Billy Sure, Kid Entrepreneur and the Stink Spectacular

by Luke Sharpe

  That sounds good to me. We talk about some of the inventions we’ve been mulling over recently. A PERSONAL FORCE FIELD BELT: You put on the belt, press a button, and you’ve got a force field around you that no one can get through. Objects couldn’t get through, either. With a Personal Force Field Belt, you could make sure you were never hit with a water balloon again. Guaranteed protection against wedgies, noogies, wet willies, and more.

  Or the DOG TRANSLATOR. It’d be so great to know what your dog was saying every time he barked. I’d love to know exactly what Philo is trying to say. (Most of the time, it’s probably “Give me more treats, please!”) I’m sure the millions of people who own dogs would all want a Dog Translator. I guess we could try to make a Cat Translator, too, but I’m personally more interested in hearing what dogs have to say. Cats would probably just complain about dogs. And everything. I don’t know why, but cats seem like big complainers.

  The 3-D CHOCOLATE PRINTER. This would be so great. Not only could you print a three-dimensional object, you could print it in chocolate! Then you could eat it! It’d be like printing your own candy bars. Only they wouldn’t have to be bars—they could be lizards or shoes or even little statues of you! (Though I’m not sure why you’d want to eat a chocolate statue of yourself. So you could pretend to be a giant? A giant who is eating you? Why would you possibly want to do that?)

  There’s nothing I love more than talking about inventions, but there’s a problem.

  “These are all good ideas,” I say. “What we need is a bad idea.”

  “We do?” Manny asks, puzzled.

  “Sure! We don’t want to give away a good idea to Impostor Mom. We want to keep all our good ideas to ourselves. What we need is a bad idea that we don’t care about giving away.”

  Manny nods. “That makes sense. The idea would have to be bad enough that we don’t want to invent it, but interesting enough for Impostor Mom to write back asking for more details.”

  Manny quickly walks over to our dry-erase board. He uncaps a purple marker and writes “BAD” and “INTERESTING” on the board.

  We both stare at the board, thinking.

  “A TURTLE TRANSLATOR?” I suggest.

  “Why is that a bad idea?”

  “Who cares what turtles think?”

  “Other turtles. Turtle owners. Fishermen.”

  “Why do fishermen care what turtles think?”

  “You could send the turtle into the water to find out where the fish are, and then the turtle could report back to you,” Manny says. “Turtle Translator is an excellent idea. I’m writing it down.” He makes a note on his phone.

  I get an idea. “Maybe we should look for ideas on the website! It’s full of bad ideas!”

  We’ve got this website called Sure Things’ Next Big Thing where kids from all over the world can send in their ideas for inventions. If an idea’s really good, we help make the product and share the money with the inventor. That’s where the Sibling Silencer came from. A girl named Abby came up with the idea and a rough prototype, and then Sure Things, Inc. turned it into a successful product. (Again, I apologize if your brother or sister has one.)

  I turn to my laptop, click on the website, type in my username and password, and scroll through kids’ ideas. “Let’s see . . . the SOAP SCUM ELIMINATOR, the LEAF-CATCHING TREE SKIRT (so you never have to rake leaves again), the TIME TRAVEL MACHINE—boy, Manny, we sure do get that one a lot.”

  “Because it’s a great idea,” Manny says. “It’s just very, very hard to invent.”

  “Like, maybe, impossible,” I say, staring at the screen. Then I spin around in my chair. “This doesn’t feel right. Looking at these kids’ ideas and using them as Impostor Mom bait. Sure, a lot of these ideas are pretty bad, but the kids like them. It seems mean somehow to use them as bad ideas.”

  “But you just said they were bad ideas!”

  “I know, but there’s a difference between just saying, ‘Oh, that’s a bad idea,’ and ignoring it, and saying, ‘Oh, that’s a bad idea, so I think I’ll use it as bait to catch Impostor Mom.’ ”

  “The kids will never even know we did it!”

  “Are you sure?” I ask. “What if Impostor Mom really takes the bait and runs with the bad idea and manufactures it! Then the kid who came up with the idea would see that we gave it to a mean manufacturer who steals ideas!”

