I Totally Funniest: A Middle School Story Read online

  Which means, if she makes it back to Hollywood in time, I’ll be going onstage right after Judy Nazemetz.

  Chapter 61

  CHANGING MY ACT IN MIDSTREAM

  Okay,” says the director, “I need you each to give me two or three minutes of material so we can set sound and light levels.”

  We rehearse in the order we’ll perform in the show.

  Chatty Patty races to center stage, grabs the microphone, and starts cracking up everybody on the crew with her “dumb” act. She’s really good. She could definitely win.

  “Thanks, Ms. Dombrowski,” booms the director’s voice from out in the darkened auditorium. “That’s all we need for now. Antony? You’re up next.”

  Patty hurries offstage and finds a seat in the auditorium. She pulls out a pen and paper.

  Is she going to write down all Antony Guerrero’s jokes and try to steal them?

  She’ll be the first one onstage, so if she does one of Antony’s one-liners, he’ll have to change his act on the fly or everybody will think he stole his jokes from Patty. The same will be true for me.

  Antony sees Patty and her notepad out in the auditorium, too.

  “Don’t give her your A material,” he whispers to me. “Save it for tomorrow.”

  He heads to center stage and does a very funny riff on why Mexican-Americans get so confused at Taco Bell.

  “Wow, a taco shell that tastes like Cool Ranch Doritos. It’s just like Mamá used to make. Of course, my mother has a PhD in chemical engineering. Nachos Bell Grande? Very interesting meal. You get to eat the bowl because it’s a big scooped-out tortilla chip. We used to do this at my grandfather’s house. All his bowls were edible. His cups, too. In fact, everything in his whole house was made out of tortilla chips—just like that old fairy tale about the lady who lived in the gingerbread house, only spicier. We used to go over there and nibble on the furniture. ‘Antony, are you loco?’ Grandpa used to yell at me. ‘How we gonna watch football? You ate the TV!’ ”

  Wow. If that’s not his A material, I’m in big trouble. The guy is hysterical.

  “Jamie Grimm?” calls the director. “Do you need help getting onstage?”

  “No, sir,” I say, and roll my way out into the spotlight.

  I start out sort of slow because I’m kind of rewriting my act as I go, trying to do like Gilda suggested. Just tell my story. Just be me.

  The director cuts me off after a couple of minutes.

  I push my chair offstage.

  Antony Guerrero gives me a “nice” nod. “I like where you’re going. Keep it up, man.”

  “That was good, Jamie,” says Uncle Frankie, who’s waiting for me in the wings. “A good start. I definitely think you’re heading in the right direction.”

  “Too bad the big show’s tomorrow night. This probably isn’t the best time to be finally finding my new direction. It might be too little, too late.”

  Uncle Frankie doesn’t argue with me.

  “It’s okay,” I say. “I get it. I did this to myself.”

  Chapter 62

  EVEN MORE HOTEL GUESTS

  When Uncle Frankie and I get back to the hotel, the Smileys aren’t the only ones hanging out in my room.

  Max Weasley and all those talent agents from WWW have joined them.

  “So, Jamie baby,” says the super-agent, “are you ready to sign our little agreement?”

  “Well, uh…”

  “We’re still thinking about your offer, Mr. Weasley,” says Uncle Frankie.

  “Sure. But while you’re thinking about it, think about this: You sign with us, we’ll buy you a new house. A mansion. In Beverly Hills. I’m talking 90210!”

  While the agents are making their pitch, the Smileys are staring at them silently.

  They’re in full-on frown mode.

  And it’s kind of freaking out all the Hollywood people.

  Chapter 63

  PARTY? ON A SCHOOL NIGHT?

  Soooo,” says Max, bringing his hand to the side of his mouth. “Who are these sourpusses?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I should’ve introduced you. That’s my aunt, my other uncle, my three cousins—”

  “I’m also his bodyguard,” growls Stevie.

  “Beautiful,” says Mr. Weasley. “So, you folks must be superproud of Jamie, am I right?”

  The Smileys (except Stevie, of course) nod a bit.

