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  “The doctors say there’s an operation I could have.”

  “And you could walk again?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Cool!”

  “I guess,” I say. “But it’s supposed to be dangerous. It could, you know, make things even worse. Paralyze more junk.” I move my hand up from my lap to my waist to my chest.

  She gets the picture. “Oh. Not cool.”

  “Yeah. Plus no insurance company would ever pay for it, anyway. It’s what they call an ‘experimental procedure.’ ”

  “Would it paralyze your lips?”

  “Huh?”

  “This operation. Would it make your lips go all limp and floppy?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. No? I guess if they cut the wrong nerve or something…”

  “Well,” she says, scooting to the edge of the bench, moving in so close I could count the freckles on her face if I wasn’t so busy staring into her eyes. “I don’t want to risk it.”

  I swallow hard. “Risk what?”

  “Missing this.”

  She closes her eyes and kisses me.

  It’s soft. Gentle. Unbelievably gentle, actually.

  And it’s over way too quickly.

  But I’ll never forget it. Never, ever, ever. Even if I have that operation and it paralyzes my brain.

  Because you never forget your first real kiss. Well, not me, anyway.

  Hey, I’m just a kid from Cornball, remember?

  Chapter 61

  REMEMBERING ANOTHER NIGHT

  I guess I’d better head home,” says Cool Girl after we both sigh and gaze at the twinkling stars for a while.

  “I’ll walk you,” I say.

  She laughs. “I thought you said that would require a medical miracle.”

  “True,” I say as we shove off. “And, like I said, insurance companies aren’t big on paying for miracles.”

  We make our way up the boardwalk. She rests her hand on my shoulder. This is how we can stroll hand in hand while my actual hands are busy pumping rubber.

  She really is a good friend. I trust her in a way I don’t trust anybody else.

  And so I finally tell her.

  “It was at night,” I say.

  “What was?”

  “What happened. The car wreck. We were driving along the Storm King Highway.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Oh, it’s one of the most scenic drives in the whole state,” I say, somewhat sarcastically. “Route 218. The road that connects West Point and Cornwall up in the Highlands on the west side of the Hudson River. It’s narrow and curvy and hangs off the cliffs on the side of Storm King Mountain. An extremely twisty two-lane road. With a lookout point and a picturesque stone wall to stop you from tumbling off into the river. Motorcycle guys love Route 218.”

  We stop moving forward and pause under a streetlamp.

  “But if you ask me, they shouldn’t let trucks use that road.”

  Cool Girl looks at me. “Go on, Jamie,” she says gently.

  And so I do.

  “Like I said, it was night. And it was raining. We’d gone to West Point to take the tour, have a picnic. It was a beautiful day. Not a cloud in the sky until the tour was over, and then it started pouring. Guess we stayed too late. Me, my mom, my dad.” Now I bite back the tears. “My little sister. Jenny. You would’ve liked Jenny. She was always happy. Always laughing.

  “We were on a curve. All of a sudden, this truck comes around the side of the cliff. It’s halfway in our lane and fishtailing on account of the slick road. My dad slams on the brakes. Swerves right. We smash into a stone fence and bounce off it like we’re playing wall ball. The hood of our car slides under the truck, right in front of its rear tires—tires that are smoking and screaming and trying to stop spinning.”

  I see it all again. In slow motion.

  The detail never goes away.

  “They all died,” I finally say. “My mother, my father, my little sister. I was the lucky one. I was the only one who survived.”

  Chapter 62

  I AM THE LUCKY ONE

  Now that I’ve finally started talking about it, I can’t stop.

  “Believe it or not, the truck driver wasn’t hurt at all—even though his cab slammed into the cliff and the nose of his big rig crumpled like something in a cartoon. He was the one who called 9-1-1.

  “While we waited for the police to show up, he kept circling close to me, kept telling me he was so sorry and how he hadn’t seen us coming.

