by Luke Sharpe
“Let me see,” I say, leaning in close. “ ‘Billy Sure has a crush on Allison Arnolds!’ ” I read aloud.
I can feel my face start to blush.
Manny turns and looks up at me. “You do?” he asks. “You really have a crush on Allison Arnolds? Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
“I never told anyone!” I reply, a bit more loudly than I would like. “I mean, I might have said it when I was alone in my room with Philo, just to see how it sounded, but I never told anyone.”
Manny says nothing as he clicks through the site. I’m watching his face rather than the monitor. That’s how I see his startled expression.
“What now?” I ask.
“Um, I think that this is the most serious post so far,” Manny says softly.
“ ‘Billy’s mother has been away from home a lot lately,’ ” Manny reads. “ ‘Everyone in the house misses her, but no one talks about where she is or what she is doing. What SECRET things could she be up to?’ ”
I have to step away from the computer for a moment. Manny is right. This is the worst post so far. It’s enough to spill my secrets, but my mom should be left out of it . . . especially because I’ve often wondered what she’s really up to too. Manny thinks she’s a spy, and I’m beginning to wonder about that myself. All the more reason her secrets shouldn’t be posted on a website.
I turn back to Manny. “Enough is enough,” I pronounce. “This has gone on long enough. Time to put a stop to this!”
Pet Peeves
THE NEXT DAY, JUST OUTSIDE the school, my two problems confront me at the same time.
“Hey, Sure!” shouts Douglas Braintree. “Is it true that your mom has been away for a long time and nobody knows what she does?”
“No, actually,” I begin, wondering why my family’s personal business is anyone else’s business too. “She’s a scientist.”
“Yeah, right,” sneers Douglas. “That’s a great cover story. What does she really do, Sure? Is she a secret agent? A government spy? Come on, you can tell me.”
I have no idea what in the world gives Douglas Braintree—who I’ve maybe spoken five words to in all the years we’ve been in the same school—the idea that I could trust him with any important information, much less with details about my family.
“Yeah, Douglas, that’s it,” I say, really getting tired of all this. “Her real name is JANE BOND.”
As soon as I enter the building, I hear laughter coming from a group of girls.
“You have a crush on Allison Arnolds?” asks Petula Brown, giggling behind the stack of books she holds in her arms.
Oh no. This is it. I’m doomed!
“Where’d you hear that?” I ask. “Did she say something to you?”
“No! I don’t talk to Allison Arnolds,” says Petula, using a tone that suggests that I’m the dumbest thing ever to walk on two legs. “Not after what happened with Peter MacHale at the Spring Dance last year.”
“No, of course not,” I say, trying to sound like I have any idea what she is talking about. “So, you saw that website?”
“Who hasn’t?” says Petula, rolling her eyes.
“Well, do you know if Allison has seen it?” I ask.
“And how exactly would I know that?” she asks, growing more exasperated with each word she says. “I just told you I don’t talk to her. Remember?”
Tossing her long red hair over her shoulder, Petula walks away without waiting for a response, which I was not about to give her anyway.
Manny and I simply have to figure out who put the site up and how we can take it down, or my life is going to be over. I’m embarrassed that the whole world knows that I like Allison, but there could be worse secrets that could be revealed, and that’s exactly what I want to avoid.
As I make my way to my locker, Brian Josephs, a kid from my science class, comes up to me.
“So, I heard that lots of people brought their pets to your house last night?” he says, reminding me that he is one of those people who makes everything he says sound like a question, whether it is or isn’t.
“Yeah, that’s true,” I reply.
“And that all the pets talked at once?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And then everything they said got translated by your toy?”
“Well, it’s actually not a toy, it’s an—”
“And that it was REALLY, REALLY LOUD?”
“Yeah,” I say, wondering if this conversation is ever going to end.
“Cool. I’ll see you tonight. I’ll bring my dog.”
Then he walks right past me.
“No, Brian. Wait, that’s really not a good idea . . .” I begin to say, but I can tell he’s not listening.
I don’t think I can handle another night like the last one. Are there going to be people camped out at my house again tonight, disturbing my family, not to mention the whole neighborhood? How long is this going to go on? And more importantly, what can I do to stop it?
The rest of the school day is thankfully uneventful. I rush from the building at the end of the day to avoid being confronted by any other pet lovers or website viewers.
Still, I can’t shake the creepy feeling in the pit of my stomach that things are only going to get worse in both these areas. And, in a way, they are connected.
It’s bad enough having kids come up to me at school, telling me they now know secrets about me and messing with my reputation. But I’m also supposed to be a serious entrepreneur (at least, that’s what Manny likes to call me), and I have reputation to think about there, too. I am the “Sure” in “Sure Things, Inc.” and if people all over the world are going to trust our products, they’re going to have to trust me.
At home I grab a snack, round up Philo, and head to the office. I arrive to find ten people standing in line, each one with a dog or cat. I don’t recognize any of them.
“Are you the guy who can tell what dogs are saying?” one boy asks.
“Well, not me, precisely, but—”
“Who are you? Dr. Dolittle or someone?” another person asks.
