Billy Sure, Kid Entrepreneur and the Stink Spectacular

by Luke Sharpe

  “What did the labels say? ‘BIG BOOGER?’ ‘LITTLE BOOGER?’ ”

  “I don’t remember. I think they had dates.”

  “Of what?”

  “I’m not sure. The picking?”

  “Okay, well, that’s different from Stench Quench. Mike Stevenson wasn’t drinking or eating boogers.”

  “Actually, I’m pretty sure he was.”

  “Gross!”

  I stare at the computer screen. “I wonder how long it’ll take for Impostor Mom to write back.”

  “If Impostor Mom writes back,” Manny says.

  We both sit there, staring at the screen together. “Let’s talk about the Stink Spectacular a little bit,” I suggest.

  “Speaking of gross ideas,” Manny replies.

  “It’s not a gross idea!” I protest. “I mean, yeah, it’ll smell gross! But it’ll taste great! Millions of kids are sure to buy it! Think of the ‘gross’ profits!”

  Manny doesn’t laugh at my pun. “I don’t know, Billy,” he says. “I’m still just not sure about this idea. I think you should keep thinking about what our next product should be. Maybe take a look at some of the Sure Things’ Next Big Thing ideas.”

  “I don’t need to look at the website! This is our next big thing! I’m sure of it!”

  Manny lets out a big breath.

  Then . . . DING!

  A new e-mail!

  We both lean forward to see who it’s from. Impostor Mom!

  Manny and I both try to grab the mouse to click on the e-mail. He wins.

  Hi, honey,

  Now that I know it’s some corporate spy writing to me, I find the “Hi, honey” greeting really disturbing.

  Thanks for writing back to me. You must be awfully busy with work—I haven’t heard much from you lately! But I understand that your company and your schoolwork take most of your time.

  “Laying on the guilt,” Manny says. “Pretty good at pretending to be a mom.”

  Speaking of your work, I’m so glad you and Manny are coming up with new ideas!

  Not quite sure I understand the idea of Stench Quench, though. Why would kids want to buy a drink that smells terrible?

  “I agree with you, Impostor Mom!” Manny yells.

  Maybe you can explain the whole thing to me. Feel free to send me details.

  “Okay,” Manny says, taking a deep breath. “Time for the big question. Did your mom’s super-secret spy software work?”

  “Let’s see,” I say. I click on the e-mail and drag it over to the icon for the software my mom sent me. The software goes to work. . . .

  “Is there a name?” Manny asks eagerly. “And a picture?”

  “There sure is.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Some yucky-looking guy with stringy gray hair and an enormous . . . is that a wart? . . . on his forehead.”

  “That sounds like Alistair Swiped!” Manny exclaims.

  I have no idea who Alistair Swiped is, so Manny explains that he’s the head of one of our biggest rival companies, Swiped Stuff, Inc. Manny, of course, knows all about him because, as CFO, it’s his job to know stuff like that. He’s really good at his job.

  “Is he in his underwear?” Manny asks, squinting at the picture.

  “No,” I say. “But he’s picking his nose.”

  “Maybe he’ll send his boogers to Mike Stevenson.”

  “I think Mike moved on to collecting baseball cards. At least, I hope he did.”

  Manny leans back in his chair, puts his hands behind his head, and looks up at the ceiling of his bedroom. “So the corporate spy is Alistair Swiped. I guess that makes perfect sense, in light of the EVERY BALL.”

  That’s right! I forgot about the Every Ball! Swiped Stuff, Inc. came out with the Every Ball, an obvious rip-off of our All Ball a few months after our All Ball hit the market. It costs a little less than the All Ball, so some kids bought it thinking they were getting a cheaper version of the All Ball, but then word quickly spread that the Every Ball was just a golf ball zipped inside a baseball. And a crummy golf ball at that. And a lousy zipper. Soon the Every Ball was off the store shelves. We thought that Swiped Stuff, Inc. had gone out of business.

  Apparently we were wrong.

  When I think about Alistair Swiped pretending to be my mom so he can steal my ideas, I get mad all over again. “That guy is no good!” I yell.