  “The state police came. And then an ambulance. Fire trucks. I remember the flares and lots of swirling, flashing lights. The paramedics told me not to move. To keep my head perfectly still. That’s when I realized I couldn’t move. At least, not my legs.

  “While they were working on me, steadying my head, moving me to the backboard, I kept asking people, ‘Where’s my sister? You have to find my sister.’ ”

  Cool Girl is kneeling beside me now. She wraps her arms around me and holds me tight. “I’m here,” she says. “I’m right here.”

  “They told me to calm down. Not to move. I was flat on my back, and the raindrops kept falling straight down at me. ‘Where’s Jenny?’ I kept asking. Finally, a police officer in a Smokey Bear hat all wrapped in wet plastic leaned in and told me, ‘She didn’t make it, son.’ That’s when I blacked out, I think. I don’t remember anything else. Except for the rain. It kept falling into my eyes, washing away my tears.”

  Cool Girl squeezes me harder. She holds me like she’ll never let me go. She holds me like I’ve needed to be held since that horrible night out on the side of Storm King Mountain.

  She’s crying for me, I guess.

  I’m crying for my mom and dad, and for my little sister, Jenny.

  Chapter 63

  BACK TO SEMI-NORMAL

  After I pour my heart out to Cool Girl, I actually feel better.

  You think I should’ve done it sooner? Maybe you’re right. I guess I just wasn’t ready to talk about what happened. It was hard to talk. I’m glad it’s over.

  The next morning my life begins a slow but steady return to its pleasant subnormal (and somewhat abnormal) normality.

  At school my buddies are the best.

  Gilda has put together a list of comedy concert DVDs for us to watch.

  “All the best stand-ups,” she says. “You can study their moves and timing before you go on to the regionals. These can be your training films.”

  Pierce and Gaynor and I still hang out whenever we can. But now every time Gaynor does something remotely goofy, he says, “Are you gonna put that in your act? You should, man. Because it’s so stupid, it’d be funny. Are you gonna put it in your act?”

  Turns out he actually enjoys being the butt of some of my jokes.

  “It makes me famous,” he says, “and girls dig famous people. Trust me on that.”

  At home the Smileys are acting kind of human around me. Except Stevie. I think it’s technically impossible for him to act human (because he isn’t one).

  They almost, kind of, occasionally, more or less get my jokes. It just takes about an hour. Sometimes longer.

  “Oh,” says Uncle Smiley, “I get it now. The Ring Dings Frank serves at his diner are chocolate-covered yo-yos because both objects are round and about the same size and width, and he likes to play with yo-yos. Oh-ho. That’s funny. Very amusing.”

  Aunt Smiley is a much better actor. She also took the time to look up a lot of different ways to tell me I’m funny.

  “You’re hysterical, Jamie!” Or “That’s a real knee-slapper, Jamie!” And “My, Jamie, what a waggish, witty, and whimsical way with words!”

  Yep. I not only funny.

  I jolly, comical, and humorous, too.

  So things are definitely looking up in Smileyville.

  Even Ol’ Smiler is grinning most of the time.

  I am definitely the luckiest guy I know.

  Chapter 64

  ZOMBIES ON PARADE!

&nb
sp; So did being crowned New York State’s Funniest Kid Comic change my life?

  A little. Couldn’t hurt, right? Better than a sharp stick in the eye.

  For instance, one morning the zombies all got together and carried me to school.

  They said my act was so funny (they caught it on SpookTube), they laughed their butts off.

  And talk about applause. When these guys give you a hand, they give you a hand.

  Fortunately, none of the zombies wanted to eat me.

  “You a comedian,” one drooling ghoul grumbled. “You taste funny.”

  Chapter 65

  MOB SCENE BY THE SEA

  That Saturday, when I head over to Uncle Frankie’s Good Eats by the Sea, there is a line out the door because so many people want to come in and congratulate me behind the cash register.

  Maybe you’ve seen the satellite photos.

  The line is about ten miles long, and every person in it wants one joke from me and one chocolate-covered yo-yo from Uncle Frankie.