  “How’d you like to have your own mansion next door to Jamie’s mansion?”

  Now they sort of shrug.

  “We’ll give you all cars, too. Even the kids. Them, we’ll give go-carts. Or Hot Wheels. Do kids still like Hot Wheels? How about that iPad car racing game? We’ll give you iPads, too.”

  No reaction. Nothing.

  “Just smile. Or scream.”

  Max Weasley is practically begging.

  “Do something. Anything. Please. I’m in showbiz. I need constant feedback from people I don’t really know. I also need huge fees, like twenty-five percent of everything Jamie ever makes. Actually, you can reverse that order. I need the fees first.”

  Still nothing.

  No reaction from the Smileys.

  And no signed contract from me.

  “Hey,” says Max Weasley, totally flustered, “how would you folks like to come to a little party at my place tonight?”

  “Little?” scoffs one of the other agents. “It’ll be the biggest, most spectacular Hollywood party ever.”

  “Jamie can sign the contract at the party,” says Max Weasley. “It’ll be a celebration. All about you, Jamie baby, and your big, bright, boffo future.”

  “But,” I say, “the finals are tomorrow. I really shouldn’t go to a party. I need to get to bed early. I can’t—”

  Stevie Kosgrov shows me the palm of his hand.

  “We’ll be there, Max baby,” he says. “And don’t worry, dead or alive, Jamie’s coming, too!”

  Chapter 64

  HEARD ANY JUICY HOLLYWOOD GOSSIP LATELY?

  I really don’t want to go to the Hollywood party, but Uncle Frankie thinks it might be a good idea.

  “You need to relax, kiddo. I learned this back when I was on the yo-yo tourney circuit. It’s always good to unwind a little before you have to wind your string up tight for the big show.”

  Then I make a major mistake.

  After I dress for the party, I Google myself to find out how America thinks I’ll fare in the final round of the competition. One click and I’m bombarded with 2,362,014 results in 0.37 seconds.

  Every one of those results is a juicy rumor that, apparently, is swarming all over cyberspace as it zips across Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, Tumblr, Pinterest, and even Google+.

  The rumor with more juice than Jamba?

  That I can walk.

  That my legs aren’t really paralyzed.

  To make matters worse, they have proof. Photographs of me walking, running, swimming, and, yes, dancing.

  The blogs are unbelievably nasty.

  Most suggest I should drop out of the competition before the final round. “Jamie Grimm should walk away from the spotlight now. Literally. He should get up out of that chair and just walk off the stage and back to Nobodyville where he belongs!”

  There’s only one problem with this juicy rumor.

  Well, two.

  First, it’s not true. This is why I am currently lying on the floor like a resident of a roach motel. I thought I’d see if maybe I could walk and just forgot.

  I can’t.

  Second, all those pictures? Not a single one of them was taken after the car wreck.

  The accident that put me in my chair.

  Chapter 65

  A MOB OF REPORTERS

  Now we’re kind of trapped inside the hotel.

  The media, chasing the news about my phony handicap, have arrived and set up camp downstairs in the lobby and outside in the parking lot.

  From my window, I can see satellite dishes on top of TV trucks and an angry mob of reporters sho
uting at the building. They remind me of the mob in my favorite Mel Brooks movie, Young Frankenstein. Only, they’re jabbing the air with microphones instead of pitchforks.

  “Um, you guys?” I say to the Smileys and Uncle Frankie. “Maybe you should go to Mr. Weasley’s party without me. A mob can be an ugly thing.”

  “That crowd down there isn’t ugly,” says Stevie. “They’re all TV reporters.”

  “With very nice hair,” adds Mrs. Smiley. “And excellent teeth. I’m sure their dentists are proud.”

  “Still,” I say, “no way am I rolling through that pack of wolves.”

  “You won’t have to,” says Uncle Frankie with a sly grin. “We’ll do the rolling for you!”

  Chapter 66

  MY NEW WHEELCHAIR

  So Uncle Frankie, Mr. Smiley, and Stevie stuff me inside a rolling suitcase.