  “I agree,” Manny says. “And a thief!”

  “Someone should put his company out of business once and for all, so he’ll stop ripping off other companies! And the poor kids who buy his terrible products!”

  “Well, we’re someone. Maybe we should put Swiped out of business!”

  “Yeah!” I agree. Then I stop and think. “How?”

  Manny thinks for a minute too. “Well,” he says, “we’ve already gotten the ball rolling. He seems interested in Stench Quench.”

  I smile. “Yeah. Stench Quench may be the perfect way to stop Swiped. We just have to keep him interested. . . .”

  Turning a Nibble into a Bite

  I WANT TO WRITE BACK to Alistair Swiped right away, but Manny doesn’t think that’s a good idea. “Do you often write back quickly?”

  “I don’t know. Sometimes. But probably not. I write her, like, once or twice a day.”

  “And when you write to her twice in one day, do you write the e-mails back-to-back, or is it more like one e-mail in the morning and another e-mail in the evening?”

  “I guess it’s more like one morning e-mail and one night e-mail.”

  “Then we should wait. We don’t want to make Swiped suspicious in any way.”

  That makes sense, but it’s hard to wait. I’d like to get revenge right away. I guess my face shows that I’m feeling impatient. Manny says he can read my face like a spreadsheet.

  “Look, we got a nibble. But we want a bite, so we can hook this stinking fish,” he says.

  “Since when do you know anything about fishing?”

  “Hey, I’ve been fishing!”

  “How many times?”

  “Once. With my uncle Jim. But it only takes one fishing trip to learn about nibbles and bites and hooks. You learn all that in, like, the first two minutes.”

  I smile, picturing Manny in a boat, fishing. I see him with a fishing pole in one hand and his phone in the other, checking sales figures while the fish steal all his bait.

  “Okay, Mr. Fisherman,” I say. “We’ll put some really good bait on the hook and get Alistair Swiped to take a huge bite. Then we’ll reel him in!”

  “Great,” Manny says. “We’ll write back tomorrow.”

  • • •

  The next day after school I head past the office to Manny’s back door. His dad lets me in.

  “Hi, Billy,” he says. “How’s business?”

  “Good,” I say automatically. When people first asked me how my business was doing, I used to give them long, detailed answers until I realized they didn’t want long, detailed answers. I was just so excited about our new company that I liked talking about it. Now I mostly just say “good.” (I’m still excited about it, though.)

  “Not working in the office this afternoon?” he asks. “Is everything okay out there? If there are any leaks, I’ll be glad to fix them!”

  Mr. Reyes teaches history, and when he’s not working he enjoys trying to fix things around the house. Unfortunately, he’s about as good a handyman as my dad is a chef. Manny still talks about the Kitchen Sink Disaster from two years ago. His dad tried installing a garbage disposal himself. We’re still not sure how he did it, but he made it so when you turned on the faucet, garbage came out instead of water.

  “No, everything’s fine,” I answer. “Manny and I just need to do something on the old computer in his room.”

  Mr. Reyes smiles. “Yes, I saw you two had set up that antique. I think that was the first computer we got for Manny. He was so excited. We thought he wanted to play computer games, but it turned out he wanted to make a spreadsheet of
our household expenses!” He laughs.

  I say good-bye to Mr. Reyes and head upstairs. Manny thinks we should keep corresponding with Alistair Swiped from his old computer, just to be safe, since that’s the one that has the special spy software on it that my mom sent us.

  “Ready to write?” Manny asks. “This baby’s all fired up and ready to go!” he adds proudly.

  “Ready!” I say, lacing my fingers together and stretching them out in front of me. “Are you sure you don’t want to write this time?”

  Manny shakes his head. “Definitely not. The e-mails have to stay consistent.”

  “All right, then,” I say, sitting down in front of the computer. “Watch your back, Shakespeare, ’cause here I come.” Manny’s already opened a new e-mail document. I just have to type. I think for a second and then start writing. . . .

  Hi, Mom,

  Had a good day at school today. Even the food in the school cafeteria was good!

  “He’s not going to believe that!” Manny jokes.

