Funny Kid [2] Read online

  I peek around the curtains as Abby takes a bow. The judges are giving her a standing ovation!

  And for the very first time, I feel nervous. My jokes are funny, right? Quick, I need to do some of Rupert’s relaxation exercises, but as soon as I close my eyes, I think of Tumbles farting, and that’s the last thing I need.

  “Next! Max Walburt!”

  Okay, pull it together, Max. Time to bring the comedy gold. I clench my fists and wiggle my toes. I’m pumped. Let’s do this.

  I turn to Tumbles. “It won’t be hard to be funnier than a clown.”

  “We’ll see,” he says with a big grin on his face. Then again, he always has a big grin on his face. It’s painted on.

  I don’t care. I’m focused. This is my moment. Nothing can throw me off my game.

  I walk out into the middle of the stage . . . and the clown boos me!

  I can’t believe it! Did he really just do that? I glare back at the wings.

  That’s not even funny. Dogs don’t even have armpits!

  I turn back to face the judges and see that they’re trying really hard not to laugh. That would be fine, except they’re not finding me funny! They’re laughing at the stupid clown who’s heckling me!

  “Try facing the other way! I bet your bum tells better jokes than your face!” Tumbles yells out.

  Grrrr! Does anyone have a hose?

  On the stage in front of me is a clock. It’s already counting down my time! My mind has gone completely blank. I can’t even remember my first joke!

  I only have three more minutes to impress the judges and this clown is completely putting me off.

  “Wake me up when this chump’s finished and the actual funny kid arrives!”

  I turn toward the wings and give the fiercest death stare I can, but I can’t even see the clown. He’s hiding back in the shadows somewhere. Then he has the nerve to start snoring like a retired hippopotamus!

  I look out at the three judges for help. Come on, guys!

  One of them is knitting. I don’t think she’s glanced up once. The next one is on his phone. He appears to be taking selfies. The third one is laughing hysterically – at the clown!

  SNOOOOORE!

  Two and a half minutes.

  “Pssst. Just start! Ignore him!”

  That’s Hugo from the front row. I can’t even think properly! Is this what they mean by stage fright? I’m paralyzed.

  SNOOOOOOORE!

  The lights onstage are trying to melt me. I can feel sweat running from the back of my neck all the way down to my bottom.

  Hugo’s right. I just need to begin.

  Two minutes.

  “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” I say into the microphone. Pause for the punch line. “So I like to save it until last.”

  Hugo falls off his chair in hysterics.

  Okay, don’t overdo it, buddy.

  He’s fogging up his glasses and slapping his tummy until it wobbles. I keep going.

  “Are they like, ‘Hey, Jerry? What cologne are you wearing?’” Pause, this time because I need to try to pronounce the next bit properly. “‘Is that Putrid du Jour?’”

  Not even Hugo laughs at that one. My French accent probably needs some work.

  There aren’t that many people in the hall, thank goodness. Mostly just the other contestants and a few of their friends.

  I can hear Hugo explaining my first joke to the person next to him. “Because if you move it to the last meal, then it won’t really be breakfast anymore. See? Wait, did he just do the skunk one? Did I miss the skunk one?”

  Less than a minute to go.

  If I don’t make these judges laugh, they won’t even let me into the talent quest. My reputation as a funny kid will be shot if I’m not even good enough to compete!

  And if I’m not the funny kid, what am I? Just . . . Max? Ugh.

  One last crack. I decide to go with a knock-knock joke and end on a high note. Let’s hope the judges play ball.

  “Knock, knock.”

  “Come in!” yells the clown from the wings.

  The judges were supposed to answer! I do not want to do this joke with a clown.

  I look desperately at the judges. For the first time in my whole comedy set, they actually look interested. The granny has even stopped knitting.

  I try again.

  The judges laugh. I look down at Hugo. He raises his eyebrows as if to say, “What have you got to lose? They are laughing, aren’t they?”

  Okay, fine.

  I turn and glare at the curtains.

  Do I really have to spell it out?

  Apparently I do.