  “Use your arms to tuck your knees up to your chin and try not to breathe too much,” suggests Uncle Frankie as he zips up the bag.

  Fortunately for me, it’s a jumbo-sized piece of luggage. (I think it’s the one Stevie used to pack all his torture equipment for the trip out west.)

  Mrs. Smiley takes my wheelchair. She pretends she sprained her ankle and can’t walk on it. Since all the reporters are looking for me, not the Smileys or Uncle Frankie, we’re able to sneak down to the lobby and out to where another stretch limousine is waiting for us. Yes, I’ll have to ride in the trunk. But only for a block or two. When we’re safely away from the hotel mob, Uncle Frankie promises we’ll pull over and make another switcheroo.

  “Unless we forget,” says Stevie, who I think is going to add the Suitcase Sauna Squeeze to his list of all-pro bullying techniques.

  Anyway, the luggage-cram scam works. We waltz right past the press and the paparazzi.

  While I’m stuck in the suitcase inside the trunk, I make a mental note: “Do not eat much at Mr. Weasley’s party.”

  If I do, I may never fit back inside the rolling bag.

  Chapter 67

  PIN THE TAIL ON THE MOVIE STAR

  Max was right. The big Hollywood party is absolutely amazing.

  Everybody who is anybody is there, including people who used to be nobodies—like me.

  I’m gawking at the celebrities and collecting all sorts of autographs.

  Meanwhile, the Smileys couldn’t care less. They’re spending all their time staring at the fancy food.

  “Who wants vegan pizza with pesto grilled vegetables?” grumbles Stevie. “I want an In-N-Out burger. I hear they’re the best in LA.”

  Max Weasley comes up to me.

  He’s shaking his head and reading something on his smartphone.

  “You can walk?”

  “No, sir. That’s just—”

  “Jamie baby. Bubelah. Sweetheart. You lied to me? You lied to Max Weasley?”

  “No, sir. I—”

  “I’m withdrawing my offer to represent you.”

  “B-b-but—”

  He holds up his hand. “Please, Jamie. No butt jokes. They’re so last week. Excuse me. I have to go sign up some major new talent: the Smileys! Those people are amazing. No one in Hollywood has ever seen anything like ’em!”

  He hustles over to where one of the Kardashian sisters is trying to get Mr. Smiley’s attention.

  It’s no use.

  He’s busy peeling vegetables off the top of a mini-pizza. “Where’s the pepperoni, sausage, and bacon?”

  “It’s vegan,” explains Mrs. Smiley. “It’s all vegetables.”

  “Even the cheese?” complains Mr. Smiley. “That’s weird.”

  None of the Smileys are paying any attention to the high-wattage megastars surrounding them. They’re focused on the food. And the ice sculptures.

  “That statue might melt,” says Mrs. Smiley. “His nose is already dripping.”

  They are more interested in frozen hunks of water than all the celebs.

  And the movie stars love it.

  Yes, suddenly, the Smileys are hot.

  Max Weasley offers the Smileys their own TV show. Their own movie. A record deal. Commercial endorsements.

  All the stuff that, twenty-four hours ago, he offered me.

  Chapter 68

  RAFE TO THE RESCUE

  Hold on. Wait a second. Attitude adjustment time.

  I see one of my all-time favorite stars on the other side of the swimming pool.

  Rafe Khatchadorian! The middle school maniac!

  “What are you doing in Hollywood?” I ask Rafe.

  “I had an idea for that sign up in the hills. We could rearrange the letters, make it spell Doh Woolly. Everybody will think Homer Simpson did it. D’oh!”

  “I think he’s here at the party.”

  “Cool,” says Rafe. “Love to meet Homer.”

  I nod. “Me too. Because right now, I agree with what he told Bart: ‘Trying is the first step toward failure.’ My act is a mess. I need to rewrite the whole thing. By tomorrow.”

  “Hey,” says Rafe, “for what it’s worth, I still believe in you, Jamie.”

  “You do?”

  “Definitely.”

  “But why?”

  “Because, uh, you know—I, being me, still believe in you, being you. See, I believed in you before and now, uh, I still do.”

