“King Henry Doesn’t Usually Drink Chocolate Milk,” says Stevie.
I just nod. To ask him what he’s talking about would mean risking my life.
“That’s how you memorize the basic prefixes in the metric system, dummy,” says Stevie. “Kilo, hecto, deca, units, deci, centi, milli.”
“Um, what are units?”
“Meters, grams, or liters, you idiot!”
Yes, the pupil has become the teacher.
And I might actually have a milli-chance of going to Las Vegas!
Chapter 49
STOP AND SMELL THE SEA SPRAY
The night before my big semester exams, I decide to give my brain a break.
I’ve crammed it so full of facts and figures it’s like a suitcase you have to sit on to close. I need to inhale some salty air instead of my study buddy Stevie’s BO.
So I roll down to the boardwalk.
Guess who’s sitting on what used to be our bench?
(Well, okay, she would be the only one actually sitting on the bench when it was “our bench,” but I used to park my chair right next to it.)
Looks like Cool Girl is taking a break, too, staring up at the twinkling stars.
“Hey,” she says when she hears my wheels squeaking up beside her. (Note to self: WD-40 the axles soon.)
“Hi,” I say. “How’s it going?”
“Not bad. How about you?”
I shrug. “I dunno. My head is so full of history and math I think it might explode.”
“Like in a cartoon?”
“Yeah. BOOM! There goes the Mason-Dixon Line dividing the middle colonies from the Southern colonies. POW! I no longer know the difference between an isosceles trapezoid and a rhombus.”
“Rhombus is a funny-sounding word,” says Cool Girl.
“Definitely.” I slip into my smooth dude voice. “ ‘Wow, check out the rhombus on that girl.’ ” Then I shift back to me. “Though trapezoid is pretty comical, too. Sounds like a race of aliens invading the earth. ‘Run for your life! The Trapezoids just landed.…’ ”
Cool Girl chuckles in that extremely cool way she has of letting me know I tickled her funny bone.
“I miss you, Jamie,” she says.
“I miss you, too.”
Hey, I can’t help it. I still like her.
“Sorry about you and Ethan,” I say.
“I’m not. The dude was a total poser.”
“Really? I guess that’s why he always looked like he was posing for a J.Crew catalog.” I do my best slouch in the chair, cock a hand on my hip, and pout out my lips.
Cool Girl laughs again. “We can still be friends, right, Jamie?”
“Sure. We don’t need to kiss and stuff.”
“Of course not,” says Cool Girl. “Kissing and stuff just complicates everything.”
I’m nodding. “Definitely. Why ruin a friendship to, basically, moisten our lips? That’s why they invented ChapStick.”
“I agree. Just being friends is totally cool.”
And then Cool Girl reaches over to take my hand.
“Is this what friends do?” I ask.
“Sometimes,” says Cool Girl.
“And then do they kiss?”
“No. At least not tonight.”
Yes, life can sure be confusing. But hopefully it will never get any crazier than middle school, which, in my opinion, has got to be the craziest time in anybody’s life.
Chapter 50
FAMILY TIME
All the studying pays off.
I ace my exams. My grades are back in familiar territory: the land of As and Bs.
Stevie? He has, at long last, become average—a solid C student. Okay, C-minus, but come on, it’s the letter that really counts.
My buddy Pierce (the genius) scored 100s on all his tests except math, where he got a 105 because he knew the answer to the bonus question and could name all twenty-one prime numbers between 100 and 200.
Gaynor was another solid C citizen and told us he would be spending the weekend taking care of his mom, who was coming home from the cancer treatment center after her final round of chemotherapy. Gilda, Pierce, and I volunteered to help out, but Gaynor said he and his mom needed some “alone” time.
I think he’s going to finally tell her about the locker burglaries.
Anyway, on Saturday morning, one week before the semifinals, Mr. and Mrs. Smiley sign all the paperwork required for me to fly off to Las Vegas with Uncle Frankie—on Thursday.