  “Pretty sure Swiped has never eaten in our cafeteria, so I think it should be okay.”

  “Let’s get right to the stuff about Stench Quench,” Manny suggests. “That’s all this old thief is really interested in anyway.”

  “You got it!”

  It wasn’t easy concentrating on my studies. I’m so excited about Stench Quench! I know this is going to be a million-dollar idea. No, a BILLION-dollar idea!

  “Too much?” I ask after I type that.

  Manny considers it. “No, I don’t think so. Swiped seems really greedy. It’s good to tell him Stench Quench is a billion-dollar idea.”

  “Okay, how about a trillion-dollar idea?”

  “Too much.”

  I know it sounds weird saying that kids will love a really gross drink. But kids love buying gross stuff, and grossing each other out.

  “Do you think I should mention Mike Stevenson and his booger collection?” I ask.

  “No way. We want to reel Swiped in, not gross him out.”

  Plus kids love to brag. It’s like proving you’re brave. “I bought a really gross drink! And I DRANK it! I’m braver than you are!”

  “That’s really good,” Manny says. “Now I think you should put in the stuff about market research that we talked about.”

  “I’m not sure about this part,” I say. “We haven’t actually done any market research!”

  “Yeah, but Swiped doesn’t know that!”

  “Okay, okay . . .”

  Manny and I are doing some market research, and the results are really exciting! They show that kids LOVE the idea of Stench Quench! And they want to buy lots of it right away!

  Manny rubs his face, thinking. “Maybe that’s enough. We’re just trying to bait the hook, not fill the boat with worms.”

  “Great. I’ll wrap it up.”

  Now that I’ve told you more about Stench Quench, I can’t wait to get back to work on perfecting the formula!

  Love, Billy

  “When did you fall in love with Swiped?” Manny teases. “And what made you love him? Was it the stealing or the spying? Or both?”

  “Ha-ha,” I say as I click send. “So what do you think? Do you think he’ll go for it?”

  Manny shrugs. “Who knows? I hope so. All we can do is wait to hear back from him and see what he says.”

  We don’t have to wait long.

  We were starting to leave the room, thinking we had time to go downstairs to the kitchen and grab a snack, when we heard the DING! of a new e-mail! We turn around and rush back to our chairs. This time I win the battle for the mouse and click on the new e-mail.

  Hi, honey,

  “Don’t you just hate it when Alistair Swiped calls you ‘honey?’ ” Manny asks, smiling.

  “I’m so happy he wrote back that I don’t care what he calls me,” I say.

  My work is going just fine. Glad to hear that you’re so excited about your new idea for Stench Quench. And thanks for telling me more about it. I’m really busy, so I’ll have to keep this note super short, but I’m curious about your market research.

  “Uh-oh . . . ,” Manny says.

  I’d love to see the results of your research. I’m just so proud of the work you do that I’d love to be able to share it with my fellow employees here at work.

  “That’s pretty lame,” I say.

  “What is?”

  “The ‘I’d love to show your stuff to my colleagues’ angle,” I explain. “My real mom knows we keep our new inventions secret, especially in the early stages, so she’d never ask if she could show some of our research results to the people she works with.”

  Gotta go! Love you so much! Love to your father and sister!

  Mom

  “Well, it’s nice to know that Alistair Swiped loves you back,” Manny says, trying to keep the smile out of his voice.

  “Yes, that is nice,” I say, playing along. “So, what are we going to do about this market research?”

  “I don’t know,” Manny says, getting up and wandering over to one of the chessboards. He moves a piece, and mutters, “Check.” Then he looks back at me. “But whatever we do, we’d better do it fast. The longer we take, the more suspicious Swiped will become.”

  And then, just like that, it comes to me.

  “I have an idea,” I say.

  • • •

  I stand outside Emily’s bedroom. The closed door has a sign on it: PLEASE KNOCK. ESPECIALLY YOU, GENIUS.

  I knock. Gently. I’ve been warned many times about “pounding on the door like some kind of VIKING INVADER.” Knock, knock.

  Nothing.

