I Totally Funniest: A Middle School Story

by James Patterson

  “I’m good. I’m also sorry.”

  Uncle Frankie waves my apology away. “Fuhgeddaboudit. Water under the bridge. Water over the boardwalk, too. In fact, right now, there’s so much water floating around town, I’m thinking about looking up SpongeBob. Maybe go live with him in that pineapple under the sea.”

  I can’t believe it. Uncle Frankie is cracking jokes.

  I guess comedy is always a good thing—even after a tragedy.

  We find an empty cot.

  “Good night, kiddo. Get some rest. Tomorrow will be better. Hey, it has to be.”

  PART TWO

  Hooray for Hollywood?

  Chapter 48

  A VERY DARK MORNING

  I roll out of the high school gym the next morning smiling because Uncle Frankie’s words are still ringing in my ears: “Tomorrow will be better.”

  Or maybe not.

  The town—no, make that my entire world—is a wreck.

  The boardwalk is gone. Homes have been wiped out. Cars are buried up to their necks in sand. There are downed trees and dangling power lines everywhere. The National Guard is patrolling the streets to discourage looters.

  Maybe this isn’t the “tomorrow” Uncle Frankie was talking about. I have a feeling that one is more than a day away.

  Chapter 49

  LONG-DISTANCE DISTRESS

  Long Beach Middle School is “closed until further notice.”

  So I spend my day hanging out at the shelter with Gilda, Gaynor, Pierce, and the Smileys. The Red Cross is amazing. We actually have Lucky Charms cereal for breakfast.

  “We could’ve used these yesterday,” I crack. “Because Hurricane Sam opened a box of Honey Bunches of Whoop-Butt.”

  I’m doing my best to cheer everybody up. That’s, I guess, what comedians are supposed to do. We make people laugh so, for a couple of seconds, anyway, they can forget how miserable they really are.

  If I’m really funny, maybe a few of my friends and neighbors will forget that the hurricane turned their beachside bungalows into fast-sinking houseboats that floated away on the morning tide.

  Pierce is able to rig up my laptop with Wi-Fi (don’t ask me how), which is a good thing.

  Until Judy Nazemetz hits me up with a Skype call. Then things get even worse.

  “I may not go to the finals,” she tells me.

  “What? Why not?”

  “My dad. He’s very sick, Jamie. I have to fly out to see him in Oklahoma City.”

  “The one in Oklahoma?” I say because, basically, I don’t know what else to say.

  “Yeah,” says Judy. “His doctors say he has, like, a week left to live. So the last thing I can do right now is think funny thoughts or work up new material.”

  I nod. I know the feeling. After Hurricane Sam, I really don’t feel much like writing new jokes or prepping for the final round of the Planet’s Funniest Kid Comic Contest, either.

  “Maybe,” I say, “because of the hurricane, they’ll postpone the show. And if you tell them about your dad—”

  On screen, I see Judy shake her head. “Joe Amodio, the executive producer, was on TV this morning. ‘The show must go on,’ he said. ‘In times of tragedy, America needs comedy more than ever.’ He says the whole country’s counting on us to make them smile, if only for a couple of hours next week.”

  Yep. The finals are only, like, seven days away. Uncle Frankie and I are supposed to fly back to Hollywood the day after tomorrow.

  “I guess, what with the hurricane wiping out Long Beach, you have to make the same kind of choice as me, huh, Jamie?” says Judy. “Fame or family. Which is more important?”

  Technically, I don’t have much family left. Just the Smileys. And Uncle Frankie. And my friends. So, yeah. I’m faced with the same horrible choice that Judy is.

  “It’s tough,” I say.

  “Maybe we should both sit this out.”

  I grin. “Well, I’ve got the chair for it.”

  She finally smiles. “You’re a good guy, Jamie Grimm. Sweet, too.”

  “Thanks.”

  We end our call.

  “Hey, Jamie,” says Joey Gaynor, coming over with a lady in a Windbreaker who is being trailed by a guy in a poncho lugging a large video camera.

  The lady is holding a microphone with some kind of local TV station logo slapped on its front—the same logo that’s plastered all over her jacket.

