Billy Sure, Kid Entrepreneur and the Best Test Read online

  “Uh-huh,” mumbles Manny, banging away at his laptop’s keyboard, promising potential investors something I’ll need to live up to, no doubt.

  And I know what Manny’s “uh-huh” means. It means: “You are pointing out the obvious, telling me things I already know.”

  I take a deep breath, grab a pencil and a sketch pad, and I start to lay out what the Best Test will look like when I finally do build it.

  “I saw Principal Gilamon at school today,” I say, hoping that maybe Manny has an idea to help me.

  “Oh yeah? How was that?” he asks without looking up from his keyboard.

  “Let’s just say that at the moment, he’s not my biggest fan,” I say. Talk about pointing out the obvious. “Did you know that kids at school are calling him Principal Gila-Fart?”

  Manny smiles. “No, but I like it,” he says.

  “Well, as you might guess, he doesn’t like it,” I say. “He even gave me detention every Friday for being late to lunch today!”

  Manny gets quiet. I’m sure he’s thinking the same thing I am: If I’m in detention every Friday, I can’t invent every Friday. I start adding details to my rough sketch and compiling a list of materials I’ll need to build the Best Test prototype.

  A couple of minutes later Manny spins his chair around to face me. Philo lifts his head up at this movement, then places his chin back onto his paws.

  “I got it!” Manny says enthusiastically.

  “Got what?” I ask. “Another investor for the Best Test?”

  “Not yet . . . working on it,” he says. “No, I have the solution to your Principal Gila-Fart problem.”

  “Please don’t call him that,” I say. “It isn’t helping anything.”

  “Okay, but this will,” Manny goes on. “What if you started an INVENTORS CLUB for the kids at school? You could be the president of the club and help advise kids who join about how to make their ideas for inventions a reality. Principal Gilamon is always bugging you about being an inspiration to the other kids in the school, right? Well, this would fit right in with that.”

  “I don’t know, Manny,” I say. “You know I don’t like being the center of attention. We tried the assembly, and look how that turned out.”

  “But this would put you right back on Principal Gilamon’s good side,” Manny points out. “You’d be a real hands-on inspiration to the other kids at school who have ideas for inventions. And you could probably run the club on Friday afternoons instead of going to detention.”

  “I have to think about this,” I say, turning back to my sketch. The only sound in the office is the clack, clack, clack of Manny typing away.

  As uncomfortable as the idea of being in the spotlight makes me, I have to admit, Manny’s idea would solve a few problems. Not only would it help me with Principal Gilamon, but it could also help me tie together the two pieces of my life—being a seventh-grade student and being a famous inventor.

  “Thanks, Manny,” I say. “That’s a really good idea. I’ll go to Principal Gilamon’s office tomorrow morning and see if he’ll go for it.”

  Inventing a Club

  THE NEXT DAY, I arrive at school before most of the other students. Making my way to Principal Gilamon’s office, I slip through the door and step up to the desk of Mr. Hairston, the principal’s administrative assistant. I’ve dealt with Mr. Hairston a few times. He’s very serious and he loves following the rules about as much as Manny loves sales figures—which means he loves them a lot.

  “Good morning, Mr. Hairston,” I begin. “I’d like to spea—”

  “Number, please,” Mr. Hairston says, holding up his hand while not looking up from the work on his desk.

  “Number?” I ask, puzzled.

  “Do you have a number?” he asks.

  “Um, no, actually,” I say.

  That does it. Mr. Hairston puts down his pencil and looks up at me. “Do you see that sign?” he asks, pointing to a sign on the wall across from his desk.

  I glance over at the sign, which reads: PLEASE TAKE A NUMBER AND WAIT TO BE CALLED.

  I look around.

  “Um, Mr. Hairston, there’s nobody else in the room,” I point out.

  “Young man, that is entirely beside the point,” Mr. Hairston explains. “We have rules in this office, and as you can plainly read, the rules say that you must take a number and wait to be called.”

  “Okay,” I say, reaching into a basket filled with plastic coins, each with a number written on it. My number is five.

