“Um, can I have one of those?” asks Gaynor.
“Win a comedy contest, kid, and we’ll talk.”
“Come on, you guys,” says Gilda, sounding sort of sad. “I guess we can brainstorm with Jamie some other time. When he’s not so busy.”
My three best friends walk away.
“I’ll text you,” I call after them. “We’ll find a time…”
“Don’t worry about them, kid,” says Johnson, putting his hand on my shoulder. “You’re with us now.”
I nod, even though I’d rather be with my friends.
And Stewart Johnson isn’t one of them.
Chapter 19
WRITE OR WRONG?
Stewart Johnson and I head over to the big black van in the parking lot.
When he slides open the side door, I see four guys and one girl inside, all of them clacking away on laptop computers.
“Meet my writing team,” says Johnson. “I’d introduce you, but I’m bad with names. Except Bob. I like the name Bob. Any of you guys named Bob?”
They all shake their heads. Without looking up from their keyboards.
“Too bad. Okay, Jamie, here’s the plan. We tail you. We tail your three friends and that bully kid.”
“Stevie Kosgrov,” I say.
“Right. We take notes. We see or hear something funny, we work it into the script.”
“I don’t know if I want you guys spying on my friends.”
“We’re not spies, Jamie. We’re writers. This is how we do research.”
“Or Google,” says one of the guys in the van. “We use Google a lot, too.”
“Okay, gang,” says Johnson, “you know your assignments. Shadow these kids. Keep your eyes and ears open. Write down whatever they say, whatever they do. We want our script to keep it, like the kids say, for realsies.”
“Actually,” I say, “that’s not what for realsies means.…”
“Well, fo shizzle.”
“Um, nobody really says that anymore.”
“Then we’ve got a lot of catching up to do. Okay, team, go do your homework. And when it’s time to turn it in, don’t tell me your dog ate it!”
A writer follows Stevie Kosgrov around for the next couple of days. Stevie hates it because when Lars Johannsen sees Chip taking notes, he starts terrorizing Stevie even more.
“Be sure you write down this part,” Lars says as he’s holding Stevie by the ankles over a swirling toilet bowl. “In Minnesota, we call this the Double-Dipsy Dunker Doozie. We usually do it when we’re out ice fishing on the lake and get bored staring at the little circle we cut in the ice.”
Gaynor loves his shadow. He got Emma Smith, a writer he thinks is pretty.
“You’ll follow me anywhere?” he asks, sounding love-struck.
Emma Smith shrugs. “It’s my job.”
“Awesome. So, wanna go to the movies?”
“Sure.”
“Wow. Most girls usually say no.”
The writer trailing my brainiac buddy Jimmy Pierce fills his entire notebook on day one. Unfortunately, most of it is totally unfunny. Actually, most of it is totally boring.
Me? Well, since I’m supposed to be the star of the show, I get the head writer. Stewart Johnson.
“Hey, Jamie?” he says as we’re heading down the sidewalk to Smileyville. “What would happen if you took the bus home from school?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. What?”
“The police would make you bring it back! By the way, I found out that shoes are required to eat in the cafeteria. But socks can eat anywhere they like!”
While he’s laughing his head off, I’m wondering if I made a mistake signing that contract.
With jokes like those, Jamie Funnie isn’t going to be very funny, no matter how they spell it.
Chapter 20
SCHOOL DAYS (IN THIRTY MINUTES OR LESS)
News flash: I have to drop out of school.
Not forever. Just while we’re working on the show.
“You’re my star,” Mr. Amodio says when he calls me from Hollywood to give me the news. “After all, Jamie baby, you’re the Planet’s Funniest Kid Comic, a phrase that, by the way, is trademarked. If you want to use it, you have to ask me for permission. It’s in the fine print, too.”
“But,” I ask, “how will I keep up with my schoolwork? I mean, I love show business but, well, I’d like to go to college someday. They don’t let you in if you’re a middle-school dropout.”