  “Jeepers! Calm down, squirt. Okay, fine. Who’s there?”

  Thank you. Was that too much to ask?

  “Goanna,” I say.

  “What’s a goanna?”

  Grrrr . . .

  “Ooh, ooh, I know!” It’s Hugo, almost jumping out of his pants. This is not supposed to be a quiz show! “It’s a type of lizard!”

  “Why is there a lizard knocking on my door?” Tumbles calls out.

  “Just play along, would you?” I plead.

  “All right. All right,” says the clown, seeming to give in. “Come in, lizard!”

  “NOT COME IN! You have to ask me my last name!” I yell.

  “A lizard with a last name? I’ve never met a lizard with a last name.”

  The judges might be laughing, but I want to go find that clown, rip that red nose right off his face, and splat a tomato there instead.

  Do not lose your cool, Max. I grit my teeth. Hold it together.

  “Oh, okay. I get it,” replies the clown. “What’s your last name, lizard?”

  “You say, ‘GOANNA WHO?’ Why can’t you just say, ‘GOANNA WHO?’ How have you never EVER heard of a knock-knock joke?”

  There goes my cool. Guess it’s well and truly lost now.

  “This is supposed to be a joke?”

  BUZZZZZZZ!

  And my time is up.

  I stand there in the center of the stage, trembling with rage, waiting for the judges to pull themselves together and stop laughing . . . at the flipping clown!

  I look down at Hugo. He shrugs and gives me a thumbs-up, as if to say, “Yes, that was an absolute disaster and you were upstaged by someone who wasn’t even on the stage, but at least you’re not . . . well . . . dead or something?”

  Thanks, buddy.

  The judges do some whispering among themselves.

  I catch Abby Purcell’s eye. She mouths, “The Unfunny Kid,” and grins. I wish I could make her disappear into her stupid magic hat.

  “Ah, Max?” It’s one of the judges.

  “Yes?”

  “We’re going to let you through, because that was very funny, even if the funny bits weren’t really . . . well . . . you.”

  That felt like nonsense mixed in with an insult and offered as a compliment.

  “So, I’m through?” I ask.

  The granny judge clears her throat. “We feel sorry for you. You can have another turn on Saturday, love,” she says, and goes back to her knitting.

  Hugo claps.

  I turn and get ready to thump a clown.

  Tumbles must sense I’m coming to give him the biggest wedgie of his life, because he runs out onto the stage before I’ve even come off.

  “Is it my turn yet? Is it my turn?” he calls to the judges.

  I glance over at the three of them. I can’t very well bash up a circus clown on the stage of the town hall, can I?

  “We saved the best till last!” replies the selfie judge.

  I turn to Tumbles as he walks to the microphone. “Two can play at this game.”

  He grins. “Go for it, Max. Give as good as you got. In the meantime, have one of my flowers, poppet.”

  He thrusts a yellow plastic flower into my hand as I climb down the steps. I sit next to Hugo in the front row and give him the flower.

  Oh, boy, am I going to ruin this clown’s
act.

  Tumbles stands in the center of the stage, looking out at the lights and the judges.

  “Did Mommy do your makeup for you?” I call out. He ignores me. He doesn’t even blink. Wow, that’s impressive. It’s like I’m not even here. He begins his act.

  Hugo chuckles, looking fondly at the plastic flower. I glare at him.

  “You can’t laugh, Hugo!” I whisper.

  “But what if –?”

  “Nope! That’s exactly what he wants,” I say. “Whatever he does, you cannot laugh. It’s a matter of willpower, Hugo. Willpower!”

  Hugo nods. Then he shakes his head. Then he looks confused. “I’m not sure I have any of that.”

  Tumbles continues.

  The judges laugh. I turn quickly and stare at Hugo. He’s not blinking and his lips are pressed tightly together, like he’s trying to hold in a sneeze.

  “Don’t do it, Hugo,” I warn him.

  “. . . and suddenly you realize that there’s a second plopper,” Tumbles says. More chuckling.

  Time for another heckle. I stand up and yell:

  Well, that killed the laughing. There’s complete silence now.