  There are so many people on the streets of Long Beach that the president of the United States calls because he’s worried we might exceed the island’s weight limit and all end up at the bottom of the ocean with SpongeBob.

  Not really, guys.

  There is no such thing as SpongeBob.

  Or a line that long.

  But Mr. Burdzecki is sitting on a stool at the counter all day so he can share a few words with any new customers who meet me for the first time: “Jamie Grimm? He funny!”

  Chapter 66

  A SUNDAY DRIVE INTO MY PAST

  On Sunday the Smileys take me and Cool Girl upstate to visit the place I called home right before I moved to Smileyville.

  The Hope Trust Children’s Rehabilitation Center.

  What we patients all called the Hopeless Hotel.

  It’s a special hospital for kids who’ve been in horrible accidents or have other kinds of super-serious medical conditions. It’s where I spent nearly a year recovering from the “severe trauma” of the car wreck. Hope Trust is totally supported by private money. I don’t think anyone hosts a telethon for it, but someone should. Maybe someday I will.

  As we cruise the corridors, I see some of my old friends.

  Like Carly. She has myotubular myopathy. It makes her muscles weak. A lot of kids who have it die before they’re one. Carly is eight. She’s what you might call a “fighter.”

  She’s been checking in and out of Hope Trust her whole life. This is where she learned how to walk.

  “You’ll get there, too, Jamie,” she says.

  “Thanks.”

  “Jamie?”

  I can’t believe it. When I was at Hope Trust, Derek, who’s seventeen, couldn’t walk or talk. Heck, he could barely breathe. I remember he had so many tubes coming out of his body, some of the other kids called him Scuba Dude. Derek had been tossed out of a car, just like me. But while I landed on my butt, Derek landed on his head. As a result, he more or less sprained his brain and ended up with all sorts of neurological damage.

  Now he’s walking with a cane and talking.

  “Good to see you, man,” says Derek.

  “You too.”

  “Remember when I was, like, totally zonked out, and all you kids called me Scuba Dude?”

  “Um, yeah?”

  “I heard that, man. I heard every word.” He winks and smiles. We knock knuckles. “I’m late for PT.”

  “En-joy.”

  “Yeah, like that’s gonna happen….”

  I remember PT. Physical therapy. It’s like gym class, but with a little medieval torture action tossed in.

  Hey, I can’t complain. PT is what got me out of that bed and into this chair.

  Okay. I guess we shouldn’t have called this place the Hopeless Hotel. But we all did. Mostly because we all thought we were hopeless cases until someone, usually a doctor or a nurse or a physical therapist, showed us we weren’t.

  “I want you to see something,” I say to Cool Girl.

  I take her to the hospital’s patient library. One whole section of the bookshelves is crammed with joke books.

  “The doctors and nurses up here always said, ‘Laughter is the best medicine.’ So they’d bring me a couple of these books, and every day I’d read all I could about comedians and jokes and comedy sketches. Even when nobody thought I’d live, I kept reading joke books. And you know what?”

  “What?”

  “I think all that laughing is what kept me alive.”

  Chapter 67

  LAUGHTER REALLY IS THE BEST MEDICINE

  We meet up with the Smileys again in the hospital cafeteria. You know, the Smileys are turning out to be good people. With one major exception, of course.

  The place is packed. It’s wall-to-wall wheelchairs and walkers and medical people dressed in pastel-colored scrubs. I scan the tables, and all I see are tired medical workers, scared parents, and sad kids.

  I see myself a year ago.

  The place is totally quiet except for a few coughs and the clink of silverware on plates.

  “Not exactly like Gotham,” whispers Cool Girl out of the side of her mouth.

  I sigh—then I start to grin. “Says who? Give me a hand, you guys. Need just a little help.”

  Cool Girl, the Smileys, this orderly I remember named Bob, and, yes, even Stevie all grab hold of my chair, hoist me up, and prop me on top of an empty table.