  The problem with knocking gently on Emily’s door is that when she’s in her bedroom, she almost always wears headphones so she can listen to music. Mostly British pop singers, lately. I don’t know if she’s listening to the music to improve her accent, or if the accent came after she started liking British music. It’s hard to get inside her brain. And really, who would want to?

  I try knocking a little louder. Knock, knock!

  “WHO IS IT?” Emily yells from inside. From how loud she yells, I’m guessing she’s still got her headphones on. She even yells in a British accent.

  “It’s me!” I say. “Your brother! Billy!”

  “GO AWAY, GENIUS!” she shouts.

  Silence. I’m guessing she’s flopped down on her bed, listening to music and texting her friends and playing a game and reading an article about fashion, all at the same time.

  Now I’m getting annoyed. To heck with her sign. I pound on the door. KNOCK! KNOCK!

  Suddenly the door whips open. I don’t even know how she got across her room that fast to open it. “WHAT DID I SAY ABOUT POUNDING ON MY DOOR?” she yells in her best British accent. Her headphones hang around her neck.

  I decide to ignore her loud question. “Hi, Em!” I say cheerfully. “Pip-pip! Cheerio! Top o’ the mornin’ to ya!”

  She narrows her eyes. “It’s afternoon,” she says in a low, murderous voice. “Almost evening. What do you want?”

  “I just need a tiny little favor.” Before I can explain, she starts to close her door on me.

  “Forget it,” she says.

  I stick my foot in the doorway to stop the door from closing all the way. This is dangerous, since Emily has been known to stomp on my foot, but I really need this favor.

  “Actually, it’s not for me,” I say quickly. “It’s for Sure Things, Inc., and as the company’s vice president in charge of Next Big Thing development, surely you want to help out.”

  Not too long ago, Manny and I hired Emily to help wade through all the suggestions for inventions that came in on our Next Big Thing website. She’d insisted on being given a title. I’d actually forgotten what her title was. I had to look it up before I knocked on her door.

  When I mention her title, Emily looks slightly less irritated. “Only if I’m paid,” she says. Emily likes money.

  “Okay,” I agree, pretending to think it o
ver, even though I knew she’d ask for money. “You’ll be paid. And we need you to get some of your friends to help.”

  “They’ll want to be paid too,” she says.

  “Fine,” I say. “If you could get three or four of your friends to come over and help, that’d be great. Thanks.”

  I start to leave. Then I remember something and turn back. “Oh, and for this job, you’ll have to lose the accent.”

  “What accent?” Emily asks in her British accent.

  • • •

  A couple days later I’m in the kitchen, pouring fruit juice into the blender. I’m following my mom’s old recipe for fruit punch. (Not my dad’s recipe. When he saw that I was mixing up fruit punch in the blender, he offered to show me how to make one of his kale and cabbage smoothies, “chock-full of vitamins and antioxidants!”)

  I punch the button. WHIRRRR! I pour a little of the punch in a glass and taste it. It’s really good. Now I just have to make it look awful.

  On the counter there’s a bag with food coloring in it. I pull out yellow, green, and blue. I pull off the tops and squeeze drops of food coloring into the fruit punch, combining the different colors until the punch looks like brownish, greenish sludge. Perfect.

  My dad walks back into the kitchen. “How’s the punch coming along?” he asks cheerfully. Then he sees what I’ve made. “Hey, you decided to use my recipe after all!”

  A little later I’m in the backyard with the repulsive-looking punch, a video camera, Emily, and five of her friends—Maggie, Emma, Willa, Lauren, and Jody. (When word got out that they’d be paid for this, Emily had no trouble at all getting five friends to participate, even though I’d only asked for three or four.)

  “Okay,” I say. “It’s really simple. All you have to do is drink this punch and pretend you love it.” I gesture toward the muck in the pitcher I’ve placed on our picnic table.

  “Drink that?!” Lauren says. “No way!”

  “What is this? Some kind of stupid prank?” Willa asked, folding her arms across her chest.

  “It tastes good,” I explain. “It just looks bad because I put food coloring in it. Here, I’ll show you.” I pour myself a little glass and drink it. “See? It’s fine.”