“DON’T LET THAT dude get under your dome,” advises Gaynor on the flight from Berlin to London.

  “He is, quite simply, a bully,” adds Pierce.

  “Yeah,” says Stevie, with more than a hint of admiration, “I thought I was good at talking trash. But that Vasily is one of the best I’ve ever seen. You gotta admire the guy’s work ethic. His craftsmanship …”

  “Not me, mate,” says Hamish. “I just think he’s a big blowhard. Smells like one, too.”

  “Seriously?” says Gilda. “What’s a blowhard smell like?”

  “Fish,” says Hamish, without missing a beat. “Like the stench that comes out of a beluga whale’s blowhole right after a big seafood dinner.”

  Everybody cracks up. Except Stevie. He taps his armrest computer screen and starts googling Vasily Vasilovich. He even finds a photo of Vasily riding horses with President Vladimir Putin. Neither one has their shirt on.

  As much as everybody is trying to get me to laugh off Vasily’s insults, it’s hard to do. Because a little voice, deep inside my head, way down where they make the earwax, is telling me the mean Russian kid is right. I not funny. I’ve just rolled into stardom because people feel sorry for me an account of my backstory and wheelchair.

  Hamish taps my leg with his cane. “Are you feeling sorry for yourself because you think people have been feeling sorry for you?”

  I’m startled. Is my new friend a mind reader? “How’d you know?”

  “I could smell the pity party you’re throwing yourself over there. I should’ve baked you a cake.”

  “So what, exactly, does pity smell like?”

  “Worse than fish farts, mate. But don’t forget, Jamie, in the finals Vasily will be picking on me and Ichika and Chiku and Benji and everybody. You will not be alone. Save some of that pity for the rest of us!”

  I grin. “Will do.”

  I look to the front of the cabin and see Uncle Frankie on the satellite phone. Aunt Flora is with him. He’s tugging his hair. She’s looking worried.

  “Whoa. Slow down, Vinnie. Call my meat guy and tell him you need more hamburger. No, you can’t just go to McDonald’s and borrow a box of Quarter Pounder patties. Our burgers are eight ounces … not four. Yes, Vinnie, I know four plus four equals eight …”

  Aunt Flora sees me listening in to the conversation.

  “Trouble at the diner,” she tells me. “Vinnie’s in a little over his head.” She crinkles up her face like she needs to say something that she really doesn’t want to say. “We may need to go home. Maybe the Kosgrovs could fly to London and take over the chaperoning duties.”

  “Whatever you guys need to do,” I say.

  She grins. Weakly. “Thanks, hon. We’ll talk about it more when we land.”

  Joe Amodio is waiting for us at London’s Gatwick Airport. His private jet landed before ours. He’s with two very stern-looking characters in stuffy costumes, like on that TV show Downton Abbey that Aunt Smiley loved to watch.

  “Jamie? Hamish?” says Mr. Amodio. “Meet Reginald and Clarissa. They’re your very proper British butler and nanny.”

  “They smell like starch and raspberry jam,” mutters Hamish.

  “Um, why do we need a butler and nanny?” I ask.

  “Because,” says Mr. Amodio, flapping a hand at Uncle Frankie, Aunt Flora, Gilda, Gaynor, Pierce, and Stevie, “it’s time for your entourage to go home.”

  “YOU’RE GOING TO be a contestant again, Jamie baby,” Mr. Amodio continues. “You’re going back into the lions’ den. You’ll be competing against all the kids who made it to the finals, plus the team from Great Britain.”

  “There’s a team from Great Britain?”

  “Yeah,” says Joe Amodio. “They’re hysterical. We didn’t bring them to Berlin because I knew we’d be coming back here and airplane tickets aren’t cheap. Neither are private jets. To level the playing field, your crew has to head home. We can’t let you have all these flunkies.”

  “They’re not flunkies,” I say. “They’re my friends and family.”

  “Even worse,” says Mr. Amodio. “You’re a star of a BNC sitcom. You’re the reigning champion. If we let you keep your own chaperones, your pals, and your personal bodyguard, it’d look like the network was showing favoritism. It’d be a public relations nightmare. For the network, and for you, kiddo.”

  “Who’ll look after Jamie? And Hamish?” asks Uncle Frankie.

