The Pet War

by Allan Woodrow

  While I wasted time sitting on the couch thinking of great ideas that Malcolm told me were either silly, impossible, or what are you thinking?, Lexi earned serious money. I thought she had just studied with friends the last two days. But I should have known something was up, especially when she smirked at me during dinner.

  This is what happened: I was thinking of ideas on the couch while watching TV. I could paint houses, but I didn’t own a ladder. I could put on puppet shows, but I didn’t own puppets. I could fly people to the moon, except I didn’t have rockets, a launching pad, or anything even remotely space-like. I was writing down my next lousy idea, “Become an Internet hacker,” when someