I Totally Funniest: A Middle School Story

by James Patterson

  That’ll give you issues—not to mention a phobia about being near him and a toilet at the same time. Stevie gives a world-class swirly whirly.

  But Stevie isn’t home.

  So I decide to quit telling jokes and give the Smileys something they can all really use.

  Laughing lessons. They’re kind of like dance lessons for the face.

  We’ll start with our ho ho hos and work up to the ha ha has. For beginner laughers, vowel consistency is crucial. Sure, with practice, you can mix up the consonants and go with a ba ha ha or a whoa ho ho. But jumbling up the vowels, like in ha ho ha, just sounds weird—and kind of creepy.

  I tell the Smileys to feel the laugh in their bellies and let it ripple up to their lips. They look like they ate a sausage sandwich too fast and have gas.

  I have them stand on their heads and hold up a mirror, just so they know what a smile is supposed to look like—an upside-down frown.

  Nothing works.

  I just hope no Smiley ever lands a job as one of Santa’s helpers at the mall. Instead of “Ho, ho, ho!” all that the kids will hear at the holidays is “Harrumph, harrumph, harrumph.”

  Chapter 9

  A NIGHTMARE BEFORE BEDTIME

  I’m in my bedroom in the garage, flipping through my joke notebooks, trying to decide what’s my best material for round one of the finals.

  I mean—should I save the best of my best for round two so I finish big? Might be a good strategy. But if I do that, I run the risk of being eliminated in round one. In other words, if I save my best jokes for round two, I might be finished before I have a shot at making a big finish. I might wind up in Finnish finishing school finishing furniture.

  Yes. I am still freaking out. The finals are now only 2.22 days away.

  And then I nearly have a heart attack.

  A monster bursts into my garage bedroom.

  Is it a zombie? A vampire? A Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle?

  Nope. It’s something much, much worse.

  My cousin, the Master of Disaster, Stevie Kosgrov, dressed up in an early Halloween costume that chills me to the bone because it’s a walking vision of my worst nightmare: Stevie as a stand-up comic.

  It’s just Stevie in a tuxedo T-shirt holding a flashlight and his little sister’s hot-pink Hello Kitty microphone, but it’s awful. And then he launches into his “act.” Of course, since he’s the number one bully at Long Beach Middle School, the only jokes Stevie knows are insults and put-downs.

  “You know, Jamie, you’re not as bad as people say. Nope. You’re much, much worse. You’re so ugly, Hello Kitty said good-bye to you. No, wait. Your face is very becoming. It’s becoming uglier and uglier every time I see it.”

  My turn NOT to laugh or smile.

  “What do you want, Stevie?”

  “To save your butt.”

  “What?”

  “You’re a big-cheese comedian with lots of crazy fans, right? You ever hear about celebrity stalkers? The paparazzi? A kid in a wheelchair like you needs protection.”

  Stevie is making me so mad by reminding me that I’m “handicapped” I could spit nails—which, come to think of it, would be a very handy skill to have if you were a carpenter.

  “I need protection?” I say, glaring at him hard.

  “Yep, Crip. You need me.” Stevie starts slowly pounding a fist into his open palm. Over and over and over. “I’m volunteering to be your bodyguard. OR ELSE!”

  “Or else what? You’ll beat me up?”

  “Yep.”

  “So, basically, you would be my bodyguard, protecting me against… you?”

  Finally, a Smiley smiles. “Yep. Because I’ve always wanted to visit Hollywood.”

  Chapter 10

  KNOCK-KNOCK IT OFF

  I may be sleeping, but the countdown clock keeps counting down.

  So I keep cramming and practicing jokes—in my dreams.

  It’s like that Dickens book A Christmas Carol. While I’m asleep, I’m visited by the spirits of Comedy Past, Present, and Future. Unfortunately, none of these spirits bring their game-day material. All they seem to know are knock-knock jokes.

