I Even Funnier: A Middle School Story (I Funny) Read online

  “No, Vincent. I’m just saying that maybe you ought to—”

  “Don’t sit there giving me advice, Grimm. I’m Vincent O’Neil, and I am the real deal! I’m ten billion times funnier than you’ll ever be.”

  “Maybe so, Vincent. Excuse me. I gotta—”

  “After school.”

  “What?”

  “You and me. Outside. We settle this once and for all.”

  I am so confused. “Settle what?”

  “Who’s the funniest kid at Long Beach Middle. This is a formal challenge to a duel that you cannot refuse unless you want me to tell everybody you’re too big a chicken to stand up for yourself!”

  I grin. Vincent came pretty close to a decent joke there.

  “So how’s this competition work?” I ask.

  “We take turns telling jokes. The comic who gets the most laughs from the crowd wins.”

  We’re already drawing quite a crowd in the hallway.

  I can’t back down. If I do, everybody at school will think I won the New York State contest because the judges took pity on me, a poor little crippled kid in a wheelchair. Besides, maybe if I beat Vincent, he’ll quit cracking so many horrible jokes in my face.

  “Fine,” I say. “On the playground. After school.”

  “Bring your best stuff, Jamie, because I sure will. I love competition. Speaking of competitions…”

  Oh, boy. Here we go.

  “Did you hear about the guy who lost his grip at the woodchopping contest? He was de-feeted!”

  Nobody in the hallway laughs, except, of course, Vincent O’Neil.

  “Get it? De-feeted? The ax slipped and he chopped off—”

  “WE GOT IT!” the whole hall shouts.

  Oh, man. This comedy competition on the playground? It should be a cakewalk.

  Even for me.

  Chapter 31

  THE BIG LAUGH-OFF

  You can take this guy, Jamie,” says my corner man, Gaynor.

  “Total knockout!” adds Pierce.

  “Go for the funny bone!” says Gilda, who’s going to record the whole thing on her iPhone so she can post my schoolyard Comedy Smackdown victory on YouTube.

  There’s a circle of kids, maybe four deep, ringing the jungle gym. The crowd parts as Vincent O’Neil makes his way into the joke pit, where I’m just sitting, waiting for him.

  In a rare mutual decision, Vincent and I have chosen Brightman Kornegay III, our class president, to be the referee and judge. He’ll be the human laugh-o-meter and decide which one of us scores the biggest yuks.

  “Okay, guys,” says Brightman. “Keep it clean. Uh, no hitting below the belt and, um, no Justin Bieber jokes.”

  We flip a coin. Vincent, who’s officially the challenger, calls heads.

  “Heads it is,” says Brightman. “Pass or play?”

  “Oh, I’m playing,” says Vincent. “You know, Jamie, you remind me of an Emo Philips joke—because I heard you got some new underwear. Well, it was new to you!”

  Believe it or not, the crowd laughs like crazy. A very loud—almost mechanical—“Ha-ha-ha!”

  “Jamie?” says Brightman. “Your joke.”

  “Well, I’ve got this friend. A guy named Joey. They caught him stealing stuff from lockers. Poor guy. I’m wondering what he’s going to do with all those magnetic mirrors. I mean, have you seen how some people decorate their lockers?”

  “Bor-ing!” shouts someone in the back of the crowd.

  Another heckler joins in: “Who cares about your stupid friends or some girl’s stupid locker?”

  I recognize both voices. Zits and Useless. Stevie Kosgrov’s very own goon squad.

  They throw me off. I hesitate. Vincent jumps in.

  “Hey, today the physics teacher told us that photons have mass. Really? I didn’t even know they were Catholic!”

  “Now, that’s comedy!” shouts Stevie Kosgrov at the rear of the crowd. “Right?”

  He glares. The crowd laughs.

  Yes, it’s stilted. And forced. But it’s also very, very loud.

  The fix is in. Stevie’s pounding his fist into his open palm, encouraging everybody to laugh and cheer for O’Neil. I’m so dumbfounded I just sit there and choke. I can’t think of a single funny thing to say.

