“Jamie Greem is a few clowns short of a circus. He is proof that evolution can go in reverse. Heh heh. Jamie Greem reminds me of a dog I knew with no legs. He didn’t have a name, because even if you called him, he wouldn’t come to you.” Vasily grinned as the audience laughed. “Right now Jamie is backstage crying from all my jokes about him. I told him to insult me back, but he can’t stand up for himself. Heh heh. You are now permitted to laugh.”

  When Vasily is (finally) finished roasting me, he moves on to the other comedians.

  “I can’t wait to hear Miguel Ángel Gonzalez again,” he says with a yawn. “I could use the sleep. Hey, Miguel—can I take your picture later? I want to use it to scare my little sister. Then there is the mime, Jean-Claude. He is a performer of rare talent. It is rare when he shows any. Chiku, the chirpy girl from Kenya? If ignorance is bliss, she must be the happiest person in the world. Hamish? I hear he talked to his plants and they died of boredom. Benji Yatzpan? His clothes definitely make a statement. Too bad that statement is ‘I have no taste.’ You don’t need a garment bag, Benji. You need a garbage bag. Who is left? Ah, yes. Our Japanese flower, Ichika. It must give you a great sense of power, Ichika, to know you could bore the world to death. And don’t worry, if your mind wanders, it won’t get far.”

  When he’s done trashing the other comedians, he goes to work on the judges. “Milton Cromwell is so old his teeth are like the stars. They come out at night.”

  And on and on he goes. Vasily is chortling at his own jokes. The studio audience is laughing.

  So, apparently, is the audience at home.

  Because when Vasily finally comes off the stage at the end of the first round, he’s ahead of me by more than one hundred thousand votes!

  “WE’RE IN COMMERCIALS,” Mr. Wetmore announces from his perch in the control booth. “We’re back in four minutes. Live!”

  “Prepare for the second round,” fumes Mr. Amodio. “And would at least one of you try to be as mean and nasty as Vasily? Hamish? It’s obviously working for him and not so much for any of you. Check this out!”

  The angry producer taps on the computer screen.

  “Sounds like a birdie knocking on a window,” deadpans Hamish.

  “Look at this vote tally, kid.”

  Hamish whacks Mr. Amodio in the shin with his white cane. “Have you been paying attention to anything I’ve said, mate?”

  “Fine. You’re blind. I’ll read you the numbers. Vasily is in the lead by one hundred and ten thousand votes. Jamie Grimm is in second. You’re way down in fifth place. Why are you letting Jamie steal all your sympathy votes, Hamish? They could be yours. Just go out there and tear into him the way Vasily just did.”

  “But do not steal my material!” growls the Russian. “I still have a second set and will continue to demolish the Greem joker. Now get out of my way. I must go practice my scowl in the mirror.”

  He stomps off to the dressing rooms. Chortling.

  Joe Amodio puts his hands on top of Hamish’s shoulders. “Let me drop this in the pool and see if it makes a splash, Hamish: You can beat Jamie Grimm!”

  “Um, you guys?” I say. “I’m sitting right here.”

  “We see you, bubelah,” says Mr. Amodio. “But all’s fair in love and war. I need conflict to make tonight’s ratings soar. I also need a fresh new face for my next sitcom hit. It could be Vasily. Or it could be you, Hamish. You started out so strong, down in Sydney. Why do you think I picked you, out of all the contestants, to be the show’s tour guide?”

  “Because I was blind and people could describe stuff to me?”

  “Wrong-o. I did it because I saw potential. I have an idea for a show built around you, kiddo: Hamish Ha-Ha!”

  I hold up my hand like we’re in school. “Um, Jacky Hart from Saturday Night Live is sort of using that title already.”

  “I’ll buy it from her.”

  “We’re back in sixty seconds,” Mr. Wetmore calls over the intercom.

  Mr. Amodio whips a walkie-talkie off his belt. “I’m changing the running order for the second round, Richard,” he barks into the walkie. “Hamish Gadsby will be up first.”

  “Got it,” Mr. Wetmore answers back.

  Mr. Amodio turns Hamish around and points him to the stage.

  “Get out there, kid. And remember—this could be your big break! You may not win the competition, but you can definitely win my heart. Or my thumbs-up on your own show.”