That’s in five days!
“I haven’t been to Vegas since Caesars Palace hosted the World Yo-Yo Olympics,” Uncle Frankie says as we cruise up the highway for a Sunday drive in his Mustang with the top down and the radio blaring.
“When was that?” I ask.
“Long, long time ago, kiddo. I was in high school. Your grandparents took me and your dad.”
“Did my dad like to yo-yo, too?”
“Not really. But he was my cheering section.”
Frankie hums along to the 1950s doo-wop music pumping out of the speakers. We’re celebrating my good grades and, according to Frankie, my “upcoming victory in Vegas.” We stowed my wheelchair in the back and just took off.
“So where are we going?” I ask when we cross the George Washington Bridge and head up the Palisades Parkway on the New Jersey side of the Hudson River.
“I dunno,” says Uncle Frankie. “I thought maybe we’d go say hi to your mom and dad and little Jenny. Let them know how good you’re doing.”
Okay. That puts a lump in my throat.
He means we’re on our way to Saint Thomas Cemetery, just north of Cornwall, my old hometown.
When we reach the cemetery, Uncle Frankie helps me transfer into my chair. We make our way across the rutted cemetery lawn, weaving around headstones and marble monuments.
We reach a shiny grave marker with four names etched into the smooth gray stone. Three of the names have two dates listed beneath them—the birth and death dates of my mother, father, and sister. Their death dates, of course, are all the same.
One name only has its year of birth and a dash.
That would be mine.
Someday, I guess, in whatever year I die, I will be buried up here in the Grimm family plot. They’ll chisel in the year of my death after that little dash. The headstone will be complete.
Uncle Frankie bows his head and says a silent prayer.
Me? I’m thinking about that dash. When I’m gone, that’s all that’ll really matter—what I did during that short little squiggle between the two dates: the dash that represents my entire life.
Yes, as weird as it may seem when you’re a kid stuck in middle school, life is short. Trust me. I know this from experience. My sister, Jenny, never even made it this far.
Uncle Frankie rests his hand on my shoulder.
I bow my head and say my own silent prayer:
Hey, Mom and Dad. Jenny. Things are going okay. Uncle Frankie and the Smileys are looking out for me. My grades are good again, too. Cousin Stevie’s… well, let’s just say he’s not flunking. Oh, by the way—I know heaven is pretty awesome, with all sorts of incredible stuff to do, but if you get the chance, think about me every once in a while, okay? I can feel it when you do.
Honest. I can.
Chapter 51
BEWARE THE MIGHTY MEATY
After visiting the cemetery, Uncle Frankie and I grab a quick lunch at the Fiddlestix Cafe on Main Street in Cornwall.
I recognize a few kids in the restaurant. Former classmates.
When I wave at them, a couple wave back. Then the adults with them start whispering behind their hands at each other.
I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I know what they’re talking about.
Me. My wheelchair. “The accident.”
“So, kiddo,” says Uncle Frankie when he sees the sad look on my face, “what’s good here?”
“The burgers, I guess.”
Uncle Frankie makes a funny scowling face.
“Are they as good as mine?”
I can’t help smiling. “No way.”
“Well, we should check ’em out. Size up my competition.”
So we both order the Build a Mighty Meaty.
That means we’ll be wolfing down half-pound burgers served with fries and onion rings. I top mine with lettuce, tomato, and American cheese. Uncle Frankie goes with bacon, mayonnaise, and three kinds of cheese: mozzarella, cheddar, and Swiss.
I think he’s doing top-secret research for the diner. Seeing how much cheese a cheeseburger can take before basically becoming a grilled cheese sandwich with meat sprinkles.
For dessert, we both go with the coconut cupcakes with coconut cream frosting topped with toasted coconut.
After lunch, we hit the road again.
Frankie loads in another CD filled with 1950s rock-and-roll tunes.
And of course, he sings along.
We’re back on Long Island in no time. Well, that’s how it feels, because we’re having so much fun.