  “Who’ll make sure they eat right and go to bed on time?” asks Aunt Flora.

  “That would be me,” says Nanny Clarissa.

  “Assisted by me,” adds the butler. He also clicks his heels.

  “It’s only for, what, another week or so?” says Mr. Amodio. “You can call Jamie every day. Do video chats. Text. Email.”

  “Nobody emails anymore, dude,” says Gaynor. “It’s so, like, 2015.”

  “I’ll be fine,” I tell my friends and family. Mostly because I sense that Uncle Frankie needs to rush home to Good Eats by the Sea before his weekend guy, Vinnie, does something really ridiculous—like make egg salad out of hot dogs. Or, even worse, hot dogs out of eggs!

  “You sure, Jamie?” asks Uncle Frankie.

  I nod.

  “I’ll look after him,” says Hamish. “Not that I’m all that good at literally looking at things, but you know what I mean, mate.”

  Aunt Flora smiles.

  It’s settled.

  Air Funny One will shuttle everybody else back to New York. Hamish and I will check into our London hotel with our nanny and butler.

  “When are the live shows?” asks Stevie eagerly.

  “This weekend on BNC,” says Mr. Amodio. “Eight PM Eastern, seven PM Central. You’ll be home in plenty of time to catch the first show—the elimination round.”

  “Woo-hoo!” says Stevie. “I can’t wait to see that Vasily guy in action again. I might start his American fan club!” He glares at me. “You now have permission to laugh, Jamie Greem! See? I’ve already memorized his catchphrase.”

  We hug and say our good-byes. Well, Stevie doesn’t hug. He’s back to giving me head noogies. He knuckle-rubs my scalp something fierce.

  “Just imitating my new hero, cuz!” he shouts. “Vasily is the Russian me!”

  MR. AMODIO STARTS yammering into his phone and walks off to find his limo.

  Uncle Frankie says good-bye one last time and leads the way out to the tarmac and Air Funny One. Its engines are already whining.

  My stomach ties itself into knots as I watch my family and friends climb aboard.

  Before she leaves, however, Gilda comes up to me and whispers a bunch of stuff in my ear.

  She has very humid breath. Extremely steamy.

  “Don’t let them get to you, Jamie. Be who you are,” she whispers, “not who they want you to be.”

  I nod and hope Gilda has more to say. I like her warm words in my ear.

  “Joe Amodio is trying to knock you off balance,” she continues. “He loves conflict. Makes us bake it into every single episode of Jamie Funnie. The best TV for him would be for you to lose your cool and win by going negative, just like Vasily did with you in Berlin. Don’t give him what he wants.”

  “I have cool?” I ask.

  “Tons of it,” Gilda whispers.

  Then she kisses me.

  “I heard that!” says Hamish.

  “Everything?” asks Gilda.

  “No. Just the smacky pash.”

  “Does that mean kiss?”

  “Good on you, Gilda. I also heard what Jamie said about being cool. You’re a very good whisperer, Gilda.”

  “Thanks. Have fun, you guys.”

  “Right,” I say. “Because you can’t spell funny without fun!”

  Gilda rolls her eyes, laughs, and hurries out to the jet.

  Hamish and I move to the windows and watch Air Funny One as it zooms down the runway and takes off. Well, I watch. Hamish listens. And smells fumes.

  “Are you ready, Masters Grimm and Gadsby?” asks the butler when the jet has climbed into the sky. “Your ground transportation awaits.”

  “I’ve packed scones, clotted cream, and jam for the ride!” gushes the nanny.

  “I told you,” Hamish whispers to me. “Raspberry jam.”

  We crawl through London traffic and make our way to Elstree Studios, where they do Britain’s Got Talent and another competition show called Strictly Come Dancing. That’s one I won’t be auditioning for.

  Mr. Wetmore, the tech director from Jamie Funnie, who’s great at doing live TV (he used to work on Saturday Night Live), will be working these “Comedy Olympics” for BNC because the final shows will be broadcast live. That means we’ll have to be funny at 1 AM London time because that’s 8 PM New York time!

  “Hey, Mr. Wetmore!” I say as I roll and Hamish taps onto the stage. “This is my new friend, Hamish Gadsby.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Hamish,” says Mr. Wetmore. “I’ve enjoyed watching your antics as you boys trotted around the globe.”

