Sv^oKe signals. Those were 4-he good old days. Ho +'eie^arKe4-ers. . . .'
"Y
I ou mean you didn't even watch it before you sent it off?" Sydni asked in amazement. She was famous for triple-checking everything.
"There was no time/' Max insisted. "The Eggplant Express was ready to roll! As it was, Mario had to fly to meet the FedEx guy outside Piqua. Mom's deducting his speeding tickets from my college fund."
Maude was dubious. "I hope you didn't mess it up. You know—a comedy routine where the laughs come before the jokes. They'll think you're an idiot."
"I was careful, okay?" Max assured her. "Everything is going to be fine."
But deep down, he was haunted by doubts.
A week went by, then two, with no word from Chicago. Sydni and Maude stopped mentioning the contest altogether, seeing the reaction of stonefaced misery the subject drew from Max. Big took to blowing mournful renditions of "Taps" through his sinus tubes.
Mario, for one, was unconcerned. "Of course you'll get picked. Who's funnier than you?"
Max appreciated the vote of confidence, but it didn't make him feel much better. Mario laughed when Max read the ingredients off the back of a cereal box. You couldn't go by him.
Come on. Max tried to will his mental messages across the miles to contest headquarters. Call! Write! E-mail! Fax! Send smoke signals! Just tell me I made it!
Then came that fateful Friday. Max was in his father's office, waiting to complete the switch to Dad's custody. Noreen, the secretary, was sorting through the mail, when she suddenly announced, "Well, look at this, we got a letter."
When Noreen said we, she could have meant
herself, the doctor, a pair of guinea pigs, or five Labrador retrievers who had come in for their shots. It was the only pronoun she ever used. In this case we meant Max, who took the envelope she was holding out.
Mr. Maxx Comedy
The hair on the back of his neck stood at attention. The postmark was from Chicago! He checked the return address: The Funniest Kid in America Contest. This was it! In a few seconds he would know if he was in or out.
Hands shaking, he opened the letter:
Dear Maxx,
We are sorry to have to inform you that your audition was NOT FUNNY ENOUGH to qualify for this year's contest. We thank you for your entry, and wish you the best of luck choosing some other career.
Regretfully,
The Judges
Max felt his eyes welling up with tears. He hadn't made the cut. And for the worst possible reason! To Max Carmody, no three words were quite so cruel as not funny enough.
He was about to rip the letter into a million pieces when he noticed a tiny postscript on the bottom of the page:
P.S.: Just kidding! You're in! Congratulations! Your entry number is 29. The contest is from 2:00-5:00 p.m., so please be at the Balsam Auditorium by 1:30 at the latest. Sorry for pulling your leg, but if you're going to make it in this business, you'd better have a sense of humor.
"I'm in," he barely whispered. Then, a little louder, "I'm in."
"In what, dear?" asked Noreen.
"I'm in!" he howled, enfolding the secretary in a bear hug.
"Mind our makeup, dear," she clucked, dusting herself off.
But Max was too deliriously happy to care. His trick with the laugh track must have worked. He was going to Chicago!
He hugged Mrs. Kaperzinski, parrot cage and all. Then he shook hands with two albino basset hounds, and high-fived a small domesticated pig.
"Oh # this rheumatism!" was Tweedle's comment.