  “Have a seat, please,” says Mr. Hairston. Then he goes back to scribbling with his pencil.

  After about five minutes, he looks up and calls out, “Number four.”

  I look around the room again. I’m still the only one here.

  “Very well,” he says, obviously annoyed that no one had number four. “Number five.”

  I get up, walk to the desk, and place my number five back in the basket.

  “May I help you?” asks Mr. Hairston.

  “Yes, I’d like to make an appointment to meet with Principal Gilamon after school today, please.”

  “In reference to what?” he asks.

  “I’m interested in starting a school club,” I say proudly, figuring that this will speed up the process. After all, it can’t be every day that a student wants to start a new club at school.

  “I see,” says Mr. Hairston. He reaches into his desk, pulls out a form, and hands it to me. “This is form 4351-C, the School Club Start-Up form. Fill this out and return it by three fifteen.” Then he turns his attention back to the pile of papers on his desk.

  As I slip the form into my backpack and head to the door I hear Mr. Hairston call out: “NUMBER SIX!”

  There’s no one in the room but him.

  As I hurry down the hall, I realize just how lucky I was to have been Principal Gilamon’s golden boy. Everyone else who wanted to meet with Principal Gilamon had to go through Mr. “Take a Number” Hairston, like I just had to. As much as it bothered me that Principal Gilamon sought me out and acted like he was my pal—before the whole Principal Gila-Fart fiasco—being a celebrity had its advantages.

  The school day itself is pretty uneventful. Only three kids come up to me making fart noises. I’m feeling pretty good—except for the fact that I have to face Principal Gila-fart, I mean Gilamon, before I can get to the safety of the office.

  At three fifteen I march back into Principal Gilamon’s office and walk up to Mr. Hairston’s desk. Being no fool, I reach into the basket to take a number.

  Mr. Hairston looks up from his work.

  “And exactly what do you think you’re doing, young man?” he asks.

  “Following the rules, Mr. Hairston,” I say proudly, pointing at the sign on the wall.

  “You already took a number—five, if I remember correctly. You are returning for your three fifteen appointment, correct?”

  “Correct,” I say, hoping that “correct” is the correct word for this situation.

  “Then according to the rules, you don’t need a number, do you?” Mr. Hairston asks. “Seeing as how you already have an appointment.”

  “Great,” I say, tossing the plastic coin back into the basket. “Can I just go into Principal Gilamon’s office now?”

  “I don’t know, can you?” says Mr. Hairston. He looks at me. I look back at him. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say. Finally, Mr. Hairston relents. “Fine. You may.”

  I turn and take one step toward Principal Gilamon’s door.

  “Provided, of course, that you have filled out the 4351-C form I gave you this morning.”

  I stop dead in my tracks. I forgot all about the form. Taking a seat, I pull the form and a pen from my backpack and start to fill it out. I’m about halfway done when the door to Principal Gilamon’s office swings open.

  The principal leans out and says, “Billy, come in, please.”

  I grab my backpack, my pen, and my half-filled-out form, and stand up. “I’ll finish filling th
is out after my meeting, Mr. Hairston,” I say, heading toward the open door. Mr. Hairston just shakes his head and goes back to his work.

  “Sit down, Billy,” Principal Gilamon says, closing the door.

  I take a seat across the desk from him and wait while he settles into his chair.

  “I think you know how disappointed I am in you, Billy,” he says. “And not just because of your lunchtime tardiness yesterday. After the assembly, I got a few phone calls from concerned parents wondering what exactly we are doing here at Fillmore Middle School. Principals never like getting calls from concerned parents, Billy. NEVER.”

  I feel the knot in my stomach tighten with each word. Principal Gilamon is not making this any easier.

  He pauses, takes a deep breath, and sighs deeply. “Now, what did you want to talk about?”

  “Well, sir, I have an idea that I think will more than make up for the . . . um . . . the . . . ah, problems with the Cat-Dog Translator,” I begin. “I would like to start an inventors club here at Fillmore Middle School. I could be club president, if that’s okay with you, and I would help students who join. I could guide them and show them how to make their ideas for inventions become a reality.”

