When the bell rings, I head down to the cafeteria, where it’s chicken nuggets, buttered noodles, and peas day. By the way, I think schools are the only places in America that actually have buttered noodles on the menu.
I glance over at Stevie Kosgrov, who’s sitting all by himself. Peas are bouncing out of his spoon again. He really needs to learn how to spear them with his fork.
“You shaking in your boots like your cousin, Crip?”
Uh-oh. It’s Lars Johannsen.
He has six cartons of chocolate milk on his tray. There must be a bunch of sixth graders eating lunch without the aid of a refreshing beverage today.
“I wish I could shake in my boots,” I tell Lars. “That would mean my legs were working again.”
“You have a smart mouth.”
“I guess. Too bad you’ll never know what it feels like to have an intelligent body part.”
“My fist doesn’t need to be smart,” he says, cocking it back. “It just needs to hurt.”
“Mr. Johannsen?”
Finally.
Mr. McCarthy, aka Mr. Sour Patch, comes over. He’s the vice principal at Long Beach Middle School and loves disciplining kids so much that he volunteers for lunch duty. Every day. It’s sort of his hobby.
Finally, Johannsen shuffles away.
I join Pierce, Gaynor, and Gilda at our regular table.
“Where’ve you been?” asks Gilda. “I was looking everywhere for you.”
I don’t want to tell her (or anybody else) about my million-dollar dilemma. So I give a very vague reply: “I had this thing. With Uncle Frankie.”
“I had a thing once,” says Gaynor. “It was in between my toes.”
“Was it a fungus?” asks Pierce. “Because I had a fungus thing once.”
“This wasn’t a fungus thing,” I say loudly. I turn to Gilda. “So, why were you looking for me?”
Gilda’s eyes brighten the way they always do before she unleashes another brainstorm.
Stand back. This could get intense.
With Gilda, it usually does.
Chapter 14
LIGHTS! CAMERA! GILDA!
This is so fantabulous!” Gilda gushes.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“I saw this on the Internet. Printed it out.”
She hands me a piece of paper she’s folded and unfolded like a jillion times. Maybe she’s taking up origami.
“It’s a kids’ funny shorts contest,” says Gilda.
“You mean like boxer shorts?” I ask. “The ones with funny stuff printed all over them like rubber duckies or Homer Simpson’s face?”
Now everybody at the table is silently staring at me.
“Yo, Jamie,” says Gaynor. “You have Homer Simpson underwear?”
“No, I just—”
“This is nothing like that,” says Gilda, thankfully cutting me off and moving on. “Short means a short film. For this contest, my finished movie has to be between twelve and fifteen minutes long. The winner gets a summer internship at UCLA film school, plus a shot at a full-ride scholarship.”
“That’s incredible,” I say.
“I know.” Gilda is beaming. “What the Planet’s Funniest Kid Comic Contest did for you, this contest could do for me. Minus, of course, the million dollars.”
Right, I think. Of course, I didn’t actually win a million bucks, either. It was an “advance,” which might soon become a “retreat.” But Gilda and the guys don’t need to know about that.…
“Hey,” I say, “a full-ride scholarship is a pretty awesome prize.”
“And UCLA is my dream school! Tons of famous movie directors went there for college!”
“Cool.”
“And you’re going to be my star, Jamie. Gaynor and Pierce will be my crew.”
“I’m on camera,” says Pierce.
“I’m on lights,” says Gaynor. “And bongos. If, you know, there are any bongos in the flick.”
I need to stall a little. I might not be able to star in Gilda’s movie if I decide to say yes to the TV pilot, which I might need to do to save Uncle Frankie’s diner and Smileyville 2. But it doesn’t feel right to disappoint a girl you once kissed. More on that later.
Wow. Life sure was easier back in the good old days. (That would be this morning.)
“So, uh, what’s the movie going to be about?” I ask Gilda.