  Hamish nods. I know he’d be terrific if he had his own show. He probably knows it, too.

  The music starts up again.

  Ricky Gervais is back at center stage.

  “Time for the second round, ladies and gentlemen. Remember, you can vote up to ten times for your favorite comedian. Other than me, of course. You can vote for me a billion times. I’d like that. Now let’s bring back the comic wonder from down under. Hamish Gadsby!”

  Hamish taps his way onstage.

  He seems very eager to get to the microphone.

  Where he’ll probably audition for his new sitcom by destroying me!

  I WATCH HAMISH grip the microphone.

  “Wow, I get to do two performances in front of the same audience,” he says, cocking his head slightly to the right. “Wait a minute. Are you the same audience? Or did the daggy dills running this show switch everybody out when I wasn’t looking?—which, by the way, is all the time.”

  The audience laughs.

  “It’s still us!” somebody yells.

  “Thank you, sir. Or ma’am. With that voice, I couldn’t really tell ….”

  I watch him take in a deep breath. Like he’s getting ready to launch into his big bit. The one that’s a hit job on me.

  And then he doesn’t.

  “So, a blind kid walks into a restaurant,” he says. “And a table. And a door. And this waiter carrying a huge tray of dirty dishes. It’s not a pretty sight. Or so I’ve been told. By the way, does anybody know what you call a blind rabbit sitting on your face? An unsightly facial hare.”

  He keeps doing his usual material. The audience keeps laughing.

  “A woman was taking a bath when she heard her doorbell ring. ‘Who is it?’ she called out. ‘Blind man’ was the answer. ‘I’ll be right there.’ So, thinking a blind man won’t notice that she’s naked, she climbs out of the tub and doesn’t even put on her robe. She opens the front door and the very surprised man on the front porch says, ‘So, uh, where do you want these venetian blinds?’”

  “What’s he doing?” I hear Mr. Amodio hiss.

  He grabs the walkie-talkie clipped to his belt. “Richard? Go to another commercial.”

  “Can’t,” Mr. Wetmore’s voice crackles back. “Hamish is onstage. The kid’s hysterical. You ever think of giving him his own sitcom? It could run right after Jamie’s and—”

  “Cut the feed, Wetmore!”

  “And deny the world the comedic stylings of Hamish Gadsby? Sorry, sir. No can do.”

  “I’ll can you!”

  “Sorry, Joe. Can’t hear you. I think the battery in my walkie-talkie is dying.”

  “You’re fired!”

  Mr. Wetmore doesn’t respond. He also doesn’t cut the live feed. And he’s locked the control room door. That was part of the plan he and Gilda worked out.

  I steal a glance at the tote board. Hamish is racking up the votes. So am I. Vasily? He’s holding steady, but his lead is shrinking.

  Meanwhile, a frantic Mr. Amodio uses a thick marker to write “CUT TO COMMERCIAL” in big bold letters across a cue card. He runs into the aisle and holds it up while hopping up and down with rage so Mr. Wetmore can see it in the booth.

  Mr. Wetmore ignores him. The show keeps going out live to millions around the world. Hamish’s vote tally keeps climbing.

  Frustrated and trying to stay off camera, Mr. Amodio sneaks around the dark edge of the stage, tiptoes down the stairs, and whispers something into Milton Cromwell’s ear.

  Cromwell nods to whatever Mr. Amodio is telling him and bops his red buzzer button.

  The SKRONK startles Hamish into silence.

  “That will be enough, Mr. Gadsby,” says Cromwell. “We don’t need to hear you finish. I’ve just been informed that we’re changing the rules of this competition.”

  RICKY GERVAIS, THE show’s host, comes to center stage flapping a sheet of paper that Joe Amodio just scribbled something on.

  “Sorry about this, Hamish,” he says. “Looks like we’re changing the rules in the middle of the game. Nobody saw it coming.”

  “Lovely,” cracks Hamish. “For once I’m not alone.”

  “Righty-o. Good-bye, Hamish. I have to do something I’m probably going to regret in the morning.”

  He waves the sheet of paper.

  Hamish, shoulders slumped, taps his way offstage, wondering, like the rest of us, what the heck is going on.