“Not to worry. We’re sending over your new tutor. Her name is Jacqueline Warkentien. The lady’s a genius. Works with big-name movie-star kids all the time. She can cram a whole school day’s worth of learning into one hour. Fifteen minutes if we’re in a pinch. Warkentien’s like high-speed Internet, only faster. The limo will be picking you up in five.”
“What limo?”
“The one that’s hauling you and Ms. Warkentien to the soundstage. It’s a thirty-minute ride. You should be able to wrap up your math for the week and learn about Odysseus and his Trojan Horsie, too.”
Ms. Warkentien starts tutoring me in the back of the specially equipped SUV limo the instant the chairlift raises me up to door level.
Ms. Warkentien’s jiggly hand is clutching a tumbler of coffee. Judging by how fast she talks and how much she vibrates, I’m pretty sure it’s not decaf.
“Mr. Grimm, I’m Ms. Warkentien, your tutor—from the Old French tutour for “guardian,” derived from the Latin tutorem, a “guardian or watcher,” not tutu, a stiff skirt worn by ballerinas. You may also call me your teacher, instructor, don, or coach, but not Coach Don. Now that we’re done with your vocabulary drill for the day, let’s move on to math: pi. Starts with three; decimal places never end. Use it for measuring circles. Time for Shakespeare.”
Since we’re knocking off my schoolwork lickety-split, I ask the driver to stop when we reach the corner near the elementary school.
It’s recess. The kids have all exploded out the doors and are on the playground swapping jokes.
“I’ll just be five minutes,” I say.
“Five minutes?” fumes my new tutor. “We could cover the Hundred Years’ War in five minutes!”
“I know. But I think this might be more important than any war. Funnier, too.”
She relents. The driver gives me the hydraulic-ramp treatment down to the ground.
And for five minutes, I’m right where I want to be: listening to kids who remind me of the me I used to be. Sure, some of the jokes are kind of corny. But they all make me smile.
Chapter 21
MEETING MY FAKE BFF
When we reach the soundstage at the Silvercup Studios in Queens, which is just across the river from the bright lights of Manhattan, I’ve memorized all the Tudor kings and how to figure out the circumference and area of circles.
I roll out of the limo with my head spinning.
“Later,” says Ms. Warkentien, “we’ll focus on number theory. You know, prime factorization, multiplicative inverses, divisibility rules. Should take five minutes. “
Rose Skye Wilder, the producer I met at school, is there to greet us.
“Good to see you again, Jamie, Ms. Warkentien. Follow me, please. And we’re moving, we’re moving.…”
I roll as fast as I can, trying to keep up with the two fast-moving ladies.
“I’ve arranged a meet-and-greet inside for you, with Donna Dinkle.”
“Sounds great,” I say. “Who is she?”
“Only the former star of Ring My Bell.”
“Sorry. I don’t think we get that channel.”
“Used to be the number one show with kids in grades three through eight.”
“I tutored her,” adds Ms. Warkentien. “She never did memorize the periodic table of elements, even though I gave her a whole half hour to do it!”
“Wait a second,” I say. “Before Donna Dinkle was a co-star on my show, she was the star of her own show? Isn’t that, like, a demotion?”
“It h
appens, Jamie. Word to the wise? The folks you meet on the way up are the same ones you’ll meet on the way down.”
“It’s true,” says Ms. Warkentien. “I bump into washed-up former students all the time. Usually at McDonald’s. They’re always asking me if I want fries with that.”
Ms. Wilder and Ms. Warkentien don’t break stride as we near the building. I’m pumping my arms like crazy just to keep up. I’m also admiring Silvercup Studios.
“We’re moving, we’re moving,” says Ms. Wilder as I pause to gawk at all the framed posters of famous TV stars from hit shows lining the walls of the lobby.
“Wow. All these people work here?”
“Yes,” says Ms. Wilder. “And so does Donna Dinkle, who we really shouldn’t keep waiting, Jamie.”
“Right. Sorry.”
