I Funny--School of Laughs Read online

“If this library were a dinosaur,” I say, “it’d be a lot louder and have stubby little arms.” I start doing my best T. rex impression.

  “If this library is a dinosaur, we should definitely keep it. Because in a couple of million years, it’ll be a big pool of oil and we’ll all be filthy rich!”

  When I’m done riffing on dinosaurs, I move on to the important stuff.

  “This is the one place in the whole building where we students can come to think for ourselves. The one place where I, Jamie Grimm, can choose exactly what I want to study. For instance, the history of the knock-knock joke.”

  Coach Ball is sputtering mad. “What?”

  “Did you know,” I say, “that before there were knock-knock jokes, there were do-you-know jokes?”

  “No,” says Gilda, trying to help me out. “I did not know about do-you-know jokes.”

  “Here’s one from around 1900,” I say. “Do you know Arthur?”

  “Arthur who?” says Gilda.

  “Arthurmometer!”

  The board members chuckle.

  “After the do-you-know era came the have-you-ever-heard-of jokes in the 1920s. For instance, have you ever heard of Hiawatha?”

  “Hiawatha who?” asks Gilda.

  “Hiawatha a lonely boy until I met you!”

  More laughter. From everybody except Coach Ball, of course.

  “In the 1930s, ‘Have you ever heard of’ became ‘Knock, knock. Who’s there?,’ and the rest, as they say, is history.”

  “Who cares?” snarls Coach Ball.

  “Me!” I tell him. “That’s my point: I might be the only kid in the whole entire school who gives two hoots about this particular historical tidbit, but here in the library, I can do my own independent research on any subject I want. Lots of kids come in here all the time to read books on their own interests.” Okay, that might be a bit of a stretch, unless my friends count as a lot. “That’s why the library needs to stay a library.”

  “You make a good argument,” says one of the board members. “My kids love your show. So do I. It’s must-see TV every Friday night at our house.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Critchett.”

  “Coach Ball,” she says, turning to him. “Let’s make a deal.”

  “What sort of a deal?”

  “A compromise.”

  “I don’t like those. Compromising means I have to give something up.”

  “Please. Hear me out,” Mrs. Critchett says to Coach Ball. “If your new librarian, Ms. Denning, can prove by the end of the month that a majority of your students are using the library, then the library will stay a library and your new wrestling room will go downstairs in the basement, in that empty area behind the boiler room.”

  “That’s a crawl space!”

  “You said you didn’t want any windows,” says another board member.

  “The floor down there is nothing but dirt and rocks!”

  “You can put down wrestling mats,” I suggest.

  Bad idea.

  Coach Ball glares at me, harder than he’s ever glared at anyone before.

  The new principal and me?

  We are never, ever going to be besties.

  Chapter 15

  WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH UNCLE FRANKIE?

  After school, I head to the diner to tell Uncle Frankie the news: Ms. Denning has till the end of the month to prove how popular the school library can be. Less than four weeks to turn it from an empty wasteland into something with crowds the size of Disneyland!

  “Indeed,” says Uncle Frankie, not sounding like Uncle Frankie at all. “Flora hath texted me with said news. It’s a bit of a sticky wicket, eh, what?”

  He doesn’t look like Uncle Frankie, either. Instead of his usual short-order cook outfit, he is wearing a tweed jacket with patches on the elbows, a vest, and a bow tie. He’s also wearing horn-rimmed smart-guy glasses.

  “Since when do you wear glasses?” I ask him.

  “It is a recent sartorial addition.”

  “Huh?”

  He looks around to make sure nobody is listening. “I started wearing ’em yesterday. Picked ’em up at the drug store. The lenses are just plain glass, but they make me look smarter.”

  No. They make him look nearsighted.

  I sniff the air.

  It smells like sputtering burger grease mixed with Old Spice cologne. I think Uncle Frankie dunked his head in a bucket of the stuff. The cologne, not the burger drippings.

  “So, um, what’s going on?” I ask.

  Uncle Frankie motions for me to join him in the back room.