  “This is Buffy Barton. I told her you were here, dude. She’s, like, a TV reporter.”

  “I am a TV reporter,” says Ms. Barton. “Your friend Joey tells me you’re one of the four funniest kids on the planet?”

  I nod. Even though, after talking to Judy Nazemetz and hearing about her sick dad, the last thing I’m feeling is funny.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m Jamie Grimm.”

  The camera operator snaps on his blindingly bright halogen floodlight.

  And, just like the big-time TV producer said, the show must go on.

  Chapter 50

  MAKE ’EM LAUGH

  I’m here at a Long Beach hurricane shelter with Jamie Grimm,” Buffy Barton tells the TV camera, “one of the four funny finalists in BNC’s big million-dollar kid comedian contest. How are you holding up, Jamie?”

  “We’re going to be okay. My family is safe. My friends are all here. The Red Cross has been terrific.”

  “But you’re the only celebrity bunking on the cots?”

  “Actually, I heard a rumor that Ariel, the Little Mermaid, is here, too. She washed ashore in the storm surge. And Bruce, the shark from Jaws? He’s in the kitchen helping them open chili cans with his teeth.”

  “See?” shouts Gaynor. “I told you. He funny.”

  The reporter nods. “We understand you have been performing for the hundreds of storm victims sheltered here in the high school gymnasium?”

  “Yes, ma’am. And it’s better than any nightclub in Las Vegas. None of those places have basketball hoops or roll-out bleachers.”

  And then, at the urging of my friends, I give Ms. Barton a few minutes of storm-related one-liners and other jokes.

  That night, my little improv in the Long Beach hurricane shelter makes the local news in New York City.

  And then, believe or not, the same piece is picked up by Aiden Buchholz for the BNC national news.

  “In the aftermath of Hurricane Sam,” Buchholz croons into the camera, “a plucky young kid comic is helping others make the best of an extremely bad situation.”

  By eight PM, I’m everywhere. Facebook. Blogs. I even have my very own hashtag on Twitter: #FUNNYHURRICANEKID.

  This is a good thing, according to the Red Cross. Because of my little schtick in the storm shelter, charitable donations are through the roof. It’s like my two-minute news clip was a mini-telethon, raising boatloads of money for the victims of Hurricane Sam.

  I’m feeling great.

  Until I receive another Skype call.

  This one comes in around midnight. From Moose Lake, Minnesota.

  Chapter 51

  PUTTING THE “YIKES” INTO SKYPE

  Yep. It’s Chatty Patty Dombrowski.

  “Judy Nazemetz gave me your Skype ID,” she huffs into her webcam. She has one hand propped on her hip so she can lean into the screen and give me some major-league ’tude.

  Okay. I guess I can forgive Judy for revealing my private Skype contact info. After all, Judy’s grieving. Her father might be about to die.

  “Seriously, Grimm,” Patty sneers. “How many pity points are you trying to rack up, anyways?”

  “Huh?”

  “This publicity stunt with the hurricane.”

  “Stunt?”

  “Cripes’ sake, you’re fame obsessed. You want to be famous and you’re mad you’re not.”

  “I’m sorry, Patty—”

  “Real quick, Jamie—my name is Patricia. Especially when I’m upset.”

  “Well, what are you so upset about, Patricia?”

  “You! Wasn’t it enough for y
ou to be the only crippled kid in the competition? Now you have to be some big, heroic hurricane survivor, too?”

  “Oh, you mean that stuff on TV. That wasn’t my idea. That was just—”

  “Did you ever think about winning this contest just by being, oh, I don’t know—FUNNY?”

  “Honestly, Patricia—”

  She puts on a pouty face and a crybaby voice and rubs both eyes with her balled-up fists. “Poor wittle Jamie Gwimm. He’s in a wittle bitty wheelchair and all his friends got rained on real hard. Boo-hoo.”

  She’s making me kind of mad now.

  “Hey, guess what, Patricia? I may not even do the stupid show. Judy may drop out, too.”

  “Why?”

  “Some things in life are more important than telling jokes.”

  “How would you know? You’ve never really told one, have you? You just roll out there and say, ‘I’m sad and pathetic. Vote for me.’ ”

  She hurls one insult after another at me.