  Manny thinks about this and nods. “Yeah, I see what you mean. It’s just not right. We’ll have to come up with a bad idea of our own.”

  “That shouldn’t be too hard,” I say.

  Actually, it is.

  We need an original bad idea of our own that the spy will go for. We have to make sure it’s not so bad that it’ll give away the fact that we’re onto the spy. If the spy smells a trap, whoever it is might refuse to answer our e-mail and cut off communication. We’ll never find out who Impostor Mom is. And never get revenge.

  We come up with a few ideas, but none of them seem right. Manny can still see something good about them. He writes them down and refuses to let us tell the spy about them.

  Manny and I decide to sleep on it. There’s no rush.

  Except that Mom’s secret software will self-destruct in five days . . .

  • • •

  At school on Monday I’m still thinking about the perfect bad idea. I haven’t come up with anything when lunchtime rolls around, so I decide to sit by myself. Manny is cool with it. He knows that I need to concentrate. Maybe I’ll think of something while I’m eating.

  I chew my sandwich and look around. A small kid named Jacob has a can of Dr. Fizzy soda to drink with his lunch. He must have brought it from home, because the cafeteria definitely doesn’t sell Dr. Fizzy. They probably should, though, because it’s popular.

  Unfortunately, another kid sees Jacob’s soda too: Darrell Fliborg. If bullies had a club, Darrell would be president.

  “Hey,” Darrell says to Jacob. “Where’d you get that?”

  “Get what?” Jacob asks nervously. Conversations with Darrell Fliborg rarely end well, and he knows it. Jacob’s smart.

  “That can of Dr. Fizzy,” Darrell grunts.

  “Oh,” Jacob says, sensing trouble. “I, uh, brought it from home.”

  Darrell smiles, but it’s not a friendly smile. More of a “just what I wanted to hear” kind of smile. “Then I’m afraid I’m gonna have to conjugate it. No outside drinks allowed.”

  Knowing what’s good for him, Jacob doesn’t correct Darrell’s use of “conjugate” by telling him he means “confiscate.” But he does do something interesting.

  Though he keeps looking right at Darrell, I see Jacob sneak his hand over to his sandwich. There’s a red onion sticking out of the sandwich. Jacob rubs the red onion between his fingers.

  “Oh,” Jacob says, stalling for time, “I didn’t know that. Well, that’s okay. I think there might be something wrong with this can of Dr. Fizzy anyway.”

  Darrell squints suspiciously. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “I don’t know,” Jacob says. “It just smells really weird. Here.”

  Jacob holds the can right under Darrell’s nose. What Darrell doesn’t realize is that he’s also holding his FINGERS right under Darrell’s nose—the same fingers he used to rub the onion!

  “EW!” Darrell says loudly, pulling his head back. “Gross! Get that away from me!” He leaves to go find someone else to bully. Unfortunately, there’s always someone else.

  As he leaves, Jacob smiles and wipes his fingers on a napkin. Then he takes a good, long drink from his can of Dr. Fizzy. Even though he wiped his fingers, he holds the can close to its base. Onion smell is hard to remove.

  Jacob’s little trick is brilliant. And it gives me an idea. . . .

  • • •

  After school I pick up Philo at my house. (He’s thrilled to see me, but then he’s always thrilled to see me—and just about everyone else, too. Maybe not the mail carrier or the veterinarian, but pretty much everyone else.) We hea
d on over to the office together. I’m eager to tell Manny my idea.

  When we get there, Manny’s standing at the free throw line. Once again, he’s holding the large All Ball in its basketball form. Since Manny got on his free throw kick, I don’t think it’s been changed to any of the other four forms (soccer, foot, volley, or bowling ball).

  “Twenty,” he says when we walk in.

  “Twenty free throws in a row? That’s great!”

  “No,” he explains. “Twenty is my goal. So far I’ve got six in a row.”

  I unclip Philo from his leash and he goes straight to the water bowl we keep for him in the office. SHLURP! SHLURP! SHLURP!

  “Why have a goal of twenty?” I ask. “Would you really stop if you made twenty free throws in a row? Why not have a goal of infinity?”

