“I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant. You don’t have to worry about finding the money to replace the books because, uh, I will.”
“Is that so?” Now Coach Ball leans back and grins. “Tell me more.”
Chapter 19
“I’M DOING WHAT?”
I’m about to say hummina three times in a row again.
Luckily, Gilda jumps in and saves me.
“Jamie and his comedian friends are going to host a library benefit show.”
“I am?”
Gilda nods like crazy.
“I mean, I am! I’m inviting all my comedian friends. We’ll put on a show, sell tickets, maybe run a charity auction.…”
“We could raffle off some props from Jamie Funnie!” says Gilda.
“Like that popcorn popper over there and the cotton candy machine, too,” suggests Gaynor, trying to be helpful. He isn’t. But like I said, he’s trying.
Meanwhile, Gilda sort of oversells my ability to attract big-name comedians.
“Jamie knows everybody!” she says. “Chris Rock! Louis C.K.! Tina Fey! Ellen DeGeneres! Steven Wright! That guy from the Mall Cop movies…”
I like Gilda’s idea, so I run with it. “We’ll raise all the money the school needs to replace any damaged books and enough to buy some new ones, too!”
“I want that one about the robots who all live together,” says Gaynor. “I read the first two. They were incredibly cool.”
“We might even raise enough to buy all the other cool stuff that Ms. Denning wants, like a 3-D printer,” I say as she beams a big smile at me.
“I am not turning this school into one of your comedy nightclubs, young man,” snarls Coach Ball.
“That’s the best part,” I tell him. “We’re going to do the show at Long Beach’s favorite dining spot: Good Eats by the Sea.”
“But the school will receive all the proceeds,” adds Pierce.
Coach Ball raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Will the owner of this ‘Good Eats by the Sea’ allow you to take over his establishment?”
“Oh, yes,” says Ms. Denning. “He is a very good friend of the school library.”
Friend?
He may just be friends with the library, but I know for sure that he’s crazy about its librarian!
“Hey,” I say, “while we’re at it, we could raise enough money to buy your new wrestling team some more of those padded earmuffs.”
Coach Ball narrows his eyes. “We don’t need your charity, Grimm. On my watch, sports teams at this school will always receive all the funding they require. That’s how we create true Minnow pride—with proud new additions to the trophy case in the lobby.” He turns to the janitor. “Come on, Gus. You can leave this mess until later. It’s not like anybody’s going to use the library now that all the popcorn and cotton candy are gone.”
Coach Ball stomps out of the room. Gus sort of shuffles after him.
When they’re gone, Ms. Denning turns to us.
“Look, you guys. I appreciate everything you’re trying to do—especially the benefit show. That’s a great idea. We can raise money and awareness at the same time. But I don’t think we should try any more of these publicity stunts to draw kids into the library. I want kids to come here because they want to be here—not because there’s free popcorn and cotton candy.”
“What about cupcakes?” asks Gaynor. “Cupcakes would be huge.”
Ms. Denning smiles. “Joey, I want kids to come to their library to learn and explore—not to grab a snack. You know, before I took this job, I worked at a public library. We had classes about everything, and they always drew a crowd.”
“But this is a school, Ms. Denning,” says Gilda. “Everybody takes classes all day long.”
“That’s why we have to make sure our after-school classes are fun!” says Ms. Denning.
Then she turns to me.
“Maybe even funny. If we had the right teacher.”
Uh-oh.
Why do I have the feeling I’m about to involuntarily volunteer for something?
Chapter 20
LOVE IS FUNNY (AS IN WEIRD)
After the final bell, Gilda and I head down the boardwalk to Uncle Frankie’s diner.
“So, are you going to teach one of those classes at the library?” asks Gilda. “Because if you do, I might, too.”
“I have a better idea,” I say. “Why don’t you teach my class for me? You know as much about comedy as I do.”