  “Thank you, sir,” says Hamish, shaking Mr. Wetmore’s hand, once he finds it. “Jamie’s told me all about you. Says if you’re on the job, she’ll be right.”

  Mr. Wetmore looks confused. People often do when Hamish whips out his Australian slang.

  “She’ll be right means ‘everything will turn out okay,’” I explain.

  “Oh. I sure hope so. So, have you two met Milton Cromwell?”

  “Nope,” I say. “Is he one of the British comedians?”

  Mr. Wetmore shakes his head. “He’s heading up the judge panel for the finals. And a word of warning, Jamie …”

  “Yeah?”

  “They don’t call him Milton the Meanie for nothing.”

  “SO, JAMIE, DO you know why they call England the wettest country?”

  Before I can answer, Grace Garner jumps in with the punch line.

  “Because the queen has reigned here for years!”

  Friday night, I’m waiting in a holding room backstage with my American teammate, the Corn Queen from Iowa, Grace Garner. She keeps cracking quick jokes like a movie theater popcorn popper that’s lost its lid.

  “Back home in Iowa, I know a rancher,” says Grace. “When he was in his field with his cows, he counted one hundred and ninety-six. But when he rounded them up, he had two hundred.”

  I smile.

  “That’s funny,” I say.

  “Guess that’s why you didn’t laugh.”

  “Sorry,” I tell her. “I’m just a little nervous.”

  “Understandable. I’d be nervous if I were you, too. You’re the defending world champion. King of the mountain. And tonight, fifteen fierce and funny kid comics want to knock you off your pedestal—including me, of course. Because, let’s face it, even though we’re ‘teammates’ …”

  She does air quotes.

  I’m not crazy about air quotes.

  “… we both know there can only be one funniest kid comic on this or any other planet.”

  “Right,” I say, because I know that funniest means funnier than every other funny person.

  I think about all the great comedians I’ve seen on my trip around the world. Miguel from Mexico; Gabriela from Peru; Hamish (of course) and Suzannah from Australia; Ichika (the Hello Jamie girl) from Japan; Zhou Yang, the Chinese comic; Chiku from Kenya; Demarco from South Africa; Benji from Israel; Fadi, the Palestinian; Jean-Claude, the French mime; Grace from the USA.

  And, of course, from Russia, without love, Vasily Vasilovich.

  I also can’t forget the two new wild cards. The pair of comics nobody (except the judges) have seen or heard yet: Siobhan Kelly from Northern Ireland and Alfie Hobbes from London.

  Peter Kay, the legendary English comedian, comes into our holding room.

  “Hi, Jamie. How are things?”

  “You’re Peter Kay!” I say (because I’m a huge fan).

  He looks in the mirror. “Right you are. I am indeed. I’m also taking over the master of ceremonies gig. Hope you don’t mind?”

  “No, sir. I mean, I can’t go onstage and introduce myself, right?”

  “Well, you could. But you already know who you are, so what’s the point?”

  Finally, I start to relax. Like the doctors always told me, laughter is the best medicine—even for panic attacks. And Peter Kay is genuinely funny. He warms up by trying a few of his classic jokes out on Grace and me.

  “I heard about these two Eskimos sitting in a kayak,” he says. “They were chilly. But when they lit a fire in the boat, it sank, proving once and for all that you can’t have your kayak and heat it, too.”

  “Mr. Kay?”

  “Yes, Jamie?”

  “You funny!”

  “Thanks. Now let’s just hope you are, too!”

  THE SEMIFINAL ROUND of the Planet’s Funniest Kid Comic Worldwide contest airs live on Friday night (or what those of us in London call Saturday morning).

  Viewers all over the world will get to vote by text, phone, and internet ballot. Their votes will be tabulated, and tomorrow, we’ll all return to the Elstree Studios for the “live results” show.

  I hate those. They’ll make all sixteen contestants sweat it out and wait for two whole hours until, finally, at the very last minute, they announce the eight comics moving on to the live finals, which will take place on Monday night here. Then the eight finalists come back the next day for another two-hour sit-around-and-sweat fest, when the winner will be crowned. Not that there’s actually a crown. Comedians don’t wear tiaras. We make fun of them.