“No, really, this is not the best time,” I say, searching my mind to see if I can think of a “best time.” I can’t.
“Okay, we’ll come to your house later tonight,” says the first kid. “My friend was there yesterday and told me it was amazing! He never knew his cat liked belly rubs so much.”
“No, please don’t come to my house,” I say as the crowd breaks up, but I can see that no one is in the mood to listen to me.
I slip inside.
Manny looks up from his work, starts to look down, and does a double take.
“Are you okay?” he asks, getting up from his desk, something he rarely does.
I must really look terrible.
“You look terrible!” he says.
Well, there you go.
“I’ve never seen you looking so stressed and exhausted,” he continues.
“This is supposed to be a happy time for me—the launch of new product, Sure Things, Inc. moving forward . . . but I’m really stressed,” I explain. “Between the people wanting to use the Cat-Dog Translator and the stuff that’s on that website . . .” I can’t even finish the thought.
“Okay, have a seat,” Manny says, guiding me by the shoulder over to my workbench. “I’m going to get you a slice of pizza—you like jelly beans on your pizza, right?”
“Funny,” I say, and actually it is since everyone in the world also knows this about me now. It’s nice that one of us, at least, can keep a sense of humor about all this.
Manny returns and hands me a slice of pizza covered in colorful (nonpurple) jelly beans. I take a big bite.
“All right, I have a plan that I think will help solve two of your three big problems,” Manny begins.
“Three big problems?” I ask through a mouthful of pizza. “I have three big problems? I thought I only had two.”
“One’s an older problem that we’ll take care of by solving one of t
he newer problems,” Manny clarifies. Now I really have no idea what he’s talking about.
“You know how Principal Gilamon has been hounding you about Billy Sure Day?” Manny goes on.
“Of course,” I say. “He brought it up the other day.”
“So here’s the plan. What if we set up an assembly where every kid who wants to know what his or her pet is thinking can find out all in one shot? They’ll just bring their pets to the assembly and one by one, you can use the translator on them. That would stop a lot of people from coming around to your house at night, and at the same time satisfy Principal Gilamon’s desire for you to star in an assembly—to inspire hard work, creativity, and all that other good stuff he loves so much.”
I remain quiet and munch on another bite of my pizza.
“And, of course, it would also serve as a major PROMOTIONAL EVENT for the upcoming launch of the Cat-Dog Translator. So, what do you think?”
“Do you think he’d go for it?” I ask.
“Principal Gilamon? In a heartbeat.”
“Okay. See if you can set it up. And thanks, Manny.”
“Anything for my partner!”
“Now, what about my third problem, the website?” I ask, not wanting to seem ungrateful, but I was still very worried about all these secrets floating out there.
“That’s next up on my list, Billy,” says Manny. “I promise. We’ll figure that one out too.”
I spend the afternoon cleaning up my workbench—or, at least what passes for clean to me. Then it’s time to get Philo from the park—same bushes—and head home.
Riding my bike, I round the corner to my house and gasp at the sight of twice as many people lined up on my lawn as yesterday! And they’ve started showing up earlier!
I don’t know what to do. I mean, I know what I’d like to do, which is to tell them to all go away. But I don’t want any more bad publicity spreading about me, like how I’m mean and I wouldn’t share my invention, and that sort of stuff.
Maybe if I take care of this now, everyone will go away and things will get quiet later on tonight. Standing on my front step, I power up the long range settings on the translator.
“Okay, everyone!” I shout to be heard over the barking, screeching, howling, and meowing. “I can’t meet with you individually, but I’m going to turn on the Cat-Dog Translator for all of you. So please listen carefully for what your pet is saying. A reminder—the Cat-Dog Translator will only work on cats and dogs. That’s why it’s called the Cat-Dog Translator. So, for those of you I see out there who brought rats, donkeys, snakes, and lizards, thank you for your interest, but I really can’t help you.”
I turn the power on. In a repeat of last night’s noisy mess, the sounds of translated pet talk come pouring out of the speaker, all in a garbled stew of words.
I wait about five minutes, and when I can’t take any more of it, I turn off the device, thank the crowd for coming, and head inside.
But throughout my homework and dinnertime I hear another round of pet owners gathering outside. By the time I go to bed, the nose is deafening. Manny’s plan for the assembly better work, or I may never get to sleep again!
• • •
The next afternoon I walk into the office even more exhausted than before. Fortunately, Manny has some more good news—at least I think it’s good news.
“I have a plan to trap the person behind the website!” he says as soon as I walk through the door. “But it will require two things from you, Billy. Some acting, and A DISGUISE. What are your thoughts on fake mustaches?”
So many fake mustache choices!
Sure Secrets Exposed!
“I DON’T KNOW IF THIS is going to work, Manny,” I say, glancing at myself in a mirror on the office wall. I’m wearing a big bushy fake mustache on my upper lip. It looks like somebody’s gerbil jumped up onto my face.
I’m also wearing thick glasses, making it kind of hard to see, and a big floppy hat which droops to one side of my head. I must look ridiculous. Of course, I can hardly see what I look like through these dopey glasses, so I couldn’t really tell you.
