Chapter 20
SCHOOL DAYS (IN THIRTY MINUTES OR LESS)
News flash: I have to drop out of school.
Not forever. Just while we’re working on the show.
“You’re my star,” Mr. Amodio says when he calls me from Hollywood to give me the news. “After all, Jamie baby, you’re the Planet’s Funniest Kid Comic, a phrase that, by the way, is trademarked. If you want to use it, you have to ask me for permission. It’s in the fine print, too.”
“But,” I ask, “how will I keep up with my schoolwork? I mean, I love show business but, well, I’d like to go to college someday. They don’t let you in if you’re a middle-school dropout.”
“Not to worry. We’re sending over your new tutor. Her name is Jacqueline Warkentien. The lady’s a genius. Works with big-name movie-star kids all the time. She can cram a whole school day’s worth of learning into one hour. Fifteen minutes if we’re in a pinch. Warkentien’s like high-speed Internet, only faster. The limo will be picking you up in five.”
“What limo?”
“The one that’s hauling you and Ms. Warkentien to the soundstage. It’s a thirty-minute ride. You should be able to wrap up your math for the week and learn about Odysseus and his Trojan Horsie, too.”
Ms. Warkentien starts tutoring me in the back of the specially equipped SUV limo the instant the chairlift raises me up to door level.
Ms. Warkentien’s jiggly hand is clutching a tumbler of coffee. Judging by how fast she talks and how much she vibrates, I’m pretty sure it’s not decaf.
“Mr. Grimm, I’m Ms. Warkentien, your tutor—from the Old French tutour for “guardian,” derived from the Latin tutorem, a “guardian or watcher,” not tutu, a stiff skirt worn by ballerinas. You may also call me your teacher, instructor, don, or coach, but not Coach Don. Now that we’re done with your vocabulary drill for the day, let’s move on to math: pi. Starts with three; decimal places never end. Use it for measuring circles. Time for Shakespeare.”
Since we’re knocking off my schoolwork lickety-split, I ask the driver to stop when we reach the corner near the elementary school.
It’s recess. The kids have all exploded out the doors and are on the playground swapping jokes.
“I’ll just be five minutes,” I say.
“Five minutes?” fumes my new tutor. “We could cover the Hundred Years’ War in five minutes!”
“I know. But I think this might be more important than any war. Funnier, too.”
She relents. The driver gives me the hydraulic-ramp treatment down to the ground.
And for five minutes, I’m right where I want to be: listening to kids who remind me of the me I used to be. Sure, some of the jokes are kind of corny. But they all make me smile.
