by Luke Sharpe
Could everything I’ve done with my life be wrong? How can that be? After all, I’m the guy who invented the device that told me that I shouldn’t be an inventor. It doesn’t make any sense at all, unless . . .
I don’t even want to think about the possibility that the Best Test’s basic design is faulty. Sure Things, Inc. simply can’t afford two inventions in a row that never make it to the marketplace. No, I do not want to think about that.
When I finally doze off, I dream of fields filled with rows and rows of spinach. In the dream I’m wearing overalls, big boots, and the Best Test on my head as I walk through rows of spinach, yanking plants from the ground and tossing them into a big basket.
In the distance a tractor rumbles toward me, rolling right across the rows of spinach. I see that the tractor is crushing the delicate plants. Shredded green leaves fly everywhere. At it gets closer I see that Manny is driving the tractor! Just as it is about to run me over, I wake up.
Well, that was really strange, I think as I climb from bed, anything but rested. Maybe I’m crazy, but I have to find out if the Best Test is right.
All week at school I have trouble concentrating. I feel like my entire future is on the line with the next decision I make. After school on Thursday, I decide the time has come to start my new life. If I’m really best at being a SPINACH FARMER, why fight it?
On my way to the office I stop into the local greenhouse. I remember being here with my mom when I was really little, but I’ve never actually bought anything here myself before today. It makes me feel kinda grown-up . . . and kinda weird at the same time.
The smell in this place is amazing with all the houseplants, veggies, and flowers. I take a deep breath. Maybe this really is what I was meant do.
I step up to the counter. “I’d like to buy some spinach plants, please,” I say to the clerk.
“Certainly,” he replies. He places three six-packs of plants onto the counter.
Tiny green shoots poke out of the black soil. It’s hard to believe that these little green things will one day grow up to be spinach and cause kids around the world to make excuses not to eat their dinners.
“Would you like the SAVOY, SEMI-SAVOY, or SMOOTH-LEAF?” the clerk asks.
Uh-oh, I didn’t realize I’d have to choose a type of spinach. I didn’t think this would be so hard. Then again, I’m supposed to be the best at this, or so the Best Test thinks, anyway.
“How about one of each?” I ask, smiling to hide the fact that I really have no idea what I’m doing when it comes to growing spinach. I pay for them and hurry from the greenhouse, hoping that that the clerk doesn’t ask me any more questions that I can’t answer.
I arrive at the office, plants in hand, resigned to tell Manny that I believe the time has come to start my new life as a farmer.
“What’s up with those?” Manny asks, snatching up his laptop and heading toward my workbench. I can guess from what’s on the screen that he’s about to tell me all the things we need to do to get ready for the rollout of the Best Test. “You redecorating the office?”
“Manny, I’ve decided to follow the advice of the Best Test and become a spinach farmer,” I say, trying to sound as serious as I can.
“Uh-huh,” says Manny, plopping his laptop down in front of me. “So, back here on planet Earth, we have about a million tiny details to go through.”
Speaking of planet Earth, I see Manny’s bought a globe for his desk.
“Manny, I’m serious,” I say.
Manny lowers his chin and raises his eyebrows. “Okay, first, that’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. And second, time is ticking away, partner. We’ve got packaging designs to develop, ad copy to refine, investors to make happy, retail chains to—”
“Why is it so dumb?” I ask, not willing to let go of this plan. “The Best Test has been way off twice now. It said that Dad was best at cooking, and I was best at, at . . .” I gesture to the plants sitting on my workbench. “At this!”
“I think ‘inaccurate’ is the operative word here,” says Manny.
“Exactly,” I say. “I mean, what if some kid uses the Best Test and it says that he’s best at, oh, I don’t know, knitting. So then he devotes his life to that, when really he should have studied to be a doctor.”
“Knitting?” Manny shoots back, his eyebrows climbing even higher on his forehead. “Billy, knitting is a hobby, and maybe the kid is good at it, just like spinach farming can be your hobby. Maybe you’re the best at spinach farming out of everyone else you know. But your job is INVENTING, and we’ve got work to do!”