  “What? That’s all you’ve got?” taunts O’Neil. “Hey, have any of you guys met Lamie Jamie’s uncle Frankie? He’s so old, he shops at Extremely Old Navy. I tell you, he’s so old, he farts dust. In fact, one time, Jamie’s uncle walked into an antiques store and they sold him!”

  The crowd is chant-laughing now. “HA-HA! HO-HO! HAR-DEE-HAR!” It’s like watching soldiers marching in lockstep, doing exactly what they’ve been ordered to do—or else!

  I don’t stick around to hear the judge’s decision.

  I roll past my friends. They look as sad as I feel. Gilda puts away her iPhone.

  This is the first time I have ever lost a comedy competition.

  Yes, I know it was rigged. And I know my evil bully cousin coerced the crowd into laughing at Vincent O’Neil’s corny jokes. But that doesn’t make me feel any better.

  In fact, I feel like the biggest loser to ever go to middle school.

  Which means the real winner of today’s comedy contest wasn’t Vincent O’Neil.

  It was Stevie Kosgrov.

  Chapter 32

  RAFE WHAT?

  Chapter 33

  THE SCENE OF THE CRIME

  The next day, I’m still feeling a little down.

  Especially when Vincent O’Neil takes a victory lap in the cafeteria by standing up on a table to host his very own “rebroadcast” of his winning performance.

  “And then I said, ‘He’s so old, he shops at Extremely Old Navy.’ Get it? See, Old Navy is the store, but Extremely Old Navy is this store I made up to show how old the guy is. What’s the matter, people? Why aren’t you laughing?”

  “Because Stevie Kosgrov isn’t here to threaten them all with knuckle sandwiches,” mutters Gilda.

  “You ever wonder what a knuckle sandwich would actually taste like?” says Pierce.

  “Yeah,” I say. “A McRib. But with knuckles.”

  Gaynor laughs so hard, chocolate milk comes squirting out his nose.

  “You’ve still got it, dude.”

  “I’m glad you think so, Gaynor.”

  “The judges up in Boston on Saturday will think so, too,” says Gilda. “Stevie won’t be up there, threatening them with bodily harm.”

  “Maybe I should go back to doing jokes from joke books,” I say.

  In the distance, we can hear Vincent O’Neil.

  “Hey—what flies through the air covered in syrup? Peter Pancake! Get it?”

  “Then again, maybe not.”

  After school, Gaynor asks Pierce, Gilda, and me to follow him to his locker.

  “What for?” I ask.

  “Something extremely important to my conscience!”

  His conscience? Geez! Cue the melodramatic music, please. Thank you.

  With the suspense killing us, we follow him down the hall to our lockers, where he pulls out two huge shopping bags he has somehow crammed inside.

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “The things I stole from all those lockers.”

  “I’m going to put it all back, except the money. I kind of spent that at the movies. But Uncle Frankie lent me some cash to live on, and I’ll work until I earn enough to pay everyone back.”

  “You washing dishes at the diner?” I ask.

  Gaynor shakes his head. “Busing tables.”

  Gilda pulls a bright blue Smurf head from the bag. “You stole somebody’s movie souvenir drink cup?”

  “Yeah. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  “Probably because you weren’t.”

  “Probably.”

  “A rotten banana?” says Pierce, plucking something black, stinky, and slimy out of bag #2.

  “It wasn’t rotten when I stole it. Last week.”

&n
bsp; “Come on, you guys,” I say. “Let’s just put these things back in front of whatever lockers they were from.”

  “You’d help me do that?” says Gaynor.

  “Hey, you’d do it for me, too. We all mess up sometimes. And besides, it takes guts to say you’re sorry. It will also take guts for somebody to eat that banana. Or this bologna sandwich. Exactly how long did it take for the meat to turn green?”

  “Let’s do the previous owners of the moldy sandwich and banana a favor and chuck ’em,” says Gilda.

  We all nod and laugh. I wouldn’t tell him, but Gaynor looks a little choked up.

  Teamwork. It’s kind of like having a family.

  Chapter 34

  BAD KARMA

  Saturday morning, I’m up bright and early.

  Not because we’re leaving for Boston at seven AM.