We hurry down a corridor. It’s time for me to meet my more-famous-than-me co-star.
Chapter 22
JILLDA IS NO GILDA
I follow Ms. Wilder down the hall to the dressing rooms.
Ms. Warkentien heads off to find some coffee, even though, if you ask me, she doesn’t need any more caffeine.
Ms. Wilder is still monologuing about Donna Dinkle. (Probably because I spent all that time in the hospital watching classic comedians instead of modern sitcoms.)
“Donna has been in the business since the day she was born. Starred in a series of commercials for Toss ’Ems, the disposable diapers. After that, she moved on to Princess Pony action figures. Then she was the voice of the rutabaga in that 3-D Pixar flick about vegetables. Then she did Ring My Bell. For four years!”
“And now she’s in my pilot? Wow.”
“Wow is right. We were lucky to land her. That’s why her dressing room is slightly larger than yours.”
“So, who is Donna playing?” I ask. “One of the teachers at school?”
“She could. She’s that talented. But she’s only thirteen.”
“Oh.”
“She’ll be playing Jillda.”
“Cool. Who’s Jillda?”
“Your friend at school. Frizzy hair. Always making movies.”
“Oh, you mean Gilda. Gilda Gold.”
“The writers changed the name. It’s Jillda Jewel now.”
“Why?”
“Stewart Johnson says J words are funnier than G words.”
“What about galloping garbanzo beans?”
Before Ms. Wilder can answer, we’re inside a huge, flower-filled dressing room.
“Omigosh!” screeches a girl with a mop of curly hair tucked under a Pittsburgh Pirates baseball cap. She looks exactly like Gilda Gold would look if she were a redhead and didn’t love the Boston Red Sox.
“Omigosh!” she gushes. “You’re you. You’re Jamie, right? You’re in a wheelchair and everything, just like when you did your comedy schtick on TV, which, by the way, was, like, total awesomesauce.”
“It’s, uh, an honor to meet you, Miss Dinkle.”
“Please, call me Donna. Or Dee Dee. Or Donnatella. I like Donnatella, too.”
“Okay. I’ll try.”
“You know, Jamie, me and Taylor Swift watched you win the Planet’s Funniest Kid Comic.”
“Seriously?”
“Yuh-huh. Tay-Tay and me were just, you know, hanging out, chillin’, watching you kick comedy butt, and I told her I would so totally let you have my handicapped parking space, the one my driver usually snags because it’s so close to the doors and everything, even though, you know, technically, my only handicap is being so awesomely famous…”
I know it’s hard to believe, but Donna Dinkle, the TV Gilda, is even spunkier than the real one. And she talks nearly as fast as Ms. Warkentien.
“So, Jamie…” Donna sort of wiggles down and grabs hold of both of my armrests. She smells like cinnamon buns at the mall. Best. Perfume. Ever. “Have you been talking to the writers?”
“Little bit” is all I can squeak out, I’m so nervous.
You know that flop sweat I get on stage? It also pops up when I’m close enough to smell a cute girl’s perfume. Yep. She smells terrific, and I smell like the monkey cage at the zoo.
“Have you talked to them about me?” Donna purrs.
“Well, no, we only just met and…”
“Not me, silly goose. My character. Jillian.”
“Jillda,” says Ms. Wilder, who’s kind of hovering behind me.
“Whatever,” says Donna. “I just want to make sure they write us some tender moments where we share our true feelings for each other.”
I gulp a little. “It’s, uh, supposed to be a comedy.…”
Oh, boy. She’s wiggling even closer. She’s inches from my face. Batting her eyelashes. Puckering her lips like she’s doing a fish impersonation.
“We need to make sure it’s a romantic comedy. I’d like that.… Wouldn’t you?”
Chapter 23
BACK TO SCHOOL
While Donna is still lingering inches away from my face (and lips), my jittery tutor, Ms. Warkentien, barges into the dressing room.