  “Seriously? That’s your reason?”

  Rafe shrugs. “Sorry, Jamie. This is Hollywood. I’m an actor. The writers give me lines, I say them. By the way, I love Gilda’s idea for your act. Riffing on how you sort of turned into a jerk.”

  “Is this another line your writers wrote for you?”

  “No. That one was from the heart. Listen to Gilda, Jamie. She hasn’t steered you wrong yet.”

  Chapter 69

  HEY, IT’S HOLLYWOOD. EVERYBODY’S A PHONY!

  The next morning, my day starts with another buzzkill news blast.

  But this one isn’t about me.

  My “friend”—the one I’ve been feeling sorry for, Judy Nazemetz—is on the BNC Morning Show. With her manager.

  Who, by the way, also just happens to be her father.

  That’s right.

  The same father who, she told me, was seriously sick somewhere in Oklahoma.

  For the record, Mr. Nazemetz looks extremely healthy. Judy? She looks extremely crafty and cunning.

  “I think my little girl has a good shot at winning the contest and taking home that one-million-dollar prize and another sitcom,” says Mr. Nazemetz, reminding everybody what’s at stake in the finals. “We’ve been at a secret, secluded location, rehearsing with her comedy coach. America is going to laugh its head off when it hears Judy’s new material.”

  I think about that for a second.

  Does America even have a head that it can laugh off? Would that be Maine?

  “Give ’em a free sample, honey,” says Mr. Nazemetz.

  “Oh, that’d be terrific,” says Pam Johnston, one of the Morning Show anchors.

  “You want free?” says Judy. “Well, this prisoner, who’s been locked up for years and years, is finally released. He runs around yelling, ‘I’m free! I’m free!’

  “A little kid walks up to him and says, ‘So what? I’m four.’ ”

  Anchorwoman Pam Johnston is cracking up. “Judy Nazemetz, you are one funny young woman!”

  She’s also one sneaky young woman.

  The BNC Morning Show says good-bye to Judy and her dad. I flip open my laptop, do a quick self-Google, and guess what?

  There are absolutely no new or snarky stories about me “walking.” No new photos documenting my fraud.

  I wheel over to look out the window.

  Yep. The mob of reporters has gone home. I am definitely yesterday’s news. Nobody even cares.

  I type in Judy’s Skype address. She actually answers.

  “Hi!” she says. “Guess where I am?”

  “Um, backstage at the BNC Morning Show studios?”

  “Oh, you saw me?”

  “Uh, yeah. And your
father.”

  “He’s my manager.”

  “I know. I heard. I thought he was busy in Oklahoma being sick.”

  I just roll my eyes. “Judy, why did you lie to me like that?”

  “Because I lied to everybody else and didn’t want to leave you out. We’re friends.”

  “What?”

  “I told Chatty Patty and Antony Guerrero the same fib about my dad. It was no biggie. I was just looking for a little edge in the competition.”

  “You wanted the three of us to waste our time working up a bunch of new material to fill in for you instead of concentrating on tightening our solid fifteen-minute routines?”

  “Psych! Gotcha.”

  “That’s horrible, Judy.”

  “No, Jamie. It’s Hollywood. That’s just the way the game is played. Nothing personal.”

  “But you already have your own TV show.”

  “So? If I win the competition, I’ll get another one. Two is better than one, Jamie. Always.”

  “Did you spread that fake rumor, too?” I ask. “About me being able to walk?”

  “Of course not.” She waits a beat. “That was Chatty Patty’s idea. We still friends?”

  She smiles.

  “I guess. I dunno. Sure.”

  Yeah. It’s my turn to lie.

  Chapter 70

  READY OR NOT, HERE I GO!

  And so the big night finally arrives.

  The Nokia Theatre is packed. Uncle Frankie and the Smileys are out in the audience, holding up signs and cheering me on.

  Ray Romano does a quick monologue and introduces our celebrity judges: Ellen DeGeneres, Chris Rock, and Billy Crystal, my hometown’s undisputed heavyweight comedy champ.