I realize that trying to convince Manny is pointless, so I turn my attention to the charts and spreadsheets he’s worked so hard to put together. As usual I understand about half of what Manny explains, but I trust that he knows what he’s doing. A little while later I leave Manny to move full speed ahead on the launch of the Best Test, and head home with my plants.
After feeding Philo, I grab a snack in the kitchen. I also place my new plants there in a sunny window just above the sink.
“Hey, look!” says Emily when she spots me watering them. “It’s Farmer Bill!”
“Very funny,” I say. “But I will grow these plants. And with your powder, they will even taste good when we eat them someday.”
“Whatever you say, Spinach Boy,” Emily says before heading to her room.
I finish watering the spinach and then go to my room. I sit at my computer to whip out another e-mail to Mom:
Hi, Mom, so you’re not gonna believe this, but today I bought some spinach plants. I’ve got to find out if the Best Test is right about me. I’d hate to really have a secret ability to grow great spinach and not follow through on that. Speaking of the Best Test, I now have two prototypes. Were you serious about me sending you one? Let me know. Love you.
Billy
Mom’s career has always been something of a mystery to me. I’d love to know what the Best Test says she is best at.
As I get into bed that night, my mind is racing. I can feel the stress of trying this new spinach project. I’m worried about letting Manny down. And I’m still wondering if actually releasing the Best Test is a good idea. I mean, I thought the Cat-Dog Translator was a great idea, and we all know how well that turned out.
The last thing that pops into my brain before I finally fall asleep is that tomorrow afternoon is the next meeting of the inventors club.
Just what I need—one more thing to worry about!
The Return of Emily
THE NEXT MORNING I check my e-mail and see that Mom replied.
Hi, honey, I would love to try out the Best Test. I think we’d both really get a kick out of seeing what it says. When it arrives I’ll let you know, and maybe we can set up a video chat, so it would almost be like we are together.
Mom goes on to give me an address in South America. I’m looking forward to seeing what the Best Test says Mom is best at. And I’m kinda excited about having a video chat with her. I have to be extra careful with sending inventions to Mom—again, I don’t want any IMPOSTORS to steal my ideas—so when I ship the Best Test out, I ship it in a locked suitcase. I tell Mom that I’ll give her the lock code on video chat so that only she can open it.
The school day drags. I fight to keep my eyes open as I move, zombielike, from class to class, all the time wondering how the latest meeting of the inventors club will go. How can I inspire kids to follow their dreams when now I’m not even certain that I’m following my own dream?
After classes I arrive at the room for the meeting, imagining what might be coming next for me—president of the Fillmore Middle School Spinach Farmers Club, perhaps?
I am greeted by a noisy, excited bunch of kids. Luckily for me, many of them have brought in new inventions they have come up with or ones they’d been working on that they have tweaked since the last meeting.
“Hi, everyone,” I begin. “Welcome to this meeting of the Fillmore Middle School Inventors Club. Who has somethi
ng they’d like to share with the rest of the club?”
A whole bunch of hands shoot into the air.
“Me, me!”
“Pick me, Billy!”
“Ooh, ooh!”
I have to admit, the enthusiasm of the club members makes it easy to be the president.
Among the people with hands in the air I spot Clayton.
“Clayton, have you managed to work out the bugs in your Spinning Sandwich Maker?” I ask, pointing to him.
“Yes, sir,” Clayton says, standing up quickly and hurrying up to the front of the room, carrying his invention out in front of him with two hands, staring at it to make sure it stays balanced.
“I call this the Spinning Sandwich Maker.” Clayton holds up his contraption for everyone to see. “You put the sandwich ingredients of your choice onto these spatulas. Then they are attached to a spinner I took off of my Climbers and Clingers board game. When you spin the spinner, the sandwich gets put together automatically.”