  “Milton?” Gervais says to the judge. “According to this note I was recently handed, I’m supposed to turn this over to you. So, against my better judgment, I am doing as I have been instructed.”

  “Thank you, Ricky,” says the judge.

  The cameras spin around to frame him up. Cromwell smiles. It looks like his face might splinter.

  “As you know,” he says into the lens, “people all over the world have been voting for their favorite comedians ever since we went on the air. However, it has come to the attention of our producers that there are two clear favorites. In fact, there are only two comedians with a mathematical chance of being named the Planet’s Funniest Kid Comic. Jamie Grimm is one of the leaders, thanks in part to the Jamie Funnie marathon that aired on BNC’s global network all day today, as well as his status as the reigning champion. The other contender is our current leader, Vasily Vasilovich from Russia.”

  “What about Hamish?” asks Gervais. “The kid’s funny. So are all the other contestants.”

  “The numbers have spoken.”

  “Fine,” says Gervais. “But I think it’s bloody unfair to ruin these kids’ hopes before the votes are all in. Now I’ve spoken. And I also quit.”

  He drops the mic and strolls offstage.

  Yeah. This sort of thing can happen on live TV.

  “You’re being very rude, Ricky!” Cromwell calls after him.

  Gervais laughs. “If only I had a dollar for every time someone’s said that. Oh, wait. I do. Ta!”

  He’s gone.

  “Now can we puh-leeze cut to a commercial?” Joe Amodio shouts up to the booth.

  And this time, Mr. Wetmore listens. Because nobody really wants to watch a TV show featuring an empty stage and a microphone stand.

  A graphic stating WE’LL BE RIGHT BACK floats across the screen. Music swells. And the world gets to watch another commercial.

  Mr. Amodio and Milton Cromwell huddle at the judges’ table.

  “Fine,” says Cromwell. “I’ll do it.”

  He marches onstage and grabs the microphone off the floor.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he says to the studio audience, “due to Mr. Gervais’s recent temper tantrum and unexpected departure, I will be your new master of ceremonies. We’ll be on the air in sixty seconds. Here’s how this is going to work. To make the show even more exciting, we’re saying good-bye to all but two of our contestants.”

  The audience—especially the fans of Hamish, Jean-Claude, Chiku, Benji, Miguel, and Ichika—boo loudly. Some even shout insults at Cromwell, which he probably would appreciate under different circumstances.

  “Allow me to finish, please,” says Cromwell, sounding crankier than usual. “As I said, the producers ran the numbers. None of the six other comedians stood a chance of catching up with the leaders of the pack. So, this will be a sudden-death joke-off. Jamie Grimm versus Vasily Vasilovich. We’ll flip a coin to see who goes first.”

  I turn to Hamish, who is standing next to my chair.

  “I’m so sorry …” I say.

  “No worries, mate. But, Jamie …”

  “Yeah?”

  “Promise me one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Tear Vasily apart. And while you’re at it, knock Mr. Amodio down a few pegs, too!”

  WE’RE BACK ON the air.

  Milton Cromwell is in the spotlight at center stage.

  “Vasily? Jamie? Please join me onstage.”

  I roll out from the stage-right wings. Vasily marches on from stage left. We meet in the middle.

  “Congratulations,” says Cromwell. “You’re our two leaders and the only two comics still standing.”

  I don’t take the bait.

  “Our esteemed and enlightened producers have decided to cut to the chase,” Cromwell continues. “We’re going into a one-on-one, sudden-death joke-off. You will each get five minutes to do your best material.”

  “Who goes first?” grunts Vasily.

  “We’ll soon see,” says Cromwell, pulling out an oversized coin. “Jamie, you are the current champion.”

  “Only for a few more minutes,” scoffs Vasily.

  “Therefore,” says Cromwell, sniggering at Vasily’s little dig, “we will let the challenger, Vasily Vasilovich, call the coin toss.”

  Cromwell flips the coin into the air.

  “Heads!” shouts Vasily.

  The coin clunks on the floorboards.

  “Heads it is,” says Cromwell. “You’re up first.”

  “Horosho,” says Vasily. I think that’s the Russian word for “good.” But it sure sounds like horror show, which is what I might be in for.

