her arms are crossed as if I’M the one she’s now watching perform.

  That’s what I get for opening my big mouth.

  Back to School

  The rest of the vacation goes by much too fast. Thankfully, my parents don’t mention my resolution again, even when I set all the clocks in the house back half an hour just for the fun of it. Mom ended up missing an appointment to de-flea a Rottweiler, and Dad skipped a phone call at work, so needless to say, they were NOT happy. Even though I’d gone the extra mile and changed the time on the oven and the DVR, neither of them complimented my meticulous attention to detail.

  The first person I run into at school is Umberto. He and I got together over break to go to the movies, but I’m shocked to see he’s now sporting a crew cut.

  “Are you joining the military? What’s up?”

  “I wanted something to mark the New Year,” Umberto says. “Couldn’t think of what else to do.” He spins his wheelchair around me, checking out my latest duds. “Looks like somebody got new corduroys for Christmas, Mr. All Dressed Up.”

  I don’t tell him that wearing something besides jeans and one of my skateboard T-shirts is MY plan for the New Year.

  Matt sneaks up behind me and grabs my new pants by the waist as if he’s going to give me a wedgie. “All dressed up and nowhere to go,” he says. “You got a big date with McCoddle?”

  I fake-punch him in the arm. Ms. McCoddle’s been teaching in our town since we were in kindergarten; even though she’s fun with superblond hair, the thought of trying to impress her with my new outfit is absurd. (That’s not to say I don’t look good, because I do.)

  Matt tells us all about going to Six Flags and how his cousin got sick—twice—while riding the giant roller coaster. “He was sick as a dog after the first ride, but when I dared him to go on again, he did!” Matt shakes his head in disbelief. “He’s my cousin and he’s great, but the guy’s a sucker for punishment.”

  Umberto fills us in on the computer program he worked on over vacation. It seems pretty complicated to me, but Umberto actually created a fun bowling game in less than a month.

  “When you knock over the pins, it starts raining in the bowling alley,” Umberto says. “It’s pretty awesome, if I do say so myself.”

  Matt and I agree to go to Umberto’s house this week to check it out.

  “Nice outfit,” Carly says.

  I yell thanks, not sure if she’s making fun of me or not. As she turns in to the classroom, Carly shoots me a quick wink, which scares me more than ten samurai warriors charging down the hall with swords drawn. Is she goofing on me or do I seem more grown-up in these clothes? Somebody better explain what’s going on because I don’t have a clue.

  “Okay, class.” Ms. McCoddle leans against the board and faces us with a relaxed smile. “No more vacation. It’s time to get back to work. But first
, an announcement. We’re having a toy drive.”

  “Hel-lo! Christmas is over!” Matt shouts through cupped hands.

  Ms. McCoddle must’ve had a restful vacation because she shoots Matt another calm smile instead of reprimanding him. “It’s not a holiday drive. This is for the new children’s shelter. The Parent Association has pledged a playroom full of new toys, and they’re looking for volunteers at all the schools. Anyone interested?”

  Usually this is where Carly’s or Maria’s hand would shoot up before anyone else’s. But Maria’s still not back from vacation, and Carly’s calendar is overflowing with so many extracurricular activities, she couldn’t be on one more committee if she cloned herself.

  “Any volunteers?” Ms. McCoddle asks again. “One of the boys for a change?”

  Here it is, right in front of me—the perfect chance to show how grown-up I can be, to think about other people besides myself. As if to emphasize the point, Carly turns around in her seat, shooting me an expression that says, “WELL?”

  “I’ll do it,” I tell Ms. McCoddle. “I’ll be happy to.”

  From the seat behind me, Matt coughs “brownnoser” loudly into his hand.

  Much to my eternal gratitude, Ms. McCoddle doesn’t make a big deal out of me volunteering by turning it into some lame teaching moment. “Very good,” she says. “I’ll give you the contact information after class.” She takes out her Language Arts textbook and tells us to turn to page 124.

  Matt tosses papers at my head. When I turn around to look at him, he whispers, “Is the plan to keep all the good toys for yourself, especially the video games?”

  Sooner or later I’m going to have to tell him this is all part of the new me. Hopefully, he’ll like this version as much as the old one.

  There’s No F-U-N in the Word “Committee”

  My mother, of course, makes an unnecessary fuss out of the fact that I volunteered to help the children’s shelter. As expected, she brings up my New Year’s resolution.

  “I can tell this is going to be the year you really start to figure things out,” she says proudly.

  “It’s not like I’ve been walking around CONFUSED for twelve years,” I say. “Besides, I’m not curing a disease. I’m just collecting toys.”

  “Well, I think it’s a step in the right direction.”

  “As opposed to what—the normal maze I walk around in?”

  She ignores me as I hoped she would and goes back to paying bills.

  Because the committee meeting is at my old elementary school, I skateboard over like I used to in fifth grade, stopping at the newsstand to buy enough candy to fill my pockets the way I did then too. It’s nice that some things remain the same.

  I can say the same thing about Mrs. Sweeney, still manning the school’s reception desk. She’s as tiny as a bird with giant tortoise-shell glasses. I always thought she’d make a great cartoon character. When she sees me, she gives me the same salute she did every day of my elementary school career. I have no idea how our routine started, but I take comfort in the fact that both of us recall it now. I head to the cafeteria kind of late, hoping the meeting won’t last more than a few minutes.

  A woman is speaking to twenty other volunteers seated at the long wood tables. Mrs. Pankow, who always gave me extra gravy, holds up a spatula from behind the counter and waves. I wave back and sneak into the last row.