  I pause for a few seconds to allow all this to sink in. Principal Gilamon remains silent, his hands clasped together on his desk.

  “I know how you have wanted me to be an inspiration to the other kids in the school, sir,” I continue, my mind racing for more stuff to say that might convince him that this is a good idea. “I think that this club might be a perfect way to do just that. And, um, if you wouldn’t mind, the club could meet every Friday.”

  Principal Gilamon leans back in his chair and crosses his arms in front of him.

  I hold my breath, waiting. If he hates this idea, the remainder of my career here at Fillmore Middle School could be a long, miserable slog.

  Principal Gilamon leans forward, placing his elbows onto his desk.

  “Billy,” he says, a broad smile spreading across his face, “I think that is a TERRIFIC idea!” he says, extending his hand to me.

  I’m so relieved that I let out a big sigh. Except my lip gets stuck on my teeth and it almost sounds like I’m making a fart noise. I look up at Principal Gilamon. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to have heard it. The last thing I need now is for him to think I’m making fun of him.

  I shake his hand. “Thank you, sir,” I say. “I appreciate this chance you are giving me. I won’t let you down.”

  Principal Gilamon leads the way to the outer office.

  “Mr. Hairston, please take care of the necessary paperwork to establish the Fillmore Middle School INVENTORS CLUB,” Principal Gilamon says. “Well done, Billy. Well done!”

  I have one foot out the door when I remember that I still haven’t completed the club application form, which I pull from my backpack. “Oh, I haven’t finished filling out this—”

  “Never mind, Billy,” says Principal Gilamon. “We’re fast-tracking this project. Consider your application approved. Right, Mr. Hairston?”

  “Yes, Principal Gilamon,” Mr. Hairston replies through a tightly clenched jaw, staring at me like I have just committed a horrible crime.

  Just before I leave the office, I toss the 4351-C application form into the trash.

  Helmets and Hairdos

  AFTER MY MEETING I hurry home, grab Philo, and rush to the office. I’m happy that Manny’s idea for an inventors club went over so well with Principal Gilamon, but I’m starting to get the feeling in my stomach that I always get when I have too much to do.

  I can’t even start to wrap my head around what’s involved in running a club. And I haven’t started building a prototype for the Best Test. I’ve got to make some progress on that today.

  Bursting through the door to the office, I see Manny talking on the phone while quickly scrolling through a website on his computer. It looks like he’s shopping online.

  “No, I don’t think the Best Test will put your entire profession out of business,” he says. “It can only tell you what you are best at. It can’t read you mind, or put you in touch with dead relatives.”

  I can’t wait to find out who this is.

  Manny hangs up.

  “What was that about?” I ask.

  “That was the president of PSYCHICS AND MIND READERS OF AMERICA. She’s worried that the Best Test will be so good at reading people’s minds that it will make psychics obsolete,” Manny explains.

  “How did she even know that this is in the works?” I ask, amazed at how information somehow leaks out of this place.

  “She’s a psychic,” Manny says. Then he smiles. “Seriously, haven’t you checked our website lately?” He looks back at his computer.

  “You put something up about an invention I haven’t even started working on yet?” I ask.

  “All part of my greater marketing strategy,” Manny explains.

  “Aren’t you worried that someone will steal our idea?”

  We’ve had that happen before. A few months ago Sure Things, Inc.’s biggest rival, Alistair Swiped, pretended to be e-mailing as my mom in order to steal our ideas. Thankfully, Manny and I caught him, and we gave him a terrible idea to steal instead!

  “Not this time,” Manny says. “Our investors weren’t happy with our decision to pull the Cat-Dog Translator, so I’m letting them know what we’re working on. It’ll bring their confidence up. You know, get the buzz going so they’ll invest again.”

  “Uh-huh,” I say. Now I just need to invent the actual thing. No pressure at all!

  “So how’d it go with Principal Gilamon?” Manny asks. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was deliberately trying to change the subject.