Hoping to avoid another ketchupy, mustardy mess, I stop him.
“Um, Clayton, do you remember the problem you had the first time you showed this to me?”
“Yes, sir,” he replies. I really wish he’d stop calling me “sir,” but one thing at a time. “I added hinges from my kitchen cabinets to the spatulas so that they flop forward now to build the sandwich. WATCH!”
As Clayton places bread, salami, cheese, lettuce, tomato, mustard, and ketchup onto the various spatulas, I can’t help but think about what Clayton’s parents will say when they find the hinges from their cabinets missing. It actually makes me think of my early days as an inventor, when I would take apart everything from toasters to TVs to build my inventions. Maybe it’s not so bad that Manny buys me supplies now.
“All ready, sir,” says Clayton.
“Give it a spin,” I say, taking a giant step away from the contraption.
Clayton spins the spinner. The spatulas whirl around and around. As they spin, each spatula flops forward on its hinge, placing in the center of the spinner, in precise order: a slice of bread, a dab of mustard, two slices of salami, two slices of cheese, a piece of lettuce, a slice of tomato, a blob of ketchup, and another piece of bread. A perfectly built sandwich!
The club bursts into applause! Clayton grins the biggest grin I’ve ever seen.
“Great job, Clayton!” I say as the applause dies down, realizing just how important this club is to some of the kids. Clayton heads back to his seat, getting patted on the back as he goes. It’s obvious that he’s found something he loves and someplace he belongs. Samantha is so impressed by his invention, she even offers him chocolate. It kinda makes all the worrying and lost sleep worth it.
“All right, who else wants to share their invention?” I ask.
“I do,” says a voice from the doorway.
I look over and see Emily standing at the entrance to the room. “Emily?” I say, genuinely surprised to see her here again. “You know that club membership is only open to kids in middle school, right?”
Ignoring me completely, which is something else she’s best at, Emily walks into the room. “Yeah, well, in a minute you’re going to eat your words,” she says, stepping up to a lab table. “As well as anything else you like, because I’ve been working on my Spinach-Enhancing Powder in the high school’s chemistry lab, and I think it’s a winner!”
I still don’t like the name.
Emily opens her backpack and pulls out a bunch of containers filled with all kinds of gross foods. She opens a container and pulls out a piece of liver.
“Who here likes liver?” she asks.
“Yuck!”
“Ew!”
“Gross!”
Only one hand is raised—Clayton’s. I have to give it to him—he knows what he likes.
Emily points to Samantha. “Samantha, right?” she says.
Samantha nods her head, smiling, clearly happy that Emily remembers her name.
“Do you like liver, Samantha?” Emily asks.
“No way!” Samantha says. “My mom likes to eat it, but I think it’s really gross!”
“Perfect!” says Emily, placing the liver onto a paper plate and pulling out a small container. She sets the plate down in front of Samantha. “This is the latest version of my Spinach-Enhancing Powder. Let’s see how it works on liver!”
Emily sprinkles a bit of the powder, now more a blue color than green, onto the liver. “Go ahead, Samantha. Please take a bite.”
Scrunching up her face, bracing herself for the worst, Samantha pops a piece of liver into the mouth. Her face starts to relax, then her eyes open wide. “IT TASTES GREAT!” she cries. “How did you do that?”
Emily smiles. “Okay, who hates lima beans?” she asks, opening the next food container.
Everyone raises a hand . . . even Clayton.
“Okay, and what’s your name?” Emily asks, pointing to a boy in the back of the room.
“Robert,” he replies.
“All right, Robert, try this,” she says, sprinkling some of her powder onto a small pile of lima beans.
Once again Emily has waltzed in to my club and taken over. But I’m glad. The kids in the club really seem to be getting a kick out her being here. And, if this powder of hers works as well as she says . . . well, one step at a time.
Robert picks up a lima bean and looks at it as if it were radioactive.
“Go ahead,” Emily encourages him.