  “I’m trying to class myself up a little, Jamie,” he tells me when we’re back with the mops and pickle tubs. “The diner, too. I want to turn Good Eats by the Sea into the kind of restaurant a refined literary lady such as your new librarian, Ms. Denning, would feel comfortable in. I’m thinking about putting tablecloths on all the tables. Maybe candles. I might even change the doo-wop music in the jukebox to some of that classical stuff. You know—Mozart, Beethoven, Elvis.”

  “Seriously?”

  “I’m changing up the menu, too. Instead of flapjacks and OJ, we could serve Mark Twain Whole Grain Pancakes and Dr. Seuss Juice. I think Flora would like that. Are there any books with hamburger in the title?”

  “I’ll have to check the card catalog,” I say.

  “Thank you, Jamie,” he sighs.

  If this were a cartoon, little hearts and tweeting bluebirds would be swirling around his head right now.

  No doubt about it: Uncle Frankie is seriously smitten with our new librarian.

  He’s been a widower for a long time and hasn’t had a girlfriend in years. Might be why he’s kind of rusty on the whole romance thing.

  “One more thing,” says Uncle Frankie. “Maybe instead of telling jokes behind the register, you could quote Shakespeare or something. Maybe some of them poets like Robert Defrost.”

  “You mean Robert Frost?”

  “Either one.” He checks his phone. “Ms. Denning is on her way. She needs someone to hold her hand in this time of crisis.”

  “She also needs a ton more kids to start using her library.”

  “So I heard. You’ve got to help her out in that department, kiddo.” Uncle Frankie is giving me puppy-dog eyes. “Ms. Denning just got to town. I don’t want her leaving before she falls… before…”

  “Before what?”

  “Before, uh, the big Polar Bear Plunge on Super Bowl Sunday.”

  Yep. Uncle Frankie is a rusty romantic and a very bad liar.

  Chapter 16

  TAKE A WALK ON THE BOARDWALK

  (I WISH I COULD)

  Uncle Frankie has never asked me for anything before.

  Usually he’s the one giving me stuff—like his classic cherry-red 1967 Mustang convertible and great life advice. Plus, Uncle Frankie’s the one who first told me about the Planet’s Funniest Kid Comic Contest, because he said I had a comedic gift. If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t be where I am today.

  Which is on the boardwalk. After dark.

  It’s pretty clear that Uncle Frankie is counting on me to help keep Ms. Denning, the new love of his life, in town. That’s a pretty heavy responsibility. And the boardwalk is where I go whenever I need to ponder serious, weighty issues: Why am I here? Why don’t woodpeckers get headaches? Why are there no B batteries?

  Somehow, Cool Girl—my strangely wise and Yoda-esque friend from school—always knows when I’m stuck in one of these emotional jams. It’s like she can read my mind and mysteriously shows up on the boardwalk just to lend me an ear. We’ll sit on our special bench under a streetlamp while I talk out whatever’s bugging me.

  Well, she sits on it. I sit next to it.

  Cool Girl is what I call her because she’s so cool. She’s also a girl. (Yes, we have kissed. Twice.) Her real name is Suzie Orolvsky. Cool Girl is a lot easier to pronounce.

  I roll closer to the bench and I can see her silhouette.

  Yep, as always, she’s there.

  Waiting for me.

  Except…

  Cool Girl doesn’t wear a baseball cap.

  And her hair is straight, not a frizzy mop.

  “Hiya, Jamie.”

  It’s Gilda Gold.

  “Um, what are you doing out here?” I ask her.

  She shrugs. “I don’t know. This is where I always come when I have, you know, stuff to think about.”

  “What’s on your mind?” I ask, wheeling closer.

  “School. How much it’s changed since we’ve been away.”

  “Yeah. That’s been bothering me, too. Especially that crazy new principal.”

  “And the nonsense about closing down the library,” says Gilda, “is the absolute worst.”

  “I know. Uncle Frankie is really, really, really upset about it.”

  “Huh? He doesn’t even go to Long Beach Middle. Why’s he so worried about it?”