  “I’ll never forget the first time we met, Jamie Grimm. But trust me, I’ll keep trying.”

  I’ve had enough.

  “Gee, Patricia. That joke’s so old, the first time anybody said it the Dead Sea was still alive!”

  “Um, was that supposed to be funny? Face it, if it wasn’t for your wheelchair, you never would’ve made it all the way to the finals.”

  “Somebody could’ve carried me,” I quip.

  “Yeah. They could’ve flopped you up onstage like a wet walleye. Which is what you’re gonna do anyways. Flop! So do us all a favor, why don’tcha? Quit whining about the gul-dern hurricane. You’ve already won the sympathy vote. Now try to earn a few laughs.”

  She clicks off.

  I stare at the blank screen. And realize, once again, that Chatty Patty is correct.

  I not funny.

  I just handicapped.

  And washed up.

  Chapter 52

  MORE BAD NEWS ON THE BOARDWALK

  That night, Uncle Frankie cooks everybody free burgers on a barbecue grill the National Guard sets up in the high school parking lot.

  “Had to clean out the refrigerator, kiddo,” he tells me. “Without electricity, all my meat will go bad fast. All the ice cream in the freezer has already turned into soup.”

  “Really?” I say, hoping I can make him smile. “Forget cream of broccoli. Cream of ice cream has always been my favorite soup.”

  Uncle Frankie flips a burger and cracks a small smile.

  I notice he’s not spinning his yo-yo tonight.

  “Is the diner going to be okay?” I ask.

  All he can do is shrug. “We’ll see, Jamie. Need to talk to the insurance people. And the folks from FEMA, the Federal Emergency Management Agency. I need to check in with a couple of people from the Governor’s Hurricane Task Force, too. See if I can work out some kind of quick loan to get back on my feet. Then I’ll go look for my jukebox. I think all the records in it right now are ‘Under the Boardwalk.’ ”

  My turn to smile. Uncle Frankie is making a joke because he has nothing in his jukebox but 1950s and ’60s doo-wop music, including the classic hit “Under the Boardwalk” by a group called the Drifters.

  “We’ll get through this thing, Uncle Frankie.”

  “Sure we will, kiddo. We always do, am I right?”

  “Yeah.”

  Now I’m thinking I have to do the show in Hollywood.

  And, more importantly, I have to win.

  Don’t forget—the winner takes home one million dollars. That’s enough money to help Uncle Frankie rebuild his diner and his doo-wop collection.

  Chapter 53

  BACK TO SCHOOL… AND SUDDENLY COOL

  Good news—sort of.

  School is open again. After three days of cot city, there’s no place like homeroom.

  We’re back in school, but school isn’t really back in, if you catch my drift. Most of the teachers live on Long Island, so they’re dealing with their own Sam-related realities. Everybody’s kind of shell-shocked—maybe from all the seashells the storm left behind.

  So, basically, the educational content of our first day back is zip. Zero. Nada. (That was Spanish class.)

  But after school, I am presented with a very interesting educational opportunity.

  “Hey, Jamie.” It’s Matthew-Lucas Morrissey, one of the coolest kids in the school, probably because he has two first names. That’s supercool. We’re in the hall after the final bell rings.

  “Uh, hi, Matthew-Lucas. Am I blocking your way?”

  “Nope. We were wondering…”

  Suddenly, half a dozen, maybe more, of the extremely coolest kids in all of Long Beach Middle School, maybe all of Long Island, have me surrounded.

  “We want you to come to our party!” blurts Bianca-Whitney Matthews. Yeah. A lot of the extremely popular kids in Long Beach have more than one name.

  “It’s going to be superhot,” says Gena Zagoren. She’s a cheerleader. And, get this, she’s talking to me.

  “It’s going to be a real posthurricane blowout,” says Matthew-Lucas.

  “Because the winds, like, ‘blew out’ people’s windows and junk,” says cheerleader Gena.

  Matthew-Lucas and Bianca-Whitney are both nodding like crazy.

  “My mom bought all sorts of soda and chips and cake and junk someplace where the grocery stores still have food,” says Matthew-Lucas. “Even ice cream that isn’t melted. This party is going to be awesome, Jamie. Totally off the hook.”