  “Because setting realistic goals is one of the secrets to success,” Manny says. “All the business books say so.”

  “Okay,” I say, launching a ball in the pinball machine. “Then maybe your goal should be seven. Not twenty.”

  “Ha-ha,” Manny says. He throws the ball. Clunk! “That’s your fault. You threw me off.”

  “No, you threw the ball off. Way off.” The pinball rolls straight down between my flippers. I flap the flippers like mad, but it’s no use. I turn away from the pinball machine. “I have an idea.”

  “What is it?” Manny asks. He sits down and looks right at me. When I say I have an idea, he always gives me his full attention.

  “It’s called the STINK SPECTACULAR,” I say.

  “Okay . . . ,” Manny says doubtfully.

  “It’s a drink, obviously, that smells terrible, but tastes great.”

  Manny still looks confused. “Why?”

  “So that you’ll want to drink it. You wouldn’t want to drink it if it didn’t taste good.”

  “No, I mean why does it smell terrible?”

  “I’m glad you asked. The terrible smell makes the drink bully-proof! Let’s say a bully starts to steal your delicious soda. He takes one little whiff, and zoom! That bully’s out of there! He leaves, and you get to enjoy your delicious Stink Spectacular!”

  Manny just sits there for a second, thinking about this. Then he smiles. “Oh! I get it! This is your bad idea! To use as bait for the spy!”

  This hurts my feelings a little bit. I don’t think the Stink Spectacular is a bad idea. I think it’s a great idea!

  “No!” I argue. “This isn’t a bad idea! It’s a really good idea! I think it should be Sure Things, Inc.’s next product!”

  “Seriously?” Manny asks.

  “Yes! Seriously!”

  “Nobody wants to drink a drink that smells terrible,” he argues. “Isn’t smell, like, some huge percentage of taste, anyway? How can something smell terrible and taste great?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, picking up a small All Ball and tossing it in the air. “How can one ball change into five balls? I didn’t used to know that, either, but I figured it out.”

  I keep tossing the ball and catching it. Normally Manny would use the remote control to change the ball while it was in the air, but he doesn’t do it this time. He just sits there, thinking.

  “How often do bullies try to steal your drink?” Manny asks. “Is that really a common problem?”

  “I don’t know—look it up,” I suggest.

  “What am I searching for?” he asks. “ ‘Bully steals drinks?’ ”

  “Sure,” I say. He hits the keys on his laptop. We’re both quiet for a while.

  “You know, though,” I finally say, “there might be a version of the Stink Spectacular that could work as bait for the spy. . . .”

  Stench Quench

  WE’RE BACK IN MANNY’S BEDROOM. I’m typing on his antique computer. When I work on this thing, I feel as though I should be wearing a top hat and a black suit. I tell Manny this.

  “You mean like you should be dressed formally?” he asks, confused.

  “No, I should be dressed like in olden times, because it’s an antique.”

  “I think people still wear top hats and black suits to really formal occasions.”

  “Like what?”

  “Presidential inaugurations?”

  I look at what I’ve written to Impostor Mom.

  Dear Mom,

  Hi! How are you doing? I’m fine, and so is Philo. And Emily. And Dad.

  “Seems kind of stiff,” Manny says. “Is this the way you always write to your mom?”

  “Yeah,” I lie. Then I admit the truth. “No, not really. But I’m kind of nervous. I mean, I know I’m writing to a corporate spy, not my mom. It’s weird. It’s also kind of strange writing with you reading over my shoulder.”

  “Sorry, but this is important Sure Things, Inc. business,” Manny says, sitting back a little. “Just pretend you’re writing to your mom. But don’t give away any of our real secrets.”

  “Duh,” I say, deleting what I’ve written.

  I start over.

  Hi, Mom,

  Everyone here is great. We sure do miss you. When will you be back home?

  “That’s better,” Manny says. “But you’d better cut that last question.”

  “Why?” I ask. “That’s exactly what I’d say to my mom!”

  “Yeah, but it might freak out Impostor Mom, since he or she doesn’t know the real answer.”

  That is actually a pretty good point. I hit the backspace key. Then I resume typing.

  School is good. Yesterday I found out I got an A on that math test.