  The Ghost of Comedy Past is extremely scary. He’s this kid called Shecky from Schenectady, who I met (and defeated) in the New York State round of the comedy competition. He’s not any funnier in my dreams than he was onstage. Shecky steals most of his jokes from Henny Youngman and bad-pun websites. I think he stole his sense of comedic timing from a broken wristwatch.

  “You wanna be crowned champ, take a tip from me: Steal from the best. It’s what I do. That’s why I’m doing my act in a wheelchair now, just like you. Wins me the audience’s sympathy and guarantees me a parking spot near the front door. Ba-boom. Nailed it.”

  The last thing I dream about before my alarm goes off?

  Ol’ Smiler. Still grinning. I think what mothers everywhere (including dog moms) say is true: “If you keep making that face, it’ll stay that way.”

  Chapter 11

  LIVING THE DREAM—OR MAYBE THE NIGHTMARE

  The next morning, there are only 1.75 days left until the finals.

  I know this because the principal put it up on the reader board out in front of my school.

  The second I hit the halls (with my new bodyguard, Stevie “Protection Racket” Kosgrov), even more girls are swooning over me—including Cool Girl, whose real name is Suzie Orolvsky, which is much harder to spell than Cool Girl.

  True confession time: I have actually kissed Cool Girl, which, for an instant, turned me into Cool Kid. It was just that once. We almost kissed a second time—right before Gilda Gold kissed me. Then I kissed Gilda. I’m not exactly sure why. Sometimes it’s confusing being a guy in middle school, especially if you’re me.

  Anyway, there are so many girls screaming and squealing at me on my last day in Long Beach before flying out to LA, I need my wingmen, Gaynor and Pierce, to help out with crowd control. They don’t mind. Gaynor assures everybody he can do my signature even better than I can. “I can do the president of the United States, too. And that dude who signs all the money. I’ve got him down cold.”

  He also volunteers to handle any “kissing action” if, for any reason, I am unable to fulfill my duties as the most famous kid in Long Beach.

  Jimmy Pierce, our resident genius, also helps out. “I’ve designed and engineered a portable Jamie Grimm signature stamping machine. As an added bonus, my ink glows in the dark.”

  Pretty soon, we’re all signing (and stamping) autographs like crazy.

  I’m pretty sure Gilda—who maybe, kind of, sort of might be my girlfriend, due to the fact that she is the girl I kissed most recently—is cool with all this attention I’m getting from my adoring female fans.

  Actually, I really haven’t had much time to think about Gilda. I’ve been too busy cramming for the finals when I’m not autographing body parts.

  Does that make me kind of a jerk? Probably. Because celebrity comes at a high cost. It’s exhausting, grueling work. But, like they say, somebody’s got to do it.

  And Joey Gaynor’s glad it’s me.

  Chapter 12

  BEING GREAT CAN BE GRATING

  Later, in class, Mrs. Kressin, the school’s drama club adviser, gives us a very dramatic speech about “greatness.”

  (By the way, I think dramatic speeches are the only kind drama club advisers know how to give.)

  “Remember the words of Sir Winston Churchill: ‘The price of greatness is responsibility!’ Or, as Albert Einstein so eloquently elucidated: ‘Great spirits have always encountered violent opposition from mediocre minds.’ In short, do as Judy Garland suggested.…”

  “Who?” I ask.

  “Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz.”

  “Oh. Right. Her.”

  Mrs. Kressin raises a finger to boldly proclaim the wisdom of Dorothy: “ ‘Be a first-rate version of yourself and not a second-rate version of someone else.’ ”

  Then she keeps going. I guess when you’re a
drama teacher, you’re used to memorizing long speeches.

  I have to wonder if Mrs. Kressin is talking to me. But as inspirational as all her quotes are, I feel more like a Woody Allen joke: “I’ve often said the only thing standing between me and greatness is me.”

  Besides, I don’t want to be great. I just want to be funny!

  In exactly 1.5 days.

  Chapter 13

  READY! SET! NOT SO FAST…

  The cramming once again continues after school at Uncle Frankie’s diner.

  “Last chance to rehearse, kiddo,” he reminds me. “We fly to LA tomorrow.”