“Sure,” she says. “The history and junk. But I don’t know anything about doing stand-up comedy.”
“Neither do I,” I joke. “The whole standing part. I prefer to sit down on the job.”
“You know what I mean. I could talk about classic comedy movies. Charlie Chaplin, the Marx Brothers, the Three Stooges, the Three Amigos. But I couldn’t help kids put together a comedy routine of their own.”
“You’ve always helped me,” I say, because Gilda’s always been an excellent coach and sounding board. I’m always bouncing ideas off her. She has the lumps and bumps to prove it. “You’d be great teaching Funny Stuff 101.”
“No, thanks, it’s not really my thing,” she says. “You should do it. Just think of all the kids you’ll pull into the library.” Her eyes light up. I can tell: She is having another one of her famous brainstorms. “Oh, oh. This is so awesome. You could schedule your class so it ends with a big showcase performance!”
I figure out where she’s going with this. “On the day Mrs. Lexi Critchett and the rest of the school board will be coming back to see how many kids are in the library?”
“Exactly. You do the show at lunchtime and boom! The library is saved.”
“I guess.…”
“Look,” says Gilda, “you concentrate on putting together your after-school lesson plans. I’ll take charge of organizing the Stand Up for Books benefit show to raise money for the new library books. I’ll call Jacky Hart at Saturday Night Live and ask her to help me book the talent.”
“Deal.”
“You really think Uncle Frankie will let us use his diner?” asks Gilda.
“Are you kidding? He’ll do anything to save the library. He’s cuckoo-nutso about Ms. Denning.” I check my watch. “Ooops. I’m late. I’m on napkin-folding duty tonight.”
“You guys are folding paper napkins now?”
“Uh-uh. We’re all cloth all the time now. It’s classier. And tonight, Uncle Frankie wants them to look like swans.”
When we get to the diner, I notice that Uncle Frankie has changed the sign out front.
Good Eats by the Sea is now Culinary Excellence Near an Aquatic Setting.
We hurry into the restaurant.
I hardly recognize the place. The lights are sort of dim. The jukebox sounds like a late-night TV commercial for every sappy love song ever recorded.
And Uncle Frankie is wearing a tuxedo with tails and a top hat!
“Um, you know, Uncle Frankie,” I say, “I’m not an expert on romance…”
“Tell me about it,” says Gilda with an exaggerated eye roll.
I try to ignore that. “But, well, I’m not sure Ms. Denning is going to love the new you. Or the new diner.”
“Are you kidding? She’s a librarian. Librarians like elegant and tasteful stuff. Oh, listen to this. I memorized a poem today. It’s librarian gold. Shows off my romantic side and my research skills. ‘Roses are red, / that much is true. / But violets are violet, / and purple ain’t blue.’”
That’s when Ms. Denning comes into the diner. She looks around the dimly lit room.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she mumbles. “I must be in the wrong place.”
And she’s gone.
Gilda looks at me.
I look at Gilda.
Great. Now we have another after-school class to teach: Remedial Romance for Uncles.
Chapter 21
THE BOOK OF YUKS
The next day, I roll into the library during study hall.
If I’m going to
teach a class on how to be funny, I realize I need to do some research and put together a lesson plan.
Turns out teachers have more homework than students. In fact, some of their homework is coming up with ideas for OUR homework! So if you think becoming a teacher means you only have to work till two or three in the afternoon, think again.
I’m clacking keys on a computer terminal, doing a search through the library’s books, when Vincent O’Neil pops into the library.
“Hiya, Jamie.”
“Hey, Vincent.”
He gestures toward the computer. “You know, a computer once beat me at chess. But it didn’t stand a chance at kickboxing. Then there was the spider who crawled in here to use the computer. He wanted to check out his website.”
“Um, I’m kind of busy right now,” I say as nicely as I can.
“Really? What are you working on? New ideas for your Jamie Funnie TV show? Because I have a bunch. Like, for instance, you go bowling, but your fingers won’t slip out of the ball, so you roll down the alley and score a strike.”