  Wow. I’ve never been invited to a cool kids’ party before. I don’t know how to react.

  “And, uh, you guys want me to come to this party?”

  “Wouldja?” squeals Bianca-Whitney. She’s hopping up and down and clapping her fingertips together real fast. “That would be amazing.”

  “Yeah,” says Matthew-Lucas. “You’re a total TV star.”

  “You’re my hero,” says Gena, kicking her heel all the way up to her butt—the way cheerleaders do at the end of every routine.

  I can feel my head slowly inflating like it’s a beach ball.

  Then I remember that I’m supposed to meet up with Gilda, Pierce, and Gaynor after school. Gaynor’s mom, who’s recovering from cancer, needs some prescriptions filled, and we planned to trek over to the pharmacy in the next town. But they’d understand. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to party with double-named cool kids only comes along, uh, once in a lifetime.

  “Sure,” I say. “Sounds like fun. I’m sure the food will be better than what the Red Cross has on the menu tonight: freeze-dried crud on a cracker.”

  All the cool kids crack up like that’s the funniest thing they’ve ever heard.

  “Come on, Jamie,” says Bianca-Whitney. “My mom’s outside with her SUV. I’ll push you to the parking lot.”

  “Okay, but just don’t talk about me behind my back.”

  Everybody busts a gut laughing at my recycled joke.

  “You’re funny!” squeals Gena.

  Yes. Yes, I am.

  Chapter 54

  HAULING MY BIG HEAD HOME

  Around nine o’clock, Bianca-Whitney Matthews’s mom drops me off back at the shelter.

  I’m stuffed. The party was amazing. They had sheet cake and Moose Tracks ice cream and those Cool Ranch Doritos Locos Tacos from Taco Bell. I think I guzzled two liters of Mountain Dew. Every time I burp, I smell like a bowl of chili.

  “Thanks for the ride, Mrs. Matthews,” I say when I’m back in my wheelchair outside the high school gym.

  “You’re welcome, Jamie!” She does the giddy fingertip clap from behind the steering wheel. Guess that’s where her daughter learned it.

  “Come on, Jamie,” pleads Bianca-Whitney. “One more joke. You’re flying off to Hollywood tomorrow and you need to make me laugh one more time before I let you go!”

  My smile’s getting queasier and queasier, but I power forward.

  “Okay. Um, a couple of months ago, I went to the Handicapped Olympics. N
ow, I don’t want to point any fingers and call somebody a cheat, but come on—nobody should be slam-dunking in wheelchair basketball.”

  Bianca-Whitney and her mom yuk it up something fierce. But—and I’m being honest here—neither one laughs half as good as Gilda Gold.

  But I have a funny feeling Gilda isn’t talking to me again.

  Gaynor and Pierce, either.

  Guess it was pretty jerkish of me to ditch them and head off to a supercool party where all anybody wanted to hear were wheelchair jokes and how many celebrities I met while I was in LA. I think I told that same slam-dunking joke about six different times and promised to get Ray Romano’s autograph for everybody. Guess Ray Romano’s gonna hate me, too.

  I roll into the Red Cross shelter.

  “You’re late,” says Mrs. Smiley.

  I play dumb. “Really? What time is it?”

  “Nine-fifteen,” says Mr. Smiley.

  “You were supposed to be here by seven,” adds Mrs. Smiley. “Everybody was, Jamie.”

  “I guess I lost track of the time.”

  “Where were you? You told everyone you’d do another show tonight. For the kids.”

  I try to shrug that off as if it’s no big deal. “Hey, I was at a party.”

  Mrs. Smiley looks puzzled. “A party? Who in Long Beach has anything to celebrate?”

  “Me,” I say. “And all the cool kids at school. It was my big send-off for Hollywood. It’s not every day that somebody from Long Beach Middle School makes it all the way to the Final Four.”

  Mr. Smiley looks confused. “You’re playing basketball?”

  Mrs. Smiley helps him out. “The comedy contest, dear. Jamie and Frankie are supposed to fly out to Los Angeles again, first thing tomorrow morning.”