  Because I can’t sleep.

  It’s not just that I’m coming off a humiliating schoolyard defeat by Vincent O’Neil, the worst comic in the world. (If anyone ever wrote a book about him, I’m pretty sure it’d be called He Not Funny.)

  My fingers still smell like rotten bologna mixed with old bananas, from helping Gaynor return his stolen goods.

  Stevie Kosgrov dropped by the diner last night to wish me a happy funeral.

  And all that real-life stuff I was going to riff on like Jerry Seinfeld does? All I can hear in my head is a heckler shouting, “Who cares about your stupid friends or some girl’s stupid locker?”

  If I read my horoscope, it’ll probably say, “Today is a good day to hide underneath your bed. You might also consider running away. We hear Mexico is nice this time of year.”

  I feel like I’m surrounded by bad karma, which isn’t a heavy metal hair band from the ’80s. It’s a dark cloud of destiny hovering over my head. I just know the universe is all set to laugh at me, not with me.

  I have to face facts: Fate has decreed that I will end up a loser with all my dreams becoming as worthless as my legs. It’s just a matter of time.

  Like before this day is done.

  Chapter 35

  FATE STINKS

  Finally, the alarm goes off.

  Six AM.

  “Up and at ’em, guys,” says Uncle Frankie, flicking on the lights in the spare bedroom, which Gaynor and I are still sharing. “Today’s the big day! Boston, here we come!”

  “Mr. Frankie?” says Gaynor. “Is it okay if I stay here today and bus tables?”

  “You don’t want to come with us to the comedy club?”

  “Nah. Jamie’s going to lose. It’s his destiny.”

  And that’s right about where I have to cut this part of the story short.

  Because even though Gaynor’s comment crushes me, he’s so right.

  I totally tank in Boston.

  I’m so bad, I half expect the audience to throw me into Boston Harbor with a bunch of tea bags. If Paul Revere were here, he’d be riding his horse up and down the streets, warning people: “Jamie Grimm stinks! Jamie Grimm stinks!”

  Even Uncle Frankie deserts me.

  He leaves halfway through my fifth knock-knock joke. I hear him saying, “Jamie Grimm? Never met the kid. He’s not my nephew, that’s for sure. And he’s definitely not staying in my spare bedroom. No, sir. Never again.”

  I come in eleventh out of twelve.

  The kid in tenth place told his jokes in Farsi. Without a translator.

  The only act I beat is a scruffy monkey from Maine who bugged out his eyes, clanged two cymbals together, and screeched, “You want some of me? You want some of me?”

  When comedians flop, they call it dying onstage.

  Right now, I just wish I could.

  Chapter 36

  NEVER LET ’EM SEE YOU SWEAT

  I wake up, covered in flop sweat.

  WHEW.

  It was just a dream. Except for the sweat.

  We’re talking Niagara Falls. And that’s just my forehead. My clothes cling to me like I’m a soggy shrink-wrapped sandwich.

  Guess sleeping in my clothes to save time getting dressed in the morning wasn’t such a smart idea.

  “You okay?” asks Gaynor from his bed.

  “Yeah. Just a little, you know, damp.”

  “Did you wet the bed?”

  “I guess. But not in the, uh, traditional way.”

  “Say no more. You ready to rock Boston’s socks off?”

  “That’s funny,” I say.

  “Huh?”

  “Boston’s baseball team. They’re the Red Sox.”

  “I made a joke?”

  “You sure did.”

  “You can use it if you want to, Jamie.”

  “Thanks.”

  The lights flick on. Uncle Frankie is in the doorway.

  “You boys ready to roll?”

  “Just about,” I say. “I need to take a shower and change my clothes.”

  “Good idea,” says Uncle Frankie when he sees how drenched I am.

  “And I’m gonna write Jamie a few more jokes,” says Gaynor. “About socks.”

  “Really?”

  “Hey,” I say. “I’ll take all the help I can get. You never know when some cymbal-clanging monkey from Maine will show up to give you a run for your money.”

  Chapter 37

  COMEDY CONVOY

  We’re gonna caravan from the diner parking lot,” says Uncle Frankie as I roll up the ramp into the back of his van.