  As I glance around the room, I realize I’m the only kid here. I thought Ms. McCoddle said there would be a volunteer from every school—is this another case of me paying only partial attention? I look around at all the moms and one dad; most are taking notes.

  “And here’s our youngest volunteer,” the woman in front says as she gestures toward me. She scans the papers clutched in her hand. “You must be Derek. Welcome.”

  I nod half-heartedly. This was a giant mistake.

  “Does anyone have any questions so far?” the woman asks.

  Yes. WHAT HAVE I GOTTEN MYSELF INTO?

  I politely raise my hand. “Sorry I’m late. Have you talked about what everybody’s job is yet?”

  She clacks over to me in the highest heels I’ve ever seen. Movie-star high heels, not normal-person shoes. “Here’s your handout, honey.”

  Her singsong voice has a trace of a New York accent, and her red nails are buffed shinier than the Mustang our neighbor Mr. Bosworth keeps under a tarp in his driveway.

  “There are lots of categories—books, video games, DVDs. You’re in charge of dolls.”

  “What?!”

  But the woman plows ahead as if she hasn’t heard me. “My cell and e-mail are on the bottom of the info packet,” she says. “Feel free to give me a call with any questions. See you next week—and most of all, thank you!”

  Is this what happens when you stop for penny candy—you get stuck with the worst job on the planet? (Maybe it was a bad idea to sit on the milk crate and read those comic books too.)

  I approach the woman with the red talons and the skyscraper shoes. “Um, excuse me. I was just wondering if I could switch to the DVD or video-game group.”

  “More fun than dolls, is that it?”

  “I feel that’s where I’d be most helpful,” I answer.

  “Sure. What kid your age wouldn’t want to collect a pile of video games and DVDs? Sorry, Derek. You snooze, you lose. Dolls it is.” She tilts her head and raises her eyebrows as if to say, Yes, this is a teaching moment. I hope you’re getting something out of it.

  I nod but my head isn’t saying Yes. It’s saying I didn’t learn a thing. I’m going to collect the crummiest, creepiest dolls I can find until you reassign me to a better group.

  She gathers up her things, thinking that we’re done.

  We’re not.

  Ribbit

  The next week, Ms. McCoddle points to a cardboard box in the back of the room labeled DOLLS in giant letters. “The head of the committee dropped this off. She said she hopes you’ll have lots of donations for the meeting next month.”

  Not only do I have to go to another meeting with the woman with razor fingernails and stilts, but it seems I’m expected to cart dolls around all day too. I am DEFINITELY recruiting Carly to help me out with this.

  But it turns out Carly’s got her own activities to worry about, and Matt and Umberto want no part of what was supposed to be a great plan to be more grown-up.

  “Why don’t you put the box near your locker?” Ms. McCoddle suggests. “That way people know where to take their donations.”

  I’m usually too busy drawing at my desk to pay attention to the morning announcement, but when I hear my nemesis, Swifty, snicker over the intercom, I fear for the worst.

  “Dolls! Dolls! Dolls!” Swifty announces. “Bring your new and gently used dolls to Derek Fallon this week. Derek loves to play with dolls and he wants yours!”

  I slink underneath my desk, wishing I could disappear. What makes it worse is that Matt and Umberto are laughing along with the others.

  “Seriously,” Swifty continues, “Derek is pretending to collect dolls for the new children’s shelter. But he really has a giant doll collection at home.”

  Everyone in school can hear Principal Demetri running toward the mic.

  “So bring all your Barbies, your American Girls, your Raggedy Anns. Derek wants to play with all of them!”

  By the time Mr. Demetri yanks the mic away from Swifty, the whole school is laughing. This is why most people don’t volunteer for things—that and the WORK.

  The flyer the committee sent home last week must’ve done the trick because a few kids in my class—make that the girls—take out dolls from their desks and pass them down. Matt takes a stewardess Barbie and dances it across my desk. “Coffee, tea, or me?” he asks in a shrill voice. I grab the doll out of his hand and shove it under my chair with the others.

  What a nightmare.

  Just when I think things can’t get any worse, Ms. McCoddle tells us to grab the handouts from our last class. Please don’t ask
us to read out loud, I think. PLEASE!

  But things continue to slide into the abyss. Not only is Ms. McCoddle making us read aloud but she calls on me first.

  The story is about a rebellion in a big city, and there are lots of words I don’t know. I realize I’m behind in my vocabulary illustrations and pray Ms. McCoddle doesn’t stop and ask me to define any of those hard words.

  I look up at Carly who gives me a reassuring smile to keep going. I know I sound like I’m back in elementary school, but I put one word in front of the other until Ms. McCoddle thankfully asks Kevin to pick up where I left off.

  On our way to science, I gather up my strength and ask Carly if I sounded like a baby. “Not everyone reads fast,” she says. “Besides, it’s about how much you understand, not how fast you read.”

  It’s a generous bit of feedback, especially since my comprehension is almost as bad as my reading speed. At least I can make up for it in science, which I’m a little bit better at than English.

  Ms. Miller is very excited and tells us that a grant she applied for got approved, so we’re starting a new section. She passes around latex gloves with as much gusto as if she’s handing out free money. I’m eager to hear what the new project is, but the way my morning’s gone so far, I can’t say I don’t feel a bit uneasy.

  She actually makes us close our eyes; when she tells us to open them, she points to trays of dead frogs. A few of the kids groan and say, “Ewwwwww.” But Umberto, Matt, and I are totally psyched.