“You can pull it off,” Manny reassures me. “I’m not worried about you in the slightest.”
Well, that makes one of us.
I slide the glasses down my nose a bit so I can peer over the top of them and actually get a peek at myself. I repeat: I look ridiculous!
“Manny, I look like a hairy, nearsighted old man!” I cry.
“That’s okay,” Manny replies calmly. “As long as you don’t look like Billy Sure, this plan should work just fine.”
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” I say. “Okay, so explain the plan to me again . . . one more time.”
“You are going to go onto the Sure Secrets website and convince whoever is running it that you have the juiciest Billy Sure secrets he or she has ever heard,” Manny explains. “Go ahead. It may even be fun!”
If I were to make a list of things I think might be fun, doing what I’m about to do would probably come in at #957 on the list—right below going to the dentist after eating roaches!
Manny hands me a piece of paper with a list of secrets he made up.
I sit next to Manny at his computer and bring up the Sure Secrets website. Just looking at it gives me the CREEPS.
“Okay, there’s the contact button,” Manny says, pointing to the upper right-hand corner of the screen.
I take a deep breath and click. A blank message box pops open. At the top of the box it says: “Tell us your Sure Secret!”
I look down at the piece of paper that Manny has given me and follow his script. I type: “I have the biggest secrets you’ll ever hear about Billy Sure” into the message box.
“I hope you know what you’re doing, Manny,” I say again. Then I click send.
“Now what?” I say, scratching my nose, which itches terribly from the hairy beast sitting on my upper lip.
“Now we wait for an—”
DING!
The bell rings, indicating that a message has arrived. Just below my message, in another box, someone has written: “Do tell! Do tell!”
I look at Manny, impressed that his plan brought such an immediate reply, and thinking for the first time since he explained it to me that it might actually work.
“Perfect!” says Manny. “They took the bait. Now go ahead, send them the first ‘secret.’ ”
I look at the paper and type what Manny has written there: “For starters . . . Billy Sure sometimes goes days without taking a shower!”
I turn to Manny. “That is gross!” I say.
“Just send it,” Manny replies. “They’re going to love it. It’s just the kind of thing they’re looking for.”
“But it’s not true!” I say. “Except for maybe sometimes.”
“They don’t know that,” Manny explains, smiling and raising his eyebrows.
Sighing deeply, I hit send.
A few seconds later a reply appears: “I like! I like! Tell me more!”
“Oh, we got ’em now!” Manny says, obviously enjoying this way more than I am. “Go ahead, type the next one, but don’t send it right away. Let them sweat for a minute.”
I type: “Billy Sure walks around his house talking to himself. Sometimes he even has arguments with himself.”
“You know that one’s not true either, right?” I say.
“Of course I do, Billy,” Manny says. “Okay . . . Wait . . . Wait . . . Send!”
I click send.
Instantly, the reply comes back. “Excellent. Go on!”
“Okay,” says Manny. “This is it. The trap’s been set. The bait’s been placed. Now let’s reel this big fish in! Go ahead and type the next one.”
“For the final and most amazing secret of all to have its full impact, I need to be face-to-face with you. Time for a video chat?” I hit send.
Manny and I stare at the screen. Nothing. A minute goes by, then another.
“They’re onto us!” I s
ay, getting nervous that all this has been for nothing.
“Just wait,” Manny says. “They’re weighing their options, trying to figure out how to turn this to their advantage. They’ll reply. We just have to be—”
DING!
“And here we go,” says Manny.
“I’d prefer it if you wrote the secret out.”
“That’s weak,” says Manny. “Very weak. Well, now is when we seal the deal.”
“Okay,” I say. “What does that mean? What do I write back?”
“I got this one,” says Manny. “Just make sure your MUSTACHE is on tight.”
“If it was on any tighter, it would be up my nose!” I say.
Manny takes over the keyboard: “If you’re not interested enough in what I have to say to talk to me face-to-face, I’ll just send this huge, earth-shattering secret to the local paper’s business section, and they can be the first to embarrass Billy and Sure Things, Inc.” He hits send.
This time the reply comes right away.
“Click on the video chat link on the Sure Secrets website, please,” comes the reply.
“Okay, partner, you’re on!” Manny says.
I position myself directly in front of the screen. I check my mustache, adjust my glasses, and straighten my hat. Here goes.
I click on video chat. A small window pops open within the website. A face fills the entire window. It is the face of none other than ALISTAIR SWIPED, the CEO of Swiped Stuff, Inc., Sure Things, Inc.’s biggest rival! Alistair Swiped came out with the Every Ball, a rip-off of the All Ball, and he recently pretended to be my mom to rip off our other products.
I have to work hard to hold it together. I can’t show my shock at seeing Swiped’s face on the screen. I can’t even let on for the moment that I even know who he is.
“Well,” says Swiped, squinting at what must obviously be a pretty ridiculous-looking face (my face, that is) on his computer’s monitor. He sounds slightly annoyed. “What is this great big secret that you will only tell me face-to-face?”
“Are you ready?” I ask, milking the moment for all it’s worth.
“I’m ready!” shouts Swiped, now clearly annoyed. “Well?”