  I run down some one-liners about food. “Um, Jeff Foxworthy: ‘You might be a redneck if you have a complete set of salad bowls and they all say Cool Whip on the side.’ Paul Reiser: ‘Get a good dog. We haven’t picked up food in the kitchen in fifteen years.’ Uh, Kermit the Frog: ‘Time’s fun when you’re having flies.’ ”

  “Good,” says Uncle Frankie. “But remember, Jamie, you’re always better when you make up your own material and give us your slant on life.”

  “I could cram some more on the plane,” I say. “No, wait. I can’t. Airline seats are so tiny there isn’t enough room to cram much except your knees up to your chin, which, in my case, is technically impossible.”

  Uncle Frankie laughs. “That’s the stuff, kiddo.”

  “Okay. How about those overhead bins? You’re supposed to stow your suitcase up there? How? They’re so small, they can barely hold a lunch box. You ever been on a plane and heard people clap when it lands? Wasn’t that the ending they were expecting?”

  I’m about to launch into a whole bit about rolling my chair through airport security when my cell phone starts buzzing.

  Then Uncle Frankie’s starts buzzing, too.

  Soon, push alert bings are popping up all over the diner.

  Almost everybody in the restaurant simultaneously receives some sort of urgent message.

  So we all check our phone screens.

  NO.

  THIS IS IMPOSSIBLE!

  PUT ON THE BRAKES.

  STOP THE JOKES.

  KILL THE COUNTDOWN CLOCK. (Seriously. That thing is totally annoying.)

  You ready for the big news flash?

  The finals for the Planet’s Funniest Kid Comic Contest have been postponed.

  Chapter 14

  THE END OF THE WORLD (WELL, MINE, ANYWAY)

  The news spreads like wildfire, which, I guess, means it destroys everything in its path—including all my hopes and dreams.

  I’m not exactly sure what happened or why it happened.

  I just know something has happened.

  Something bad. No. Something HORRIBLE.

  The finals will NOT be held in Hollywood anytime soon.

  And there isn’t any word about when (or if) they ever will be held.

  The mysterious news is all over the Internet. Google’s changed its logo and runs a banner headline on its news page.

  Facebook posts are popping up everywhere.

  Quick Facebook etiquette question—are you supposed to like something you agree with even if you don’t, you know, like it?

  Meanwhile, bloggers are blogging about it. Vine videos—six seconds of pure sorrow—are looping. Twits are tweeting the bad news.

  I feel like I’m Rudolph and somebody just canceled Christmas because of the fog. I’m never going to get my chance to shine.

  Remember how I was such a big-shot celebrity this morning, signing all those autographs for throngs of adoring fans?

  Funny how much can change in less than one day.

  Actually, it’s not funny. It’s the opposite.

  Chapter 15

  TV DINNER

  I roll home to have dinner with the Smileys, so naturally that means the TV is on.

  I guess this is how you have a family conversation around the dinner table when your family doesn’t feel much like talking to each other. You let the TV do all the yammering for you.

  Instead of Mrs. Smiley asking, “How was school today?” a commercial can ask, “Have you heard about the great new way to blast away blueberry stains?” Instead of getting caught up with everybody’s day, you can keep up with the Kardashians and find out who they married this week.

  Of course, if they run a movie trailer, it can make vegetables more exciting. Just change the words in your head: “In a world where peas and carrots were never meant to be together on a plate, one boy was brave enough to attack them both with his fork.”

  I could use this bit in my act. If I ever do my act again.

  Mrs. Smiley has the tabletop TV tuned to BNC and The Evening News Tonight.

  By the way, how ancient are the people who watch the evening news, anyway? All the commercials are for prescription pills (with side effects that sound way worse than the diseases the pills are supposed to cure), adult diapers, and denture glue.

  But tonight, in his wrap-up, anchorman Aiden Buchholz gives me some news I can actually use.

  “And finally,” says Aiden Buchholz, “perhaps you’ve heard about the postponement of the Planet’s Funniest Kid Comic Contest finals. Well, good news for the eight budding young comic hopefuls who were all set to fly to Hollywood. Don’t worry. You will be appearing here, live on BNC, in exactly two weeks.”