“That’s pretty good,” I say. “But right now Gilda and I are working on something more important: saving the library.”
“Ooh! Cool. Do you need any help coming up with ideas for that, too?”
“Sure. The more the merrier.”
Vincent shoots me double finger pistols. “Excellent. Let me put it into the ol’ brain hopper, see what hops out. Back in a flash!” He bustles out of the library.
I jot down a few call numbers and hit the stacks. I load my lap up with a mound of comedy books: Steve Martin’s Born Standing Up, Tina Fey’s Bossypants, Jim Gaffigan’s Dad Is Fat, Amy Poehler’s Yes Please, even a book called Poo on You: The World’s Best Potty Jokes.
I pile them all on a library table.
And then I just stare at them. I have no idea what I am doing. Can I teach other kids to be stand-up comics by reading them Jim Gaffigan jokes like “You think when gym teachers are younger, they’re thinking, ‘You know, I want to teach, but I don’t want to read’?”
“It looks as if you’re studying hard,” says Ms. Denning.
“I’m going to go for it,” I tell her, after pushing back from the table so we can make eye contact. “I’m going to teach an after-school class, right here in the library, on how to be a stand-up comic.”
“That’s fantastic. I anticipate that you will be a phenomenal pedagogue.”
“Huh?”
“Sorry. I just started the library’s Word of the Day bulletin board. If you can guess the meaning, you win a prize.” She twiddles a pencil with an eraser-eater topper. It’s a shark. It looks like it’s about to devour a number two Ticonderoga. “Pedagogue is another word for teacher.”
“Cool,” I say, because I’ve just learned something.
And not just the meaning of a new word.
Nope, I have learned the secret to classroom success.
If you’re going to be a teacher, a pedagogue, or even a pedant (another word for teacher I found because, hey, the library has a ginormous thesaurus), you’ve got to sound smart!
Super smart.
I need more books! The kind with big words!
Chapter 22
A DEGREE IN HEE-HEE-HEE
I roll back to the stacks.
This time I’m looking for all the comedic arts textbooks I can find. That’s right, I’m talking Theories of Humor and Laughter, Comedy’s Impact on Twentieth-Century Culture, and this really old book, Laughter: An Essay on the Meaning of the Comic,by some French dude who, I think, died before pie fights were even invented.
Yep. It’s the kind of egghead stuff you’d read if you were a professor of laughology.
I pull out a notebook and start writing stuff down.
“In ancient Greece, comedy in the form of a play was one of the three principal dramatic forms.”
That sounds smart.
I’m also wondering if Greek yogurt was as big in ancient Greece as it is in American supermarkets. And what makes it Greek if it’s made in America? Guess it’s a good thing they didn’t call it yogurt of Greece. That just sounds oily.
But I digress.
I crack open another book and read a little of the Laughter essay.
“The comic does not exist outside the pale of what is strictly human.… You may laugh at an animal, but only because you have detected in it some human attitude or expression.”
Actually, I never laugh at animals. Many have fangs. Some are poisonous.
I reach a bunch of gobbledygook about the psychological significance of flatulence in humor. My eyelids get kind of heavy.
I yawn and move on to Shakespeare.
“Many of Shakespeare’s most popular plays are comedies, such as his Comedy of Errors.”
Okay. If it has comedy in the title, it has to be funny. Or maybe that was one of the errors?
My pen is kind of dragging across the page as I pry open another thick and dusty book.
“Stand-up comedy originated with court jesters in medieval times.…”
The theory of comedy is making me sleepy. Very, very sleepy. I start daydreaming about what it would be like to be a court jester.…
The next thing I know, my head’s on the desk, someone is shouting, “Ms. Denning?” and I’m waking up in a pool of drool.
Yep, my lecture notes were so boring, I put myself to sleep.