  Peter Kay, our British master of ceremonies, opens the show with a very funny monologue.

  “Welcome to the semifinals of the Planet’s Funniest Kid Comic competition,” he says to the camera that swoops down on a crane to greet him. The studio audience goes crazy. Spotlights swing up and down and all around. “I’m your host, Peter Kay. You know, this morning, I went to a restaurant that serves breakfast at any time. So I ordered French toast during the Renaissance.”

  “Love being here with all these young comedians,” says Kay. “When I was a child, I was the kid next door’s imaginary friend.”

  The audience applauds.

  One of the judges crosses his arms over his chest and scowls.

  “Uh-oh,” says Kay. “Milton looks miserable. No, wait. That’s how he always looks.”

  “Can we please get on with the show?” grouses the mean judge, Milton Cromwell. “I suspect the young comedians will be far funnier than you, Peter.”

  “And I suppose they’ll all look far more attractive than you, Milton!”

  It might be a scripted bit, but I figure Joe Amodio must be happy up in the control booth. The show has just started and we already have enough conflict to start a small war.

  I feel sorry for the Northern Irish comedian, Siobhan Kelly. She has to go on first!

  “Good to be here,” she says after Peter Kay introduces her. “I know what you’re thinking. She’s from Northern Ireland. She must know how to river dance. Are you nuts? You think I want to get my socks and shoes sopping wet dancing in the middle of a river? Oh, there’s Milton Cromwell down there. I was going to give him a nasty look, but I see he already has one. Backstage, one of the other comedians came up to me and asked, ‘How come whenever you ask an Irish person a question, they answer with another question?’ ‘Now why would you say that?’ I asked him.”

  She earns a big round of applause.

  The judges love her, too. Even Milton Cromwell.

  “That took guts to insult me like that,” he says. “Good for you, Siobhan.”

  “Wow,” she says. “Coming from you, Milton, that means—absolutely nothing. Look, it’s okay if you want to donate your brain to science. But you probably should’ve waited until after you died.”

  The crowd roars. Milton doubles over with laughter.

  With the audience and judges going crazy for Siobhan’s brand of insult comedy, I’m starting to wonder: maybe I should’ve worked some put-downs into my act, too.

  Is my feel-good comedy going to feel … boring?

  EARLY ON, I made a vow that I would never try to get laughs by making fun of someone else.

  I mostly make fun of me. And my struggles. And what it’s like to be a middle schooler seeing the world at butt level from my wheelchair.

  But, it seems, the kids going onstage haven’t promised themselves the same thing.

  Gabriela Guarachi from Peru makes fun of her neighbors in Chile.

  “I was sitting on the riverbank one night fishing on the Chilean border. Along came a Chilean on the opposite side. He sat down and began to fish. Later that night I was catching all sorts of fish. The Chilean? Nothing. ‘Hey, can I cross the river to fish with you?’ I told him, ‘Sure. There’s a bridge a couple miles down the road.’ ‘That’ll take too long,’ he said. ‘Well,’ I told him, ‘you could row a boat or swim over here.’ ‘I don’t have a boat,’ he told me. ‘And I can’t swim!’ Finally, I said, ‘Okay. I am going to shine my flashlight across the river—you can walk across on the beam of light.’ The Chilean thought about that for a minute. Then he said, ‘What, do you think I’m stupid? I know you Peruvians. Once I’m halfway across the river, you’ll turn off the light!”

  The judges love her.

  Zhou Yang, the Chinese comedian, makes fun of the Koreans.

  “So, I asked my North Korean friend how his life was going. He said ‘Can’t complain.’ Because, hello, nobody in North Korea is allowed to complain about anything!”

  The studio audience and the judges love him, too!

  Miguel from Mexico does his Day of the Dead bit again. I think it’s hysterical. Milton Cromwell does not. He also doesn’t like Jean-Claude Bernard, the French mime, who does another hysterical silent bit—this one about a guy who eats too much food … on a rocky boat. Cromwell hates Ichika, too. In fact, he calls her “Good-bye Kitty.”

  Next up is Chiku Jemaiyo from Kenya.

  “Did you hear about the very handsome man who was in a car accident?” Chiku asks the audience.