Seeing an opening, I skillfully switched the focus of the conversation to Alexis.
“However—and I’m not trying to get anyone, but I do want to share with you my concerns—I’ve discovered something that troubles me deeply,” I said.
Alexis had that stupid look on her face. I’d seen it a thousand times. She was trying to figure out what was coming. Too late!
“Alexis, I don’t want you to screw up your life. But your friends and your recent stunts are worrying me. You want to go to a good college, right?” I asked.
“Of course I do,” replied Alexis, now looking stupider by the second.
“And that’s why I’m scared. I’m afraid you’ll end up in juvie,” I said, trying desperately to shed a tear. No luck.
“JUVIE! What are you talking about!” demanded my dad.
“I’m talking about lying, stealing, and serious criminal behavior. That’s what I’m talking about, Dad!”
“Jake, just because you’re addicted to the Internet, a B-team lacrosse player, and have thousands of fake online ‘friends’ doesn’t mean you can make up stories about me,” said Alexis.
“I’m not addicted to the Internet. But I do see a lot of funny stuff online. Unfortunately, it’s not very funny when it involves your sister,” I said. “By the way, how was that ‘sleepover’ last Saturday at Shelby’s house? Vandalizing the neighborhood at two in the morning must have been totes cool!” I said.
Alexis denied everything. I was “a liar out to get her.” According to her, the girls stayed in the basement watching movies and braiding one another’s hair.
Alexis kept her cool while explaining her story, knowing the slightest hint of emotion would signal guilt. She also knew the damaging Vine video I saw posted on Shelby’s Twitter page had been deleted.
Unfortunately, for technology-challenged Alexis (obviously she got Dad’s genes), what she hadn’t counted on was the ease with which Vine videos can be copied and saved. Click . . . copy . . . paste . . . BUSTED!
Reaching for my phone, I had the damaging Vine vid up and running within seconds. We were all treated to a smiling and laughing Alexis hurling toilet paper all over Arnold Bernardi’s house. The video was time stamped 2:04 a.m. Not very smart, Shelby!
“Wow, Alexis! You should play softball!” I said, admiring the height and distance of each roll.
Alexis was out of her chair and on me quicker than I’d anticipated. Man! Her speed-and-agility classes were really paying off.
She had a CRAZY look in her eyes. Alexis tried to rip the phone out of my hand. But I resisted, feebly holding the fragile device over my head. Suddenly, I felt the phone snatched from my grasp.
“I’ll take that,” said Dad. He just stared at both of us in disgust.
After hours of tears, crying, sobbing, and promises of “I’ll never do it again,” Alexis’s fate was decided—no more sleepovers! Ouch! That’s going to leave a mark.
To a thirteen-year-old girl, taking away sleepovers is like taking the car keys away from a senior in high school. It kills them socially. They miss out on all the unsupervised fun. And they basically have nothing to gossip about the following week in school.
I didn’t see Alexis the rest of that night, though I could hear her weeping down the hall. Better watch my back, I thought. I might have gone too far. That night, I kept both eyes WIDE open!
Ms. Cane gazed over her class of enthusiastic workers. She nodded confidently, recognizing her own genius. With a hardy “Let’s. Do. This!” we all were off and running into the wild world of entrepreneurship.
As the first order of business, our pink-haired leader assigned positions within the company. She proudly rolled out the dry-erase board Ajit had so successfully cleaned. On it was this pyramid-like diagram of boxes with wacky titles like Pooch Wrangler, Sudsing Sensei, and Customer-Service Jedi assigned to each. She called it the Org Chart or the Big OC.
The OC would become the epicenter of our classroom and the business. Where your name appeared on the OC was HUGE! It determined your grade, the quality of your classroom life, and whether or not you could be bossed around. The farther down you were, the worse it was. Everyone wanted to be on top.
“As you all can see, I’ve only assigned one position so far,” stated Ms. Cane. “Michael, front and center.