“Ms. Denning?” booms the voice again. “This boy is using one of your books as a pillow!”
Uh-oh. It’s the principal. Coach Ball!
He’s sort of wagging his stubby finger at Ms. Denning.
“Just so we’re clear on the rules, on the day of reckoning, students using this room for napping purposes will not count as students using the library. They must be awake.”
He shows Ms. Denning a calendar page and pins it on the bulletin board over pedagogue, her Word of the Day.
The last day of the month is circled.
“You have three weeks to get more than fifty percent of the student body in here doing library stuff—not catching up on their beauty rest.”
“Jamie was doing research,” Ms. Denning tries to explain.
“Really? What was he studying? How to get a good night’s sleep in the middle of the day?”
I try to joke my way out of another jam.
“You know, Coach Ball, that’s funny. You remind me of something the great comic Steven Wright once said. Someone asked him, ‘Did you sleep well?’ He said, ‘No, I made a couple of mistakes.’”
Ms. Denning chuckles.
Coach Ball basically growls.
He stomps out of the room. I look at my so-called lesson plan and reread the nonblurry parts where I didn’t smear the ink with my snooze slobber.
Yep. It’s just as boring the second time through.
Who am I kidding?
My class isn’t going to be about comedy. It’s going to be a tragedy.
Chapter 23
HEARD ANY BAD IDEAS LATELY?
After school, Gilda joins me in the library.
She’s put together some terrific ideas for the Stand Up for Books benefit. We’re all set to share them with Ms. Denning when Vincent O’Neil barges into the room.
“Prepare to be amazed!” he announces. “Your library is saved! I have come up with the best ideas ever!”
“Just as long as they aren’t more publicity stunts,” says Ms. Denning.
“Stunts?” says Vincent. “No way. These ideas are too huge to be called stunts.”
“Great.”
“Okay,” he says, “there’s this kids’ book about a lion who goes to the library for story hour. The kids use him as a pillow, and he helps dust the shelves with his tail and stuff. Boom! We do the same thing. We borrow a lion from the zoo! Bring him in here, have him dust shelves. Instant library mascot!”
We all look at Vincent like he’s crazy.
“You want to keep a man-eating predator in the library?” says Gilda.
“Okay,
okay. I hear your concerns. You’re worried about potential liability issues. Insurance rates. I get that. Moving on. Next brainstorm: a library cheerleading squad.”
He gives us a little demonstration.
“Instead of pom-poms,” he says, “these cheerleaders shake shredded books.”
“Shredded books?” gasps Ms. Denning.
“Right. Bad idea. Moving on. Idea three. Saved the best for last. Jamie teaches an after-school class about how to be a stand-up comic. He takes care of the comedy, I handle all the standing up stuff.”
“Perfect!” I say just to stop Vincent from spewing any more toxic ideas into the ozone. I worry about global warming.
Of course, that means I’m still going to need a lesson plan, but I’m willing to make that sacrifice just to keep Vincent from soaking us with more drivel from his brainstorms.
“And while Jamie’s been busy prepping his class notes,” says Gilda, “I’ve been putting together an all-star lineup for the benefit at Uncle Frankie’s diner, I mean dine-aire. We’re going for Jacky Hart from Saturday Night Live—”
“She’s awesome!” gushes Vincent.
“Jim Gaffigan is also a friend of our show,” says Gilda, checking her notes. “He played a very happy customer at the diner in episode seven.”
“I’m going to reach out to Jim first thing tomorrow,” says Gilda.
“He’s awesome, too!” says Vincent.
“I also want to call some of the contestants from the Planet’s Funniest Kid Comic Contest. Antony Guerrero, Rebecca and Rachel Klein, Ben Baccaro.”
“I am so psyched!” says Vincent. “All my comedy heroes and Jamie, too!” He practically skips out of the library.
When he’s gone, Ms. Denning gestures for Gilda and me to move a little closer.