Chapter 22

JILLDA IS NO GILDA

I follow Ms. Wilder down the hall to the dressing rooms.

Ms. Warkentien heads off to find some coffee, even though, if you ask me, she doesn’t need any more caffeine.

Ms. Wilder is still monologuing about Donna Dinkle. (Probably because I spent all that time in the hospital watching classic comedians instead of modern sitcoms.)

“Donna has been in the business since the day she was born. Starred in a series of commercials for Toss ’Ems, the disposable diapers. After that, she moved on to Princess Pony action figures. Then she was the voice of the rutabaga in that 3-D Pixar flick about vegetables. Then she did Ring My Bell. For four years!”

“And now she’s in my pilot? Wow.”

“Wow is right. We were lucky to land her. That’s why her dressing room is slightly larger than yours.”

“So, who is Donna playing?” I ask. “One of the teachers at school?”

“She could. She’s that talented. But she’s only thirteen.”

“Oh.”

“She’ll be playing Jillda.”

“Cool. Who’s Jillda?”

“Your friend at school. Frizzy hair. Always making movies.”

“Oh, you mean Gilda. Gilda Gold.”

“The writers changed the name. It’s Jillda Jewel now.”

“Why?”

“Stewart Johnson says J words are funnier than G words.”

“What about galloping garbanzo beans?”

Before Ms. Wilder can answer, we’re inside a huge, flower-filled dressing room.

“Omigosh!” screeches a girl with a mop of curly hair tucked under a Pittsburgh Pirates baseball cap. She looks exactly like Gilda Gold would look if she were a redhead and didn’t love the Boston Red Sox.

“Omigosh!” she gushes. “You’re you. You’re Jamie, right? You’re in a wheelchair and everything, just like when you did your comedy schtick on TV, which, by the way, was, like, total awesomesauce.”

“It’s, uh, an honor to meet you, Miss Dinkle.”

“Please, call me Donna. Or Dee Dee. Or Donnatella. I like Donnatella, too.”

“Okay. I’ll try.”

“You know, Jamie, me and Taylor Swift watched you win the Planet’s Funniest Kid Comic.”

“Seriously?”

“Yuh-huh. Tay-Tay and me were just, you know, hanging out, chillin’, watching you kick comedy butt, and I told her I would so totally let you have my handicapped parking space, the one my driver usually snags because it’s so close to the doors and everything, even though, you know, technically, my only handicap is being so awesomely famous…”

I know it’s hard to believe, but Donna Dinkle, the TV Gilda, is even spunkier than the real one. And she talks nearly as fast as Ms. Warkentien.

“So, Jamie…” Donna sort of wiggles down and grabs hold of both of my armrests. She smells like cinnamon buns at the mall. Best. Perfume. Ever. “Have you been talking to the writers?”

“Little bit” is all I can squeak out, I’m so nervous.

You know that flop sweat I get on stage? It also pops up when I’m close enough to smell a cute girl’s perfume. Yep. She smells terrific, and I smell like the monkey cage at the zoo.

“Have you talked to them about me?” Donna purrs.

“Well, no, we only just met and…”

“Not me, silly goose. My character. Jillian.”

“Jillda,” says Ms. Wilder, who’s kind of hovering behind me.

“Whatever,” says Donna. “I just want to make sure they write us some tender moments where we share our true feelings for each other.”

I gulp a little. “It’s, uh, supposed to be a comedy.…”

Oh, boy. She’s wiggling even closer. She’s inches from my face. Batting her eyelashes. Puckering her lips like she’s doing a fish impersonation.

“We need to make sure it’s a romantic comedy. I’d like that.… Wouldn’t you?”