“Not sure yet. I’m bouncing a bunch of ideas around. But Vincent O’Neil volunteered to write jokes for you.” Hoo-boy. Vincent O’Neil spends most of his time cracking stale jokes and telling everybody he’s a million times funnier than me.
But even with corny Vincent O’Neil jokes, if the million dollars wasn’t an issue, I’d rather star in Gilda’s fifteen-minute film instead of my own BNC sitcom pilot.
Why?
Well, can I let you guys in on a little secret?
Can I be totally honest with you?
I’m nervous. Maybe I am shaking in my boots like Lars Johannsen said, even though I don’t wear boots. They make my feet sweat.
What if I do the TV pilot and it flops?
What if Jamie Funnie is totally Unfunnie?
What if I bomb?
My comedy career would be over. Forever. I probably couldn’t even get a gig at the grand opening of a gas station.
That’s the number one problem with show business. Every chance to hit the big time is also a chance to flop. When you reach for the stars, sometimes you fall out of your chair and wind up flat on your face.
And I don’t really want a broken nose to go along with my busted legs.
Chapter 15
SMILEYVILLE TURNS INTO TINSELTOWN
After school, I head home, where the Smileys are buzzing about the possibility of a Jamie Funnie TV sitcom.
It turns out that after their meeting with Uncle Frankie ended, the Hollywood crew came to Smileyville and made some pretty hefty promises. I guess they want everybody in what’s left of my family pressuring me to sign that contract.
“Meryl Streep is going to play me,” says Mrs. Smiley, putting her hands over her heart. “I wonder what kind of accent she’ll use.”
Mr. Smiley struts into the kitchen and, believe it or not, he’s smiling.
“I’m Brad Pitt,” he says. “And the director wants me to give Brad tips on what it’s like to be me. So I’ve started taking notes. Did you know I brush my teeth with my left hand?”
According to the BNC-TV casting director, a couple of child stars from the Disney Channel are eager to play the younger Smiley kids. And Stevie?
“They’re in negotiations with Dwayne Johnson,” gushes Mrs. Smiley.
I don’t believe it. “The Rock?”
She nods eagerly.
“No way is The Rock playing Stevie,” I say. “He’s too old.”
“Not if they use makeup,” says Mr. Smiley.
“And green screens,” adds Mrs. Smiley. “That’s how they do all sorts of special effects. Green screens and camera tricks and makeup.”
I nod very slowly. “Really. Who told you that?”
“Brad Grody. The director on the project. He says that’s how they made Yoda look like an old man in the Star Wars movies even though he was really played by a very talented toddler.”
“Yoda was a puppet,” I say.
Mrs. Smiley shakes her head. “Not according to the folks from Hollywood. And I’m sorry, Jamie, but I think they know a little bit more about movie magic than you do.”
That night, I’m in my garage bedroom when Stevie actually knocks on the door instead of just barging in.
“I need a favor,” he says, sort of timidly.
I arch an eyebrow. Stevie has never asked me for a favor before. And he’s never been timid in his whole life.
“Um, what do you want?” I ask.
“When The Rock gets here to play me in the TV show, can he, like, be my bodyguard, too?”
“What?”
“He has all those muscles. I need to borrow a few.
To scare off Lars Johannsen.”
“Stevie, you don’t need The Rock. If a bully is bothering you, just ignore him.”
“Well, how do you do that? How do you ignore a moose of a kid who follows you all around town and dumps a sixty-four-ounce Big Slurp in your lap? And what about when he sticks your head down a toilet and flushes it? How do you ignore that?”
I don’t say anything.
“Come on, tell me. What’s your secret? How do you ignore a bully when he’s picking on you?”
I still don’t answer.
Because, yep, I’m ignoring him.
Chapter 16
TAKE A WALK (OR ROLL) ON THE BOARDWALK
Later that night, I roll out of the garage and head down to the boardwalk.
The boardwalk is an excellent place to just sit and think. With the stars up above and the surf pounding against the shore, you can be all alone with your thoughts.
Unless, of course, someone is already sitting on your favorite bench.