  “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Jamie Grimm. I don’t know if you heard about it, but maybe a week ago, some idiots in New York City named me the funniest stand-up comedian kid in all of New York. I have one question for those judges: Are you people blind? I haven’t stood in over a year.”

  A few chuckles ripple through the cafeteria.

  “I live in Long Beach. That’s on Long Island. We’re famous for our zombies. The other day, I was rolling to school, and this one zombie says to his friend, ‘Mmmmm. Loooook. Meals on wheels.’ ”

  Now they’re laughing. I shoot Aunt Smiley a wink to thank her for the assist on my new material.

  I do a quick riff on Pierce and Gaynor, crack a couple of booger jokes, and do a whole bit on Uncle Frankie getting his own Cooking With Yo-Yos show on the Food Network. I even have some fun with Stevie Kosgrov. Now I have him working his way up, Rocky-style, from boxing with goldfish to taking on a tuna. “And to become heavyweight champion of the undersea world, he’s getting ready to whale on a whale.”

  There’s a ton more laughter. The best I’ve ever heard.

  And then I launch into a skit I’ve been working on in secret for a couple of weeks.

  “I came here in the summer. Some kids go to camp—paddle canoes and get a whistle lanyard. Not me. I came here, did PT, and got my own personal bedpan. I remember that thing was sooooo cold. Once, I asked my nurse if she stored my bedpan in the refrigerator. She said, ‘Yes. If we put it in the freezer, it tears off too much skin.’ ”

  A nurse in the cafeteria—one of the women who took such good care of me—is laughing so hard, she’s holding her sides.

  “So,” I say, “do you guys still call this place the Hopeless Hotel?”

  “Yeah!” a bunch of kids shout out. Others are nodding their heads. Some are clapping.

  “Well, it is a lot like a hotel. It’s got tons of rooms and a heated swimming pool. Plus, a very friendly staff. There are all sorts of people standing by in the lobby to carry stuff up to your rooms. They’ll even carry you. This guy over here? Bob? He lifted me in and out of my bed so many times I felt like I was his personal set of dumbbells. I know he loved it when I was in that heavy plaster cast. Gave him a good workout. Really pumped up his biceps. I should’ve charged him a gym fee.”

  Bob is laughing and clapping and showing everybody his bulging arm muscles.

  “So, okay, the Hopeless Hotel is definitely a hotel. But that ‘hopeless’ part? I’m not so sure about that anymore.

  “See, earlier, out in the halls, I ran into my friends Ca
rly and Derek.” I slap the sides of my wheelchair. “I really need to find the brakes on this thing. Anyway, I ran into them, and guess what? They’re both doing way better—even after a lot of people gave up on them. But not their families. Not their friends. And, most important, not themselves.

  “You ever hear this old expression: When the world says ‘Give up,’ hope whispers ‘Try it one more time’? Neither had I. Not until I came here, and some anonymous night nurse scribbled it on my cast. With a Sharpie. We’re talking permanent ink, people. That little slogan didn’t come off until the cast did. But the hope? I still got it. Big-time. In fact, right now I’m hoping some of you guys will help me get down off this table. Otherwise, I’m stuck up here, and I left my freezing-cold bedpan at home.”

  I wave my hand over my head.

  “Thank you! I’m Jamie Grimm. And you’ve been the best audience in the world!”

  They clap and cheer, and I know in my heart it doesn’t get any better than this.

  This one moment, here at the Hopeless Hotel, beats everything else in my whole story. Winning the contests in Ronkonkoma and Manhattan. Saturdays at Uncle Frankie’s. Goofing around with Gaynor and Pierce.

  Yes, it even tops my first kiss.

  I can’t explain exactly why. It just does!

  Chapter 68

  AND NOW A WORD FROM OUR TORMENTOR

  When I’m down off the cafeteria table, Stevie Kosgrov comes up to me.

  Guess he didn’t like that whole “whale on a whale” routine. Do I blame him? Nah. Maybe. Well, yeah.