  “Oh. Uh, I think he has, like, a mad crush on Ms. Denning, the new librarian. If they close her library, she’ll lose her job. If she loses her job, she’ll probably have to move to a new town, one where the middle school still has a library. If that happens, it’ll break Uncle Frankie’s heart, and he already had a heart attack, so I don’t know how much more breakage his heart can take.”

  “So, does Ms. Denning know how your uncle feels about her?”

  “I think so. I mean, he’s pretty obvious about it. He wore glasses and a tweed jacket to work tonight.”

  “That’s a sign you’re in love?”

  My turn to shrug. “I guess. In the adult world, anyway.”

  “Okay,” says Gilda. “Your choice is clear. You’re a celebrity. Celebrities have certain powers. You need to do everything and anything you can to help save the library, to get more than fifty percent of the student body using it. You have only twenty-three days. This is more important than brainstorming ideas for your show. The whole school is counting on you. So’s your uncle.”

  “Yeah. Thanks. I guess I knew all that. I just needed to hear somebody else say it.”

  Gilda smiles. “He was wearing a tweed sport coat behind the grill?”

  “Yep.”

  “Isn’t love funny?”

  Uh-oh. Gilda is giving me this dreamy kind of look.

  I wonder if I’m supposed to kiss her.

  Chapter 17

  CIRCUS SNACKS TO THE RESCUE!

  No, I did not kiss Gilda Gold while you were busy flipping pages.

  But the very next day, I have a brainstorm about how to draw more kids into the library.

  “Free popcorn and cotton candy!” I tell Gilda, Gaynor, and Pierce. “Remember when we did that Jamie Funnie episode about going to the Big Apple Circus in New York?”

  “‘Belly Flop Under the Big Top,’” says Gilda. “Episode six.”

  “Exactly!”

  “Your wheelchair tipped forward and you fell face-first into that pile of elephant poop!” laughs Gaynor. “It was awesome.”

  “Actually,” I say, “it was a bucket of mashed potatoes and brown food coloring.”

  “I wondered why it smelled so delicious,” remarks Pierce.

  “We had that popcorn popper and cotton candy machine for that one scene near the ticket booth,” I continue. “I bet if we call the prop guys, they’ll haul ’em both out here to Long Beach.”

  “Worth a shot,” says Gilda.

  She whips out her phone. Since she’s directed over half of the episodes so far, she is tight with all the crew people. She chats with the props mistress, Nancy Graziano.

  Three hours later, the popcorn and cotton candy machines are up and running in the library. The smell of hot, freshly popped popcorn wafting down the halls of the school? Stronger than any scent in the world. Except maybe cinnamon buns at the mall.

  I go into total carnival barker mode.

  “Get your books and buttery popcorn, folks. Step right up. Free popcorn and cotton candy with every book. Check it out and then check ’em out.”

  Kids are streaming into the library like crazy. Pierce is stationed near the door with one of those little hand clickers for counting people.

  “We’re up to one hundred and twenty-three students, seven teachers, two lunch ladies, and Gus, the janitor.”

  “Um, Jamie,” says Ms. Denning, “I’m not sure this is such a great idea.”

  “Are you kidding?” I say. “Look at this crowd! If we can keep doing these kinds of publicity stunts every day for a month, they’re not going to close down the library, they’re going to need to expand it!”

  That’s when Stevie and Lars all of a sudden discover that their school has a library.

  “How come it smells like a movie theater in here?” demands Stevie.

  “A movie theater at the county fair,” adds Lars.

  Then the two of them see the popcorn popper, which is in the middle of cooking up a fresh batch. Kernels are exploding inside the kettle like a string of firecrackers.

  Lars and Stevie push and shove their way to the center of the room.

  “Set it free!” shouts Stevie, swinging open the little glass door and lifting the lid on the corn-popping kettle.

  A barrage of hot popcorn and sizzling seeds shoots out of the machine.

  Meanwhile, Lars is over at the cotton candy machine. He lifts off its plastic dome and chucks it to the floor.

  He also hits the ULTRAHIGH WHIP button.

  The swirling sugar cyclone in the center of the cart flings stringy shreds of sticky pink sugar over the edges of the stainless steel tub. Strands of gummy, gluey gunk—looking like out-of-control attic insulation—spatter kids, books, and furniture.