  I nudge Hugo. “You can laugh at that!”

  Now he looks really confused. “What? Which bit can I laugh at?”

  “My bit!”

  “What did you say?”

  Grrrr . . .

  Tumbles continues as though nothing happened. How does he do that? This clown is some sort of professional.

  There’s a murmur of understanding in the hall.

  “Like, maybe it’s the queen,” says Tumbles. “How would the queen poop?”

  The judges start to really laugh as Tumbles purses his big clown lips and makes high-pitched, posh plopping sounds.

  “They’d be awfully polite plops, I suspect,” he says. “Or maybe it’s a sumo wrestler?”

  I look at Hugo. His face has turned a light shade of blue, his lips are glued shut, and there are tears rolling out from under his glasses. He’s trying very hard not to laugh.

  “I’ve always imagined a sumo wrestler’s poop sounds a bit like a tsunami. There’s a warning siren and people are just running for their lives. Head for the hills!”

  One of the male judges falls off his chair. The granny judge is using her knitting to wipe the tears of laughter from her face.

  This is bad. Really bad. Tumbles is killing it. Why isn’t my heckling having any effect? I stand up and deliver a poem I’ve been working on.

  “Turn that clown upside down! Change his smile to a frown! Poops his pants till they’re brown!”

  Okay, so it’s not Shakespeare, but it’s pretty good, right?

  It’s like I dropped a wet towel on the whole room. Thud. Everyone looks at me, including the judges, but not a single person laughs. Instead they look annoyed.

  Finally the selfie judge speaks. “Max. If you don’t stop interrupting, we’re going to have to ask you to leave.”

  “What? That blasted clown interrupted my whole act!”

  No one seems to see the logic of this. I just get more fierce eyes staring at me.

  Slowly I sit back down. I don’t understand. I had one superpower. One thing I could do well. I was the funny kid. I could make everyone laugh. But I’ve lost it. It’s gone. In the space of a single day, I can no longer do my one thing!

  I tell you what, if having people laugh at your jokes is the best feeling in the world, having people not laugh at them is the worst.

  I don’t hear the rest of Tumbles’s act. Everyone laughs at it though. Hugo pats me on the shoulder as if to say, “I’m starting an I-suck-at-life club and you’d be very welcome.” I just stare at my shoes.

  Maybe I’m done. I should just never try to tell a joke again. Maybe there’s something else I’m good at? I’ve never tried quilting. Perhaps I’ll try to make an awesome quilt.

  While the judges are telling Tumbles that he’s going to win the talent quest for sure and they can’t wait to see him perform, I turn to Hugo.

  “Sounds like you lost your mojo,” says Mom.

  Hugo is staying over at our house, because his parents are overseas for a week. We’re sitting at the dinner table, eating a pie Dad made. He called it a Humble Pie or something, but I think he was just trying to be funny.

  Dad’s a pretty good cook, although my little sister, Rosie, doesn’t think so. She is munching on a plastic car instead. “Yum, yum, yum.”

  “What’s a mojo?” Hugo asks.

  “My dignity. My pride. My reason for living,” I answer. I actually don’t know what mojo means. I don’t care either. To say I’m feeling grumpy would be like saying a bear who has been asleep for the whole of winter is feeling a tad peckish. I’m as glum as a homeless turtle.

  “No, no,” Mom says. “Mojo is like your magic.”

  “Like when a golfer goes off their game or a writer gets writer’s block or Beyoncé comes down with laryngitis,” Dad says. Dad loves Beyoncé. There’s nothing more embarrassing than walking around the mall while your father hums “Single Ladies.” He even throws in a few of the dance moves for a little extra humiliation.

  “Maybe Max needs a life coach?” Hugo suggests.

  “I don’t need a life coach. I need a box with a lid on it that I can go and sit in. Forever.”

  “Yep. You definitely need a life coach,” Hugo continues. “My uncle had a life coach once who helped him quit his job as a garbage collector and become a singer. He’s not a very good singer though.”

  “Just a small box,” I say. “I don’t want it to be in anybody’s way.”