  I roll offstage.

  And before I even reach the wings, Vasily grabs the microphone and starts ripping me to shreds.

  “Look at poor leetle Jamie Greem. Pumping his way offstage. Boo-hoo. He is still trying to win the seeempathy vote because he is lame. This must be why his jokes are so lame. But let’s not make fun of his comedy act. Why should we? There is so much more to make fun of. God made rivers, God made lakes. God made Jamie; we all make mistakes.”

  The audience laughs, but not as loudly as they did during Vasily’s first set. The guy is such a bully, meanness oozes out of his pores the way BO oozes out of mine.

  “And, Jamie?” he calls offstage. “Do yourself a favor and ignore anyone who tells you to be yourself. Bad idea in your case.”

  Then Vasily goes someplace even nastier.

  He starts making fun of my parents.

  “Your mother and father are living proof that two wrongs don’t make a right.”

  Anger and rage and hate boil my blood and turn my ears lobster red.

  My mother and father can’t be living proof of anything. They both died in the car wreck that put me in my chair.

  “Jamie’s mother is so dumb, when the family was driving to Disneyland, she saw a sign that said DISNEYLAND—LEFT so she went home. She’s so dumb, she climbed over a glass wall to see what was on the other side. She’s so ugly, when she tried to enter an ugly contest they said, ‘Sorry, no professionals.’”

  Now my blood pressure is so high, I can hear my heart throbbing inside my ears.

  Next, Vasily makes some more horrible jokes about my father. Then he goes way too far.

  “Jamie Greem’s sister was so ugly when she was born, his mother said, ‘What a treasure!’ And his dad said, ‘Let’s bury it in the backyard.’”

  Nobody is laughing.

  Especially not me.

  My little sister, Jenny, died in that car crash, too.

  MILTON CROMWELL TAKES center stage as Vasily marches off to a smattering of applause.

  The audience looks shocked. Me? I’m fuming, furious, and frothing for revenge.

  “Wow, that was smashing,” says Cromwell, smirking. “As in you totally destroyed, clobbered, and smashed your competition. Let’s see if Jamie Grimm fires back. Here he is, ladies and gentleman, the current—and maybe former—funniest kid on the planet, Jamie Grimm!”

  I don’t think I’ve ever pumped my wheels harder. Anger and adrenaline are shooting through me like a Big-Gulp-with-Orange-Hostess-Cupcakes sugar rush. I am going out there, all alone, to demolish Vasily Vasilovich. It’s just me against him. One on one. Mano a mano. Insult-o a insult-o.

  No one can say things like that about my family and get away with it! I’m about to show Vasily what real insults are like. No one he loves or even likes will be safe from my “humor.”

  But then, when I’ve rolled, enraged, about halfway across the stage, a song the late Jerry Lewis used to sing at the end of his annual Labor Day telethon (yes, some of the VHS cassettes at the Hope Trust Children’s Rehabilitation Center were antiques) starts ear-worming its way into my brain:

  Walk on, with hope in your heart

  and you’ll never walk alone.

  That’s me.

  Not the walking part. But on my incredible journey, which has, for the most part, been filled with incredible humor and hope, I remember I was never, ever on my own. Even during the darkest days right after the car crash happened … other people were always right there with me.

  Right away there were all the first responders, doctors, nurses, and therapists who helped me pull my life back together after that tragic, rain-slicked night on the highway.

  And I can’t forget all the classic comedians, including Jerry Lewis, who made me laugh when I was in a full-body cast and thought all I would ever do again was cry.

  Then there’s my family. The Smileys. Uncle Frankie and New Aunt Flora. And all the customers at the diner who laughed at my jokes before I even thought about telling some onstage.

  I can’t forget my friends at school, either. Gaynor and Pierce. They stood by me, through thick and thin. Even cornball Vincent O’Neil. And what about Cool Girl? She was always there to talk to me even when I didn’t know I needed someone to talk to.

  And, of course, at the top of the list, there’s Gilda Gold.

  Gilda’s with me wherever I go. Always reminding me to be myself. Her words constantly echoing inside my thick skull: “Don’t let them get to you, Jamie. Be who you are, not who they want you to be.”