“It gives me great pleasure to introduce Michael as the CE-YO of Fur Cuttery, Inc. He came up with the name, he’s a natural leader, and I know he has the right stuff to lead us to success,” said Ms. Cane.
Michael stood in front of us, blushing and smiling.
Arghhhh!!! Yeah, he came up with an unoriginal name and a predictable tagline. That made him the big cheese? Michael-mania was getting annoying.
“The rest of you are encouraged to interview for any other position on the OC,” said Ms. Cane. “Please take a minute and decide which one you want. If you have any questions about the job titles, just ask. I came up with some wild names just to keep it ballin’ up in here,” said Ms. Cane, trying to sound cool.
“After we’ve heard from everyone, Michael and I will make the final decisions,” announced Ms. Cane.
Interesting! Michael better not forget who trained and mentored him on the lacrosse field. He owed me big-time.
I quickly located the job I wanted. Ms. Cane was calling the head of marketing the Boss of Buzz. Perfect. If she wanted to create sick hype and buzz for Fur Cuttery, Jake Ali Mathews was her guy.
S
itting down, waiting for my turn to interview, I noticed DW III pacing in the back of the room. He was practicing what looked like a speech. And he somehow had changed into a jacket and tie. Where did that come from? I had to admit, he looked VERY professional.
“What’s with the outfit?” I asked.
“Outfit? Very humorous, Jake. Boys don’t wear outfits, we dress for success,” scoffed DW III.
“What position are you going for?” I asked.
“What else? Boss of Buzz, of course!” said Donald. “Since Wild Boy somehow snagged the chief executive position, it’s the only other job worth having.”
“You might want to consider something else. The Boss of Buzz is going to be me, for sure,” I asserted confidently.
“Really? Where’s your résumé? Do you have any experience? Professional references? Can I see YOUR marketing plan?” Donald asked.
“No! Who has any of that stuff?” I asked mockingly.
Unfortunately for me, he did!
DW III might have been a rich jerk, but he was a prepared rich jerk. Pulling out a really cool leather briefcase, he showed me his perfectly typed documents. That kid was GAME ON, and I was still sitting on the bench.
“Jake . . . relax. Once I’m the real BOSS, I won’t forget you. You can be my assistant. Just remember, I like my hot chocolate with extra low-fat organic foam and those really tiny marshmallows,” said DW III.
Oh well, at least my dad will be excited when they put me in accounting.
When it was DW III’s turn, he picked up his briefcase, straightened his tie, and marched right over to Ms. Cane and Michael. The kid was confident. DW III immediately shook their hands firmly and presented his business card! I did NOT see that coming. But before DW III could say anything, Ms. Cane hit him with a direct question.
“Do you own any pets?” asked Ms. Cane.
“Yes. We have a teacup Maltese named Vail, and Father has a Pomeranian named Maybach. They’re adorable!! Very well behaved,” answered DW III.
“Do you take care of them? You know, wash them, brush out their coats, brush their teeth, trim their nails?” asked Ms. Cane.
“Of course! Our dogs are very well groomed,” assured DW III.
“No, no . . . do YOU take care of them?” asked Ms. Cane, pointing to DW III.
“Me? Gosh, no! Our housekeeper, Mrs. Kingston, is in charge of all that,
” said DW III.
“Thank you, Donald. Next!” shouted Ms. Cane.
“Wait. Wait! Don’t you want to read over my plans?” asked DW III as he scrambled to hand Ms. Cane a fully tabbed color-coordinated binder.
“Donald. Thank you. We’ll let you know,” said Michael as he stood up and “guided” DW III back to his seat.
A proud Ms. Cane fist-bumped Michael as DW III returned to his chair.
“So, Jake, let me guess? Boss of Buzz?” asked Ms. Cane.
I smiled and gave a meek double thumbs-up.
“Before I let you say something stupid like Mr. Wall Street over there,” said Ms. Cane, motioning to DW III, “the job is yours. Just don’t screw it up.”
Remaining silent, I stood up, nodded in appreciation, and got out of there as fast as I could. For once I said nothing and accepted my well-deserved reward.