He eats the bean. “Wow!” he says. “This tastes better than candy!”
“Okay, I’ve saved the best for last,” she says, placing some spinach onto a plate. “And Billy, I think you should taste this sample.”
She sprinkles some of the powder onto the spinach. It disappears into the folds of the leaves. I catch myself wondering which variety of spinach this might be.
I shove the spinach into my mouth and chew. The entire club leans toward me, waiting to see my reaction. The spinach has a slightly sweet, slightly salty flavor that actually tastes great. It tastes better than before with the Spinach-Enhancing Powder.
“Fantastic!” I say as the room breaks into applause. “And it seems to work on anything.”
My mind starts racing, going through a bunch of things all at once. First, I realize that Emily and I might be more similar than we thought—or more than she will ever admit.
Second, maybe the Best Test isn’t the greatest idea after all. In reality, maybe it’s Emily who’s come up with the better invention.
And third, with some fine tuning, Emily’s powder could actually turn out to be Sure Things, Inc.’s Next Big Thing!
Briiiiiiing!!!
The bell sounds, interrupting my thoughts and signaling that the meeting is over.
“Thank you all for coming,” I say. “I’ll see you next week.” I turn to Emily.
“Would you maybe come to the Sure Things, Inc. office right now so we can fine tune your powder?” I ask. “I think you may really have something there.”
“Okay,” Emily says. “But I need a promotion. I’m a vice president now. I’m thinking something along the lines of inventor-in-chief.”
Gross to Good!
EMILY CARRIES PHILO over to the office in her arms. I don’t tell her that he likes to trot by me—she’s too busy petting him, saying things like, “We need to invent some nicer smelling shampoo for you,” while simultaneously saying, “You’re the best dog in the world!”
“Check out my workbench,” I say once we’re at the office, “or as we like to call it—the mad scientist division of Sure Things Inc.”
Emily walks over to the piles of wires, switches, and tools that cover my workbench. I notice that Manny’s added two mini pitchforks.
“When’s the last time you actually saw the surface of the workbench?” Emily asks.
“Probably the day we opened the office,” I say.
She looks over at my cabinets, shelves, and peg boards, then pulls open a drawer labeled small switches, in which she
sees a bunch of tiny lightbulbs—and the rainbow wig. “What’s up with this?” she asks.
“WHAT’S UP WITH WHAT?” I reply casually.
“So what have you got for us, Emily?” Manny asks, anxious to get on with the business at hand.
She plops her backpack right down into the middle of my workbench, sending parts and tools flying in every direction. Then she unzips it, pulling out a container of her powder and a chemical formula written on a note card.
Now we’re getting somewhere. Manny and I look over Emily’s shoulder at the formula. It’s pretty complex. Sometimes I forget just how smart Emily is.
“That’s interesting,” Manny says, pointing to a list of ingredients that must be mixed in precise order.
“Hmm . . . ,” Manny says. “Have you considered switching the order of these two steps?” he asks, pointing to the paper.
“Interesting,” says Emily, intrigued by Manny’s question. “I never thought of that, but I can see that making that change might help the rest of these combine more quickly.”
“Which should increase the range of food that the powder works on,” adds Manny. “It just works on liver, lima beans, and spinach now, right? If we can tweak this formula to work on any food, we may just have a huge hit on our hands.”
“Let’s try it,” I suggest, pulling out a plastic bin and sweeping the debris—otherwise known as my work—from the workbench to give Emily room to play with her formula.
“While you’re doing that,” Manny says to Emily, “I’ll run into my house and grab the worst-tasting food I can find.”
A short while later Emily finishes reworking her formula. The powder that started as green, then morphed to blue, is now plain white. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think that you were just sprinkling salt on your food.
Manny places platefuls of Brussels sprouts, horseradish, and chocolate chips on the workbench. “I’m curious,” he says, “what the powder will do to food that already tastes good. Well, go ahead,” he says, this time looking at Emily. “You’re the inventor. You do the honors.”