  Gaynor has already called shotgun and is up front in the passenger seat.

  Yes, he’s coming to Boston with us. The real Gaynor does not want to hang back and bus tables instead of watching me tank in Boston like dream Gaynor did.

  “Um, what exactly do you mean by caravan, Uncle Frankie?” I ask.

  “You know, like a convoy. We’ll take the lead, the Kosgrovs will follow us.…”

  He means the Smileys. As in Stevie Kosgrov’s whole family, including (unfortunately) Stevie.

  “A few of your other fans might follow us, too.”

  A few?

  When we pull into the diner parking lot, everybody is there to say good-bye, wish me good luck, or follow us up to Boston.

  It is totally overwhelming.

  I feel like I’m Long Beach’s one-person Little League team heading off to the Little League World Series in Japan or something. Only, people wouldn’t drive to Japan. At least not all the way.

  I see Gilda Gold and Pierce. They’re both carrying posters to cheer me on.

  “Do you have room for two more passengers?” Gilda asks Frankie.

  “Only if it’s you and the Pierce-a-lator!”

  “Excellent! I’m going to video the whole thing, Jamie. That way you can study it, like game films, to prep for the semifinals in Las Vegas.”

  “Uh, first I have to win the regionals. Today.”

  “Piece of cake. Who’s your competition?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve been afraid to check the website.”

  “Well,” says Pierce, “since this is the Northeast Regional, I’m certain we can expect a lot of jokes about New England clam chowder, maple syrup, and Ben & Jerry’s ice cream. It’s from Vermont.”

  “Hey, Jamie.”

  Cool Girl is in the parking lot.

  “Ciao, bro.”

  Cool Guy, too. He has bed-head hair, with every spiky tip perfectly placed. I figure he spent hours in front of a mirror to look like he just woke up.

  “I wish I could come with you guys,” says Cool Girl.

  “But we’re checking out a pickle festival in Brooklyn,” adds Cool Guy, flicking at a strand of hair that’s pointing the wrong way. “And sampling some locally sourced artisanal cheeses, too.”

  I just nod. I have no idea what he’s talking about.

  “Hey, Crip.”

  Stevie Kosgrov, Zits, and Useless push their way through the crowd. Literally. They shove everybody else out of their path.

  “Just so you know,” says Stevie, gripping my armrests and leaning in, “I’ll be in
the audience. Front row. Center seat. I just love to watch you sweat. Plus, I can’t wait to see you lose.”

  Now Gilda shoves Stevie aside.

  “Get a life, Kosgrov. You’re just jealous.”

  “Of what?”

  “Jamie. Did this many people show up to cheer you on when you were heading off to the Middle School Bully Olympics?”

  “Huh? There’s no such thing.”

  “Really?” snaps Gilda, jutting out her hip. “Maybe you’re just not good enough to get invited.”

  Stevie pouts. I smile.

  That’s usually how it works.

  “All right, everybody!” shouts Uncle Frankie. “It’s time to shove off! Let’s get our champ to Boston!”

  And in a spectacular show of support, Gilda Gold whips off the Boston Red Sox cap she wears all the time, and puts on a Yankees hat.

  “Yep,” she says, “for the first time ever, I’m actually cheering for the New York team!”

  Chapter 38

  GETTING “CREME’D”

  The whole ride up (it’s four and a half hours from Long Beach to Boston), I’m staring out the window, watching the highway roll by, and freaking out.

  That bad dream I had was so vivid. So real.

  Was it an omen? A vision of my impending doom?

  The ancient Greeks used to have omens all the time. In fact, they had ’em the way we have hamburgers. They’d see signs and symbols everywhere. In birds, tea leaves, Greek salads. If there was a thunderclap from a cloudless sky, that meant Zeus, the big cheese, was cheering them on. If they dreamed about monkeys banging cymbals, they wouldn’t go anywhere near Komos’s (the god of comedy) Komedy Klub.

  Hey, I’ve read enough mythology books to know one thing: A screeching monkey in the middle of the night always means doom and gloom. Or at least a splitting headache.