Ajit was named Grandmaster Cash and was in charge of accounting. Made sense. Being a math whiz, Ajit was the smart choice to keep track of the money.
Lesley Kim was selected Queen of Clean, and she was in charge of operations, which meant the grooming of the animals and cleaning of the truck.
At the end of the morning, the OC was filled out, and we were ready to get going.
I would be lying if I didn’t admit to being EXTRA happy at seeing Naomi Sinclair placed in the “Beehive,” which was what the marketing department was called. Get it? Bees? Buzz?
Ahhhh! NAOMI SINCLAIR! Her name sounded like a really expensive dessert Mom would buy in the frozen- food section! Or a celebrity perfume.
Blond, perfectly straight hair, blue eyes, and oversize round nerd glasses. She was the real deal!
She also refused about ten of my friend requests. And she didn’t follow me back on Twitter, either.
Over time it became clear to me that she was doing the old hard-to-get routine. Since I started school back in September, I’d only spoken to her once. It was an encounter I’d rather forget.
One day coming out the boys’ room, Naomi stopped me in the hall and told me I had toilet paper stuck to my shoe. All her friends made horrified faces, shrieked “EWWWWW,” and pointed at me. Naomi bent down and freed me from my embarrassing shackle of shame.
Maybe I grossed her out, but no worries! That was all about to change. I was the Boss of Buzz!
It didn’t take long for Fur Cuttery, Inc., to come alive.
Little did any of us know, Ms. Cane had already bought her truck. It was one crazy pet mobile with cutting tables, an oversize sink with shower attachment, and a vacuum/hair-dryer system.
Ms. Cane gave us the grand tour and demonstrated all the cool features. It had that new-pet-grooming-truck smell.
But once the tour was over, the atmosphere quickly changed. Lesley Kim swiftly asserted her authority as Queen of Clean. Handing out buckets, mops, sponges, soap, and gloves, she ordered the maintenance associates back to the truck for some heavy-duty scrubbing. DW III, who was on her team, shot me a look of pure DISGUST!
Now the real pressure was on me. I was the Boss of Buzz. And Fur Cuttery, Inc., and I needed to find some four-legged customers.
Being a man of action, I had my new marketing team assemble in the back of the classroom. All the kids had their cell phones and there were several computers we could use. Perfect. The marketing team was ready to roll.
Within minutes the Fur Cuttery, Inc., Facebook page was up and its Twitter account was open. I blasted my network with links, posts, and some initial retweets just to get the Fur Cuttery buzz rolling.
Blake created a funny paw-print logo for the company, and Tanner met with Ajit and Lesley to figure out exactly what services we offered pet owners and how much we charged.
After an hour, the marketing team had all the preliminary stuff nailed down and it was GO TIME.
I decided to keep it real simple. Each member of my team had to call their parents, grandparents, neighbors, cousins, teammates, and anyone they knew who owned a filthy dog or cat.
Whatever they had to do: beg, plead, annoy, harass, bother. We needed that first customer.
As that first morning turned into lunchtime, we still didn’t have any customers. For some reason, my mom wasn’t picking up her phone. She would have been an easy sale. I didn’t even try to call my dad. I knew he wouldn’t do it, especially since we didn’t own any pets.
Ms. Cane kept coming over and poking her head into our “office” (an area in the back of the room made up of old blankets and jump ropes). Geez! Rome wasn’t built in a day, Ms. Cane. Chillax!
Returning from lunch, I tried to avoid making eye contact with Ms. Cane. She’d be looking for good news, and I didn’t have any to give.
I hadn’t taken three steps into class before I heard her booming voice.
“How’s it going, Jake?” asked Ms. Cane.
I thought about ignoring her and making a run for my blanketed hideaway. Better not. She’d just come looking for me.
“Oh hi, Ms. Cane. How’s it going? Not great!” I said. “Lunch was awful.”