  I nearly do a backflip out of my chair.

  The finals were supposed to be on YUX, a basic cable channel.

  Now they’re going to be on BNC, one of the major networks?

  This is unbelievable!

  “Yes, it’s true,” says Aiden Buchholz, as if he read my thoughts. “BNC announced today that we will be broadcasting, live, the finals of the Planet’s Funniest Kid Comic Contest.”

  He goes on to explain how eight of us will compete in a big live Elite Eight event, followed the next night by a results show. A couple of weeks later, the top four comedians will come back for the final finals and another live results show. The winners in both rounds will be chosen not by a panel of judges but by viewers’ votes.

  “America will decide who is the funniest kid on this particular planet.” Aiden Buchholz gives the camera one of his sly looks. “Oh. One more thing. The prize has changed, too. Instead of one hundred thousand dollars, the top kid comic will take home one million dollars and be given the chance to star in his or her own sitcom on BNC!”

  “Gosh,” says Mrs. Smiley. “Two weeks. I guess that means you only have fourteen more days to prep your comedy routine, Jamie.”

  Yep. Start the new BNC TV countdown clock.

  On second thought, how about we stop counting for a while?

  Thanks.

  Chapter 16

  I’M BAAAAACK

  The finals being moved to a major player like BNC (I think the letters stand for Big Network Channel) has made me even more of a celebrity at school.

  The crowds that scattered away are now scattering back.

  “Back off, people!” shouts Stevie. “In two weeks, my cousin could be a half-a-millionaire.”

  I gulp a little. “Half?”

  “Yeah. You’re giving the other half to me.”

  “Right. Forgot about that. Thanks a lot for reminding me.”

  “That’s why I’m here, Jamie. To keep you humble. And terrified.”

  I don’t have time to worry about Stevie shaking me down. I barely have time to go to class.

  Everybody—from Mr. Sour Patch, the assistant principal, to dramatic Mrs. Kressin, to the guy who scrapes leftover chunks of cheesy nachos off our plates in the cafeteria—wants to have a picture taken with me.

  Gaynor, Pierce, and Gilda want to hang out with me in the library like we used to during fifth period, but I can’t do any of the stuff I used to do anymore. With a million bucks and a TV show on the line, I can’t waste too much time hanging out with them.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “Yeah,” says Gaynor with a shrug. “You sort of are, dude. You suck the big radish.”

  I’m pretty s
ure we’ll all be friends again as soon as this whole comedy contest is over. I hope so. But right now, I need to focus on THE FINALS.

  The MILLION-DOLLARS-PLUS-MY-OWN-SITCOM finals!

  Chapter 17

  TV OR NOT TV?

  After school, I head to Uncle Frankie’s diner for more cramming, but I don’t get very far.

  Long Beach is swarming with reporters from all the big-time entertainment and gossip TV shows. Stevie has granted them all “exclusive access” to me because he doesn’t know what the word exclusive means.

  First up is one of the reporters from Extra DTVZ, which, I think, stands for Extra-Dumb TV Zoo.

  “Jamie,” he says, “do you have a girlfriend?”

  “Not really.”

  “What about this picture we took of you kissing a girl on the boardwalk last night?”

  “Uh, sorry, that’s not me.”

  “Our sources say it is.”

  “But the guy in the picture is standing. He’s also bald.”

  The reporter nods earnestly. Cocks a questioning eyebrow. “Is that why you wear a wig, Jamie?”

  “This is not a wig. It’s my hair.”

  “It really is,” explains Uncle Frankie. “Jamie’s bringing back the whole 1970s John Denver look.”

  The reporter smiles some more and tries not to laugh.

  People do that a lot when they check out my hair.

  I chat with Biff Bilgewater from Hollywood Tonight. I think he uses Elmer’s Glue to slick back his hair. He smiles so much, his teeth probably hurt. I know my eyeballs do. Talking to him is like staring into a lightbulb.