Chapter 37
COMEDY CONVOY
We’re gonna caravan from the diner parking lot,” says Uncle Frankie as I roll up the ramp into the back of his van.
Gaynor has already called shotgun and is up front in the passenger seat.
Yes, he’s coming to Boston with us. The real Gaynor does not want to hang back and bus tables instead of watching me tank in Boston like dream Gaynor did.
“Um, what exactly do you mean by caravan, Uncle Frankie?” I ask.
“You know, like a convoy. We’ll take the lead, the Kosgrovs will follow us.…”
He means the Smileys. As in Stevie Kosgrov’s whole family, including (unfortunately) Stevie.
“A few of your other fans might follow us, too.”
A few?
When we pull into the diner parking lot, everybody is there to say good-bye, wish me good luck, or follow us up to Boston.
I feel like I’m Long Beach’s one-person Little League team heading off to the Little League World Series in Japan or something. Only, people wouldn’t drive to Japan. At least not all the way.
I see Gilda Gold and Pierce. They’re both carrying posters to cheer me on.
“Do you have room for two more passengers?” Gilda asks Frankie.
“Only if it’s you and the Pierce-a-lator!”
“Excellent! I’m going to video the whole thing, Jamie. That way you can study it, like game films, to prep for the semifinals in Las Vegas.”
“Uh, first I have to win the regionals. Today.”
“Piece of cake. Who’s your competition?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been afraid to check the website.”
“Well,” says Pierce, “since this is the Northeast Regional, I’m certain we can expect a lot of jokes about New England clam chowder, maple syrup, and Ben & Jerry’s ice cream. It’s from Vermont.”
“Hey, Jamie.”
Cool Girl is in the parking lot.
“Ciao, bro.”
Cool Guy, too. He has bed-head hair, with every spiky tip perfectly placed. I figure he spent hours in front of a mirror to look like he just woke up.
“I wish I could come with you guys,” says Cool Girl.
“But we’re checking out a pickle festival in Brooklyn,” adds Cool Guy, flicking at a strand of hair that’s pointing the wrong way. “And sampling some locally sourced artisanal cheeses, too.”
I just nod. I have no idea what he’s talking about.
“Hey, Crip.”
Stevie Kosgrov, Zits, and Useless push their way through the crowd. Literally. They shove everybody else out of their path.
“Just so you know,” says Stevie, gripping my armrests and leaning in, “I’ll be in the audience. Front row. Center seat. I just love to watch you sweat. Plus, I can’t wait to see you lose.”
Now Gilda shoves Stevie aside.
“Get a life, Kosgrov. You’re just jealous.”
“Of what?”
“Jamie. Did this many people show up to cheer you on when you were heading off to the Middle School Bully Olympics?”
“Huh? There’s no such thing.”
“Really?” snaps Gilda, jutting out her hip. “Maybe you’re just not good enough to get invited.”
That’s usually how it works.
“All right, everybody!” shouts Uncle Frankie. “It’s time to shove off! Let’s get our champ to Boston!”
And in a spectacular show of support, Gilda Gold whips off the Boston Red Sox cap she wears all the time, and puts on a Yankees hat.
“Yep,” she says, “for the first time ever, I’m actually cheering for the New York team!”