  “He loved the inventors club idea,” I report. “He’s going to fast-track the club. We’ll have meetings every Friday afternoon starting tomorrow.”

  Manny nods. He’s happy his idea worked, but he’s humble enough to not make a big deal about it. Reason #212 why Manny is my best friend.

  Pulling out the list of materials I drew up the other day, I start piling stuff on my workbench—a spaghetti colander, an old TV antenna, a handful of lightbulbs in different sizes and shapes, and a big bundle of wires, which I’ll need to untangle before they’ll be of any use to me. That’s when I notice there’s way more materials in my lab than before. Materials I’d never use—like old cell phone pieces, broken laptop keys, and . . . is that a RAINBOW WIG?

  “What’s all of this?” I say to Manny. His eyes are glued to his computer.

  “Oh, that,” Manny says distractedly. He types something on his keyboard and yells, “Yes!”

  “Yes what?”

  “I just won the auction!” Manny blurts. “Rare number twelve pancake-head metal screws!”

  “Pancake-head metal screws?” I ask. “What are they? Why did you buy them?”

  Manny twirls his fingers over his keyboard.

  “For your lab!” he says. “So that you have more materials to work with. I want to make sure we get the highest quality materials at the most cost-effective prices. Successful products are made with quality materials. I read about it in my journals.”

  Manny is probably right, but I still don’t know what I’m going to do with pancake-head metal screws. Or a rainbow wig.

  After about an hour I have turned the colander into the helmet portion of the device, attached the lightbulbs to the sides and top, and screwed on the antenna. I place the helmet onto my head.

  “How’s it look?” I ask Manny.

  He turns away from his desk and bursts into laughter.

  “You look like a chef who’s been kidnapped by aliens and is being made to reveal his secret recipe for spaghetti,” Manny says.

  “Great,” I mumble. “Well, it’s not how it looks that matters, but how it works.”

  “Okay, Best Test,” I say, testing out its voice control commands, “I’m ready.” The helmet begins to hum and the lights begin to flash.

  A sudden puf
f of smoke comes from the helmet. If it were anything other than a Sure invention, I’d worry it’s unsafe—this is definitely NOT something you should make at home. I yank the thing off of my head and start coughing.

  “Well, if it doesn’t work as a way to tell people what they’re best at, we can always market it as an instant hair-styling device,” Manny says.

  “What do you mean?” I ask, waving my hand in front of my face to blow away the remaining smoke. I get up and walk over to a mirror. There, I see that my usually straight hair has been sizzled into curls. “Oh man,” I moan. I’m used to early tests failing, but this is a whole other level. Maybe that spare rainbow wig isn’t so useless after all.

  “No, it’s a good look for you, really,” Manny says, unable to suppress another giggle.

  “I’m going to call it quits for now,” I say. “I’ll work on this later. I still have homework to do and I’ve got to start thinking about the club. See you tomorrow.”

  “Yup,” says Manny, without turning around. From the corner of my eye, I see him place a bid on a set of vintage mirrors.

  As I pedal my bike home, with Philo happily trotting along beside me, I realize just how exhausted I am. But that doesn’t stop the feeling in my stomach from returning. What do I know about running a club? Will anyone even show up? And if they do, will they have any good ideas for inventions? Or any ideas, for that matter?

  After dinner I settle in at my desk to do some homework, but my mind wanders. I start thinking about my mom. I miss her every day, and sometimes I go weeks without hearing anything from her. I realize that this past couple of weeks has been one of those times.

  I’m not getting anywhere with my homework anyway, so I decide to send Mom an e-mail. She moves around a lot in her job as a research scientist, and for reasons I don’t really understand, she can never tell us exactly where in the world she is at any given time.

  I write a long e-mail to her, filling her in on the failure of the Cat-Dog Translator, Sure Things, Inc.’s financial troubles, the idea for the Best Test, and the new inventors club. I’m not supposed to e-mail her about my ideas for new inventions, just in case they fall into the wrong hands, but I miss her. And she gives really good advice.