  Emily’s still speaking in a British accent. She even calls the hood of the car the “bonnet” and the elevator the “lift.”

  Dad’s working on a series of paintings lit by the sunset instead of the sunrise, which means he’s been fixing us breakfast. Today he made pancakes with celery, fennel, liver, and lingonberries.

  I taught Philo a new trick. It’s called Lying Around Doing Nothing. He’s—not surprisingly—really good at it.

  “Okay, now it seems like you’re stalling.”

  “This is exactly the kind of stuff I write to my mom! Isn’t that what you want me to do?!”

  “I do! But the parts about your family and dog don’t have to be long. Impostor Mom’s probably going to skip those parts anyway!”

  “Okay, fine. Let’s bait the trap. . . .”

  Things at Sure Things, Inc. are great. The All Ball and the Sibling Silencer are selling really well. Manny’s thrilled with our sales.

  “You’re putting me in this?!”

  “Yeah, I have to if I’m going to talk about the business! Which is kinda the whole point!”

  Manny frowns. “I don’t know if I like having a corporate spy know my name.”

  “Your name is already very well known as part of Sure Things, Inc.! It’d take, like, two seconds to search ‘Sure Things’ and have your name pop up!”

  “Yeah, well, I still don’t like it.”

  “Now you know how I feel. You don’t like having your name mentioned. I’ve got to write to the spy and pretend it’s my mom!”

  “Just go ahead and write.”

  Even though our first two products are doing great, Manny says it’s really important to get another product going right away.

  “Oh, so now you’re going to put my name in every single sentence. Nice.”

  I laugh.

  We’ve been kicking around ideas, and we’ve come up with one that we really like.

  “That’s the fourth time you’ve used ‘really.’ ”

  “It’s an e-mail to my mom! Not an English assignment! Do you want to write it?”

  Manny considers it. Then he shakes his head. “No, you know how you’ve been writing to the spy? This has to sound like your other e-mails. If all of a sudden this e-mail sounds different, Impostor Mom might get suspicious. Go on.”

  This is definitely a million-dollar idea! It’s called Stench Quench. It’s a drink that smells terrible . . . and tastes even worse! Kids are gonna love it.
There’s nothing kids love more than being grossed out, according to Manny’s marketing magazines. I’m working on the formula, trying to get the stench just right. I’m so excited about this idea!

  “I was going to put ‘really excited,’ but I changed it in your honor,” I say.

  “Thanks. ’Preciate it.”

  Well, I hope you’re doing great. I’d write more, but I want to get back to work on my secret formula for Stench Quench.

  Love, Billy

  “Do you think maybe ‘secret formula’ is pushing it a little too much?” Manny asks.

  “No, not at all. Everyone wants to know the ‘secret formula.’ That makes the bait even more . . . baity.”

  I read over what I’ve written. I put the cursor over the send button, but I hesitate. “Okay,” I say. “Last chance to not communicate with a corporate spy. Are we sure we want to do this?”

  Manny takes a big breath and lets it out. “Yeah. Send it.”

  CLICK!

  And off it goes! My first e-mail to a corporate spy! No, wait—that’s wrong. I’ve written a bunch of e-mails to this spy. I just didn’t know I was writing to a spy. This is my first e-mail deliberately written to a corporate spy.

  “I’m not sure about this,” Manny says, looking worried.

  “Oh, now you’re not sure about this?! After I’ve already sent the e-mail? Great!”

  “Sorry! I’m just . . . not sure.”

  “What are you not sure about?”

  “STENCH QUENCH.”

  “What about it?” I get up and wander around Manny’s room. I consider moving some of the pieces on the chessboards without Manny seeing, but that seems mean. Funny, but mean. I’m pretty sure these are games he’s playing with people over the Internet or something.

  “It’s just so . . . weird! A drink that smells and tastes terrible? I’m afraid Impostor Mom may not go for it. Or even worse—the spy may smell the stink of bait and never write to you again.”

  “It’s not that weird. Kids do like gross stuff. That part is true. In second grade, Mike Stevenson showed me his booger collection. He had them taped to the pages of a notebook, with labels and everything.”