“Come on, Jamie,” Uncle Frankie says when a group called the Chords starts crooning a doo-wop classic. “Sing along with me!”
Easier said than done.
Frankie starts out. “Hey nonny ding dong, alang alang alang, boom ba-doh, ba-doo ba-doodle-ay…”
Yes, those are the real lyrics.
“Do the sh-booms!” Frankie cries out. And he sings, “Oh, life could be a dream…”
I say “Sh-boom!”
“If I could take you up in paradise up above!”
I say “Sh-boom!” again.
Before long, we’re both trying to keep up with the tumbling harmonies without laughing too hard. It’s a little like musical yo-yoing.
Yes, Uncle Frankie is a nut. He’s also the best uncle anybody ever had and probably my best friend in the whole world.
Just being with him is a blast.
But suddenly, the singing stops. So does the music.
Frankie’s finger is on the Eject button. The slim silver disc slides out of the dashboard CD player.
“Oof,” he says. His forehead is dappled with sweat. “I don’t feel so good.”
He puts a fist to his gut. “Must’ve been that burger bomb I ate. Whooo. Good thing we’re almost home.”
I agree.
A few minutes later, Uncle Frankie says he doesn’t feel so good again.
Trust me: He doesn’t look so good, either.
Chapter 52
CARSICK
Ooof.”
As we pull into Long Beach, Frankie really starts to feel sick.
Really, really sick.
“I’ve got agita like you wouldn’t believe.”
“What’s agita?” I ask.
“Heartburn.”
Uncle Frankie eases the car over to the side of the road.
His breathing is hard and fast, like he just ran a marathon or something.
“Uncle Frankie? Are you okay?”
“Gimme a minute, kiddo.” He mops at the sweat beading up on his brow. “I’m freezing and sweating at the same time. Go figure.”
“Maybe we should call a doctor,” I say.
“Nah. It’s just heartburn. I’ll feel fine in a second. Soon as this elephant climbs off my chest. Oof.”
And then he slumps forward, his chin resting against the steering wheel.
“Uncle Frankie? Uncle Frankie!” I shout.
I’m not a doctor, but I’m starting to think he’s having a heart attack, right here in his Mustang convertible.
I start digging around in his jacket pockets. His pants pockets. The glove compartment.
Finally, I find his cell phone.
I call 911.
The dispatcher says help is on the way.
I tell them to hurry. Please!
“Hang on, Uncle Frankie,” I say through my tears.
I wish I could do something more. I wish I could run up the street and get help. Or drive him to an emergency room. Or drag him out of the car and give him CPR.
But I can’t do any of those things.
My legs won’t let me.
So I sit there and tell Uncle Frankie to hang on. Help is on the way.
I say another prayer. Ask my dad to look out for his big brother.
And then I move in as close as I can and start singing. Softly. Right in Uncle Frankie’s ear.
“Oh, life could be a dream (sh-boom)…”
I skip the bit about paradise up above.
I need Uncle Frankie down here.
Chapter 53
EVEN A BAD JOKE IS GOOD MEDICINE
You’d think that after spending so much time in hospitals, I wouldn’t freak out about certain things.
You’d be wrong.
I’m beyond scared, all the way to terrified.
Uncle Frankie has been moved from the emergency room to what they call the intensive care unit.
Been there. Done that.
The ICU isn’t exactly the happiest place on earth. Lots of beeping monitors and dripping tubes and frowning nurses.
Fortunately, I’m not alone in the waiting area. Everybody is there with me. The Smileys. Gaynor and Pierce. Gilda Gold and Cool Girl. Even Vincent O’Neil shows up.
An extremely serious young doctor in scrubs comes out to see us.
“Are you Frank Grimm’s family?”
“Yes,” says Aunt Smiley.
“He’s my uncle,” I say.
“And,” says Gaynor, “he’s an extremely cool dude.”