“What? NO! Marketing. . . . What’s going on with promoting the business, Boss of Buzz? I borrowed a lot of money from the folks over at RV Junction for that ultra-cool grooming van. We need to start getting some action real soon,” said Ms. Cane.
“Oh yeah! Sorry. Umm . . . it’s going okay. But it’s still early, we’ve been making calls, but so far, nothing,” I said.
“Look, I am counting on you. Does everyone on your team have their sales pitches memorized?” asked Ms. Cane. “What kind of quota did you give them?”
Pitch? Quota? What? I didn’t know if that was code for some secret prison language, but I was thoroughly confused.
“The script has to be tight, and they all need to be reading off the same page,” said Ms. Cane.
I just sat there nodding in agreement, pretending to know what she was talking about. I was in big trouble.
“Before I forget: Here’s a great tip. You’re leading a team. BUT, just so you know, sooner or later, someone on your team is going to test your authority,” said Ms. Cane, springing to her feet like she was ready to rumble.
“When they do, you need to be ready. At Maryland Super Max, when things got a little tense, I’d spark up my stun gun. The crackle of 50,000 volts turned fierce lions into little bitty lambs.” Ms. Cane laughed as she fondly reminisced about the good ole days.
“OF COURSE!!! . . . You can’t do that. But, you’ll need to carry your own kind of ‘attitude adjuster’ to keep the inmates in check,” said Ms. Cane.
“Remember, Jake, you and your team are setting the stage for the success of Fur Cuttery, Inc. Break a leg!” encouraged Ms. Cane as she shoved me off back in the direction of the Marketing Department.
WOW! I didn’t know if I was supposed beat up everyone on my team or rehearse for some kind of school play. The rest of the day I just faked it and tried to ignore the fact that we didn’t get one customer.
“DINNER!!!” called Mom.
Yes! About time. I was starving—I didn’t get that late-afternoon snack I needed. AWESOMENESS doesn’t happen on an empty stomach.
Sprinting downstairs, I saw Alexis already sitting at the table. Ever since I was forced to reveal the secrets of her sleepovers, Alexis had gone into complete shutdown mode. Not one word had been spoken between us.
Apparently, my brotherly duties had wide, far-reaching consequences. Once my parents learned of the late-night lawlessness, they contacted the parents of ALL the girls involved. Let’s just say it was going to be a while before their next hair-braiding party.
Since Mom and Dad knew they weren’t going to get anything out of my sister the mute, they looked to me for their daily school update.
“How’s business at Furry Cuts?” asked Dad.
“That’s FUR CUTTERY, Inc., Daaad,” I responded.
> “Exactly! So how is it going?” asked Dad.
“Fantastic. I got the website up, and our Twitter and Facebook are launched,” I said.
“I’m so proud of you, Jake!” gushed Mom. “Or should I call you ‘Mr. Boss’?”
“That does have a certain ring to it, Mom,” I said, rocking back in proud reflection. “But my title does come with a lot of pressure. We need customers, and I’m feeling the heat,” I said.
“Michael’s being tough on you, huh! Good for him. An incredible athlete and an effective leader—that boy has a VERY bright future,” said Dad.
“NO! Not Michael. Ms. Cane! Michael doesn’t do anything except sit around and trade Snapchats with his new lax bros. I’m the real brains of the operation,” I said.
“Oh yeah, and she started getting all intense with me. Asking about my team’s ‘script’ and how much was their quotey or something like that,” I ranted. “I have NO idea what she means.”
My dad started laughing. He spent the next ten minutes explaining exactly what Ms. Cane was talking about. As if I’m supposed to know all this adult, real-world stuff.
Evidently, big companies do exactly the same thing I did. They put a bunch of workers in a room filled with phones and each employee has to call random people and try to sell as much junk as possible.
The Big Guy also explained that a quota is the exact amount of calls or sales each worker has to make each day. Managers have to be tough enforcing these requirements to make sure the workers keep annoying people all day long.
“My suggestion is that you write out a little script about the company and tell your team how many calls they need to make each day. Your goal should be to have everyone repeating the same company message,” suggested my dad.
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