Which tonight someone is. Not that I actually sit on the bench. I just like to park next to it. The streetlamp lighting is very moody. And the moths dive-bombing into the bright white bulb can be extremely entertaining.
As I roll closer, I realize that the shadowy bench sitter is one of my favorite people, Cool Girl.
Well, that’s what I call her, because she’s just always so supercool. Nothing fazes her. Also, she has no filter. She always tells the truth, even if you’d rather hear a nice fluffy lie.
Cool Girl’s real name is Suzie Orolvsky. In the country where her ancestors lived, they had a severe vowel shortage one winter and everybody fled to America.
By the way, remember how I told you I kissed Gilda once? Well, I’ve kissed Cool Girl, too. And once, she kissed me. Yes, I keep a scorecard.
The main reason I like her so much? Cool Girl is the one person who I never, ever have to make laugh. She likes it when I’m just me instead of Jamie the Joker.
“Hiya, Jamie,” she says when I roll up beside her.
“Uh, hi,” I sort of stammer. “Didn’t expect to bump into you out here.”
“Ditto” is all she says.
Then neither one of us says anything else for a while. We just sit and listen to the soothing sounds of the ocean.
“So,” Cool Girl finally says, “trying to make a tough decision?”
“How’d you know?”
She shrugs. “You have a certain grim look, Jamie.”
I smile. It’s a decent pun. “You must hang out here at night all the time.”
“Not really. Not in the winter.”
“Speaking of winter…”
“Jamie? No jokes. You can’t make the tough choices if you’re always hiding behind your next punch line.”
So I don’t tell her the number one problem with snowshoes. (They always melt.)
“Okay,” I say, “here’s what’s going on. My wildest dream is about to come true. I have a chance to star in my very own TV sitcom.”
“You know, Jamie,” says Cool Girl when I finish, “I’ve never been all that impressed by what you’ve done or what you’ve accomplished.”
“Really?”
“Nope. What impresses me is who you are: a sweet kid with a huge heart who’s always trying to brighten everybody else’s day. Like what you did to help out your uncle after the hurricane trashed his diner. You gave him all that money. Who cares if it wasn’t really yours to give? It was still totally amazing.”
“Thanks,” I say.
We sit quietly for a few more minutes.
I break the silence.
“So, um, are we going to kiss again?”
“Don’t think so.”
“Yeah. Me neither.”
Chapter 17
WHO WANTED TO BE A MILLIONAIRE?
The next day, I’m still mulling things over on my way to school.
Do I say yes to the TV show to save Uncle Frankie’s diner? If I do, I run the risk of it being a flop and killing my comedy career.
Or do I say no to Joe Amodio and remain a semi-anonymous nobody who, once upon a time, used to be a somebody? At least I’d get to be a normal kid—which, frankly, is all I’ve really wanted ever since I wound up in this chair.
The second I hit homeroom, Vincent O’Neil starts pitching me “fresh material” for Gilda’s short film.
“Big concept,” he says, framing the air the way Joe Amodio did. “Bring back snappy patter. You’re an old-fashioned vaudeville comedian. You wear a funny hat. A mustache. Maybe you walk with a cane.”
“Um, I don’t walk.”
“Right. Forget the cane. Forget the walking. We’ll get you a small dog instead.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know. Charlie Chaplin sometimes had dogs in his movies.”
“So this is going to be a silent movie?”
“What?” says Vincent. “If it’s silent, how can anyone hear the snappy patter?”
“But Charlie Chaplin—”
“Forget Chaplin. Forget the dog.”
“Already forgotten.”
“You, Jamie Grimm, are the new Gru!”
“From Despicable Me?”
“Right.”
“We can’t do that,” I say. “It’s already a movie. We’d end up in joke-thief jail.”
This is it. The final straw. The one that broke the camel’s back when he ordered a milk shake. I’m going to say no to everybody.
To Gilda.
To the TV pilot.
To the elementary-school kids, who don’t even know about my idea for a local comedy contest.