  Kids are shrieking and ducking under tables for cover.

  Except me. I can’t really duck under anything anymore.

  Ms. Denning’s hair is glued to her face. She tried to put the plastic lid back on the cotton candy machine and took a direct sugar strand hit.

  It’s pure bedlam in the library. Forget about quiet, everybody is screaming!

  Suddenly Coach Ball barges into the room.

  He’s brought Vice Principal Bumgarten and Gus, the janitor, with him.

  Just the people we don’t want to see.

  Chapter 18

  BATTLE OF THE BOOKS

  What goes on here, Ms. Denning?” demands the principal.

  “The school board’s dreams came true!” I say, sounding as upbeat and positive as I can with popcorn kernels cotton-candy-glued to my cheeks. “Over half of the school population visited the library today!”

  “Three hundred and fourteen students in thirty-two minutes,” reports Pierce, who’s running statistics for us.

  “A very creative promotional idea,” says Ms. Bumgarten, the vice principal who’s all about the numbers.

  “If by ‘creative’ you mean ‘bad,’” snaps Coach Ball.

  “Yes, sir,” says Ms. Bumgarten, totally caving. “That’s what I meant, sir. Bad, bad, bad!”

  “But it worked,” I say.

  “So that’s one for our team!” adds Gaynor, pumping his arm in victory. “Woo-hoo! USA! USA!”

  “The library is saved!” adds Gilda.

  “No, it is not,” says Coach Ball, who’s totally not joining in on the whole celebratory vibe in the room. “The only results that count are how many kids are using this library at the end of the month.”

  “We’re not going for an average?” asks Pierce.

  “No. I had a chat with Mrs. Lexi Critchett. She’ll be back in twenty-two days to see how many kids are in the library.”

  “I’ll be in charge of monitoring the statistics,” says Ms. Bumgarten.

  “Maybe,” says Coach Ball.

  “Right. Maybe.” Ms. Bumgarten tries to smile. “Well, I have to run. Actually, I will walk, since running in the halls is against the rules.…”

  She leaves. Coach Ball turns his attention to Ms. Denning. “Now then—whose idea was this cheap popcorn-and-cotton-candy stunt?”

  I raise my hand. “Me. It was sort of a bake sale. Except we gave stuff away for free. And there weren’t any cakes, cookies, or, you know, other baked goods.”

  “It was also sort of a mistake,” says Ms. Denning. “A library doesn’t need circus snacks to make it interesting, Jamie.”

  “Neither does a circus,” says Gaynor. “But, whoa, they sure are tasty.” He plucks a sugar-coated popcorn ball out of his hair.

  “Our custodial staff is going to need to work overtime to clean this mess up,” says Coach Ball.

  “Might be best if we toss all these books in a dishwasher,” suggests Gus, the janitor, pulling the walkie-talkie off his belt. “Gertie? This is Gus. When you’re done washing the lunch dishes, have I got a job for you. And it’s a doozy.…”

  “We can’t clean books in a cafeteria dishwasher,” says Ms. Denning, picking up a paperback. “That would ruin them!”

  She can’t open the book she’s holding. The cover is glued to the pages with sugar.

  I tug at my collar. “We, uh, might need to replace a few books.”

  “And how do you suggest we do that?” says Coach Ball, jabbing his fists onto his hips so he can bend at the waist and glare at me from closer range.

  “Well, uh, I… hummina, hummina, hummina…”

  (Three humminas in a row is what the classic comedian Jackie Gleason would say whenever he couldn’t talk his way out of a jam.)

  “I asked you a question, Mr. Grimm. How do you suggest we ‘replace’ these damaged books?”

  “You could buy new ones,” says Gilda, trying to help me out.

  “Oh, really? Buy them? And where do you suggest we find the money for that?” The principal shakes his head with disgust. “This library is worse than useless. It is a money pit. A budgetary sinkhole. A financial fiasco!”

  “Oh, you don’t have to worry about the money, sir,” I say.

  “Oh, yes I do. I am the principal. Worrying about money is my job.”