“We have ten minutes before they want you on set!” she announces. “We can do American history! The whole enchilada, even though that’s not American food. Oh, good, you have a coffeemaker. I emptied the one in the studio. Drank it right out of the pot…”
I don’t think she took a single breath while saying that.
She scurries over to the dressing-room counter to fiddle with coffee pods, while Donna Dinkle shows me how well she can emote.
Ms. Wilder checks her watch. “Let’s go check out your dressing room, Jamie. We’re moving, we’re moving…”
She basically shoves me out the door and into a dingy closet that, it turns out, is my dressing room. It even smells like mothballs.
“Your bathroom, of course, is handicapped accessible.”
“Is it through that door?” I ask.
“No. It’s down the hall and to the left. Remember the lobby?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. That’s where your bathroom is. Enjoy your history lesson.”
She leaves. Ms. Warkentien pulls out her textbook.
“Now then, Jamie, the War of 1812. How did it get its name?”
“All the really good war names were already taken?”
“Correct. Let’s move on to Mesopotamia and irrigation.…”
Fortunately, that’s when Uncle Frankie makes his entrance.
“So, Jamie, how’s it going?”
“Fantastic. I did about six weeks’ worth of school in under an hour, and get this: I met Donna Dinkle.”
“You’re kidding!”
“Nope. Her dressing room is right next door.”
“That’s fantastic, kiddo. But tell me something: Who the heck is Donna Dinkle?”
“I’m not sure, but I think she’s famous.”
Ms. Warkentien packs up her books. Uncle Frankie and I go with Ms. Wilder into Studio B to check out the scenery for the pilot episode.
“Wow,” says Uncle Frankie. “My diner looks even better in here than it does on Long Island.”
I nod. Everything’s a little smaller, a little flatter, but it’s super amazing. My whole world is lined up in a row. The diner, Smileyville, the school—interior and exterior—and, of course, a brick wall behind a microphone stand for the comedy club scenes.
It all looks hyper-real.
“How come the scenery’s all lined up like that?” asks Uncle Frankie.
“We wanted to make it easy for Jamie to roll from one scene to the next when we do the show live in real time,” says Ms. Wilder.
I gulp. “Live?”
“Don’t you people usually tape sitcoms?” asks Uncle Frankie.
“True. But Joe Amodio doesn’t want Jamie Funnie to be business as usual. He wants it to be big. So we’re launching big. We’ll do the pilot live in front of a studio audience—just like they do with Saturday Night Live. Sounds great, huh?”
I don’t answer right away.
I’m too
busy having a panic attack.
Chapter 24
WHEN WRITE BECOMES WRONG
The next day, I roll into the writers’ room, where things are really buzzing.
I hope these guys are cooking up some hot ’n’ fresh material, because the idea of doing my TV show live is still freaking me out. It means that the whole country will be watching if I make a mistake or something goes wrong. And something always goes wrong.
“All right, guys,” says the head writer, Stewart Johnson. “Let me hear your best one-liners about school.”
He bangs a hotel bell.
The writers start slinging out one-liners.
Nothing’s very funny, so I try pitching in.
“How about…”
“Hang on, Jamie,” says Johnson. “We’re brainstorming. Just spitballing ideas. Seeing what sticks.”
“I know, I thought I’d toss in a few ideas. I mean, I wrote all my own material when I won the Planet’s Funniest Kid Comic Contest.”
“A registered trademark of Joe Amodio Productions,” mumble all six writers in unison.
“Okay, Jamie,” says Johnson. “Hit us with a zinger.”
“Well, I’m not really sure we should be doing ‘zingers.’ Most of my humor is observational. For instance, how is a kid in a wheelchair supposed to carry books between classes? If I stuff them all in my backpack, maybe my chair would topple over. Books are heavy. And I can’t really tuck them under an arm because I need both my arms to power my chair. So, let’s say I’m cruising down the hall with books stacked in my lap, and all the other kids think I’m a human library cart, so they start piling more books on top of mine. Then the librarian comes out and hits me with a huge fine because all the books in my lap are overdue.”
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