But then Gilda Gold comes into the room.
I have never seen her look so happy.
“You guys,” she says, “I just heard from the Funniest Kids’ Shorts on the Planet people. They are sooooo impressed that I know you!”
“Really?” says Vincent.
“Not you. Jamie. They told me your big news!”
Uh-oh.
“They did?”
“How come you didn’t tell us you were going to star in your own sitcom called Jamie Funnie?”
“Well…”
“Doesn’t matter. They’re super amazed that the star of his own network sitcom pilot has also agreed to star in my short film! They said that with Jamie Grimm playing the lead, I can skip the preliminary screening process and send my video straight to the final judges!”
I’m smiling on the outside. Sweating on the inside. Actually, I’m sweating a little on the outside, too.
“So when do you start shooting the BNC pilot?” Gilda asks eagerly.
“Soon.”
So now I have a chance to save Uncle Frankie and the Smileys and to help Gilda.
Even Cool Girl says she likes me best when I do nice stuff for other people.
I don’t think I have a choice here. I take a deep breath and pull the BNC contract out of my backpack and sign it.
Even though the only pen I can find is a chewed-up old Bic.
Chapter 18
SIGNED, SEALED, DELIVERED
During lunch, Mr. Amodio parks his helicopter on the middle-school ball field again to pick up my signed contract.
“Sorry we had to play hardball with you, Jamie baby,” he says. “But that’s showbiz.”
We shake hands. Then I pose for a bunch of selfies in front of the helicopter with my friends while Mr. Amodio does a quick interview with a crew from Channel 6. I think they’re the same team that does the BNC traffic reports.
“Now the whole world is going to learn what we already know,” says Gilda. “Jamie Grimm? He funny.”
“And,” adds Gaynor, “he sweat. A lot.”
“Perhaps,” suggests Pierce, “one of your TV show’s first sponsors should be an antiperspirant company.”
“Good idea,” I say. “I could do a before-and-after deodorant demo. Before, I raise my hand in a classroom…”
“Half the kids keel over from the stench,” says Gaynor.
“
Exactly. I roll on a little Bye-Bye, BO, and the next time I raise my hand, sweet-smelling wildflowers pop up under everybody’s desk.”
Gilda smirks. “The janitors are going to love that.”
“True. They’ll have to mop the floor with a lawnmower.”
We’re still cracking each other up when Mr. Amodio strides over to say good-bye.
“I have to head back to Hollywood, kid. If you need anything, anything at all, call me. No matter what time. Day or night. But not Sundays. I tan on Sundays.”
“Is that why you’re so orange?” asks Gaynor innocently.
“It’s bronze, kid. Bronze.”
Mr. Amodio and his portable news crew choppers off.
“Guess we’d better head back to class,” says Gilda. “And after school, I want to brainstorm ideas for my film.”
“Awesome,” I say.
But then Stewart Johnson, the Hollywood joke machine, pulls up in a sleek black van with dark-tinted windows. It looks like the car Mrs. Vader might use to take her kids to soccer practice.
“Jamie!” he says, practically bursting out of the van, arms thrown open wide. “Got a new joke for ya. You ready?”
“I guess.”
“Here it comes. I shot my first turkey this morning. Scared the heck out of everybody else in the frozen-food aisle.” He sees my friends. “Who are these three?”
“Gilda Gold, Joey Gaynor, and Jimmy Pierce. My three best buds in the whole world.”
“Riiiight,” says Johnson. “We’re going to work you three into the show. Well, not you. Actors pretending to be funnier versions of you.”
“Swell,” says Gilda, who, if you ask me, is funny enough all by herself. “We need to head back to class.”
“Wonderful,” says Johnson. “Because I need Jamie.”
“But I go to school, too.”
Johnson shakes his head. “Not today.” He hands me a very official-looking letter with a bumpy seal on the bottom. It’s from the Long Beach superintendent of schools. “It’s your get-out-of-school-free card, Jamie.”
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