The doctor nods. “Mr. Grimm had a mild heart attack. One of his coronary arteries was blocked by cholesterol-rich plaque that had been building up on the artery’s walls.”
Apparently, the ginormous burger and mountain of greasy fries we ate up in Cornwall pushed Uncle Frankie over his lifetime artery gunk limit and caused the cholesterol walls to come a-tumblin’ down.
“We’re going to do an angioplasty.”
The cardiologist quickly explains how he’s going to snake a tube up into Uncle Frankie’s heart artery so they can blow up a balloon and unclog the blocked blood vessel. Great. My uncle is going to have a birthday party in his chest. Maybe a float from the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade. I hope they give him Kermit the Frog or Snoopy.
While Uncle Frankie has his procedure (because everything they do to you in a hospital is called a procedure), the rest of us wait.
And wait.
And wait.
Vincent O’Neil tries to lighten the mood in the waiting room with a corny joke.
It goes over like a loud fart at a funeral.
“That joke is horrible, Vincent,” says Cool Girl.
“Yeah. I know,” says Vincent, very humbly. “I just thought it might, you know, remind us all that there are worse things in this world than a heart attack.”
“Like your jokes?” says Pierce.
“Exactly.”
And somehow, we’re suddenly all laughing and smiling. We’re also surprised to discover that Vincent “The Joke Machine” O’Neil is actually human.
“So you want to hear the one about the old lady and the bad hospital food?”
“No!” all of us say at once. And then we start laughing again.
The heart doctor reappears while we’re in the middle of our giggle fit and says, “I guess you already heard the good news.”
“No,” says Aunt Smiley.
“What’s up, Doc?” asks Uncle Smiley.
“Mr. Grimm is going to be okay. He’ll need to take it easy for a while, of course. Stick close to home and lay off the fatty foods. But he’s going to be okay.”
And then the doctor starts giggling.
Because all of us are hugging him, and group hugs kind of tickle.
Chapter 54
ALL HANDS ON DECK
While Uncle Frankie recuperates from his “mild heart attack,” I move back in with the Smileys.
Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like my garage.
Of course, the whole experience with Uncl
e Frankie has given me more material for my act. For instance, how can a heart attack be “mild”? Are heart attacks like salsa? Do they come in different strengths? Mild, spicy, and deadly?
And those balloons they put inside people’s chests. Do they twist them first to make ’em look like poodles? That’d make for funnier X-rays.
Anyway, with Uncle Frankie out of commission for a couple of weeks, Mr. and Mrs. Smiley have taken over for him at the diner. They’re keeping the restaurant running and keeping up with their regular lives and jobs. Even Ol’ Smiler is busy. Someone has to clean up the food people drop on the floor.
The only thing Mr. and Mrs. Smiley aren’t doing very much of these days is sleeping. And I have to say, I am impressed.
They’re actually pretty cool.
Well, maybe cool isn’t exactly the right word. They’re solid. Dependable. Hardworking.
And I’m counting on them to let me go to Vegas on my own.
Chapter 55
CALLING IT QUITS
On Monday, when we’re supposed to fax all our final paperwork to the folks at the Planet’s Funniest Kid Comic competition, Aunt Smiley and I have a little heart-to-heart chat between school and my dinner shift at the diner, where I’m manning the cash register.
“Jamie?” she says, with a look on her face I can only call grim.
“Yeah. I know what you’re going to say.”
“I’m sorry.” Tears start welling up in her eyes.
“That’s okay,” I say, because I don’t want to make her feel any worse about having to choose Uncle Frankie’s well-being over my dreams. Heck, I’d choose Uncle Frankie, too. If we don’t all pitch in at the diner, the restaurant will most likely go out of business while Frankie’s stuck at home recuperating.
“Hey,” I say, “maybe they’ll do the comedy contest again next year.”
Aunt Smiley sniffles back her tears. “You’re right, Jamie. Maybe they will. That’d be great. And you’d win, Jamie. I know you would.”