  “Rosie, eat some of your pie,” Dad says, pulling the car out of her mouth. “Hugo, you might need to be Max’s life coach.”

  Now that is a terrible idea.

  “How do I do that?” Hugo asks.

  “Forget it, Hugo. I’m fine,” I say.

  “You have to get him into a peak state for maximum performance,” Dad explains. It seems he’s been reading his motivational books again. He particularly likes one called Awaken the Abominable Snowman Within.

  Rosie rejects the pie again and starts munching on her shoe.

  “You can put me in whatever state for all I care,” I say. “I’ll still be the Unfunny Kid and I’m not competing in the talent quest.”

  Hugo looks very confused. I’m not so sure he’s getting this. Either way, I don’t care. No amount of motivation is going to help me. I’m beyond help.

  Hugo’s going to try anyway.

  “Um . . . be like a horse, Max.”

  Ugh.

  The phone rings.

  “That’s not quite right, Hugo, but good try,” Mom says.

  Dad answers the phone.

  “Yes, Dr. Duncanbray,” Dad says. Then there is lots of “uh-huh” and “I see” and “that doesn’t sound good” and “we’ll come right over.”

  Then he hangs up. Rosie’s flossing her two teeth with a shoelace.

  “What’s wrong?” Mom looks concerned.

  “Grandpa’s missing,” Dad says. “It seems like he’s gone off for a walk by himself and gotten lost.”

  “He’s not supposed to leave the nursing home,” Mom says. “It’s not like him to just wander off.”

  “Maybe he lost his mojo too,” I say.

  “Okay, kids. We can’t leave you here on your own. Everyone in the car,” Dad says.

  Hugo pats me on the arm.

  Not sure you’ve quite got the idea there, pal.

  Redhill Nursing Home is where the old people in our town live. It’s on a very quiet street on the other side of Redhill. Mom always says the nursing home is a pretty fun place, so I don’t know why Grandpa would try to escape. They have board games and free food and TVs that stay on ALL THE TIME!

  But when I look around the big room at all the old people sitting in chairs and staring into space, I realize Redhill Nursing Home is a lot like Redhill Middle School. For a start, everyone inside looks like they’d rather be somewhere el
se.

  The old people are like schoolkids too. They all seem to be talking too loudly, pulling funny faces, or daydreaming out the window. Whatever they’re doing, they’re not listening to the nurses.

  The nurses are talking sweetly to the residents, like teachers do, but you can tell that some of them would rather drop-kick a few of the oldies up the bottom. But then they’d get fired and they probably need the paycheck, so that’s probably the reason they don’t.

  Is that why Miss Sweet is being so nice to me? Because she needs the money?

  We meet Dr. Duncanbray. He has too many teeth. They look very squashed in his mouth, like they were all trying to get out at the same time and got stuck.

  He takes us to Grandpa’s room.

  “Do you have security cameras?” Dad asks.

  “Unfortunately they’ve been malfunctioning this afternoon,” Dr. Duncanbray replies.

  “That’s bad timing,” Mom says.

  “There was a side door that was left open and we think he wandered out there for a walk.”

  Dr. Duncanbray shakes his head.

  I know I’m in a grumpy mood, but I must say I’m not too impressed with the outfit Dr. Duncanbray is running here. Open doors? Broken cameras? I mean, seriously, how can you lose an old man? It’s not like Grandpa’s going anywhere very quickly.

  And it’s this thought that makes me notice something.

  I pick up a polished wooden cane from where it leans by the door.

  “He doesn’t,” Dad says, and then looks at Dr. Duncanbray. “Does he?”

  “Well, actually, we gave it to him this morning. We’d noticed he was getting a little slower on his feet, so we brought him the cane,” replies the doctor. “He wasn’t very happy about it. You know how he can be.”

  “What did he do?” Dad asks.

  “Maybe we should ask some of his friends if they know where he’s gone?” Hugo suggests, looking back down the corridor toward the big room.

  “Good idea,” I reply, and walk out with Hugo. We pass a bulletin board that has a poster for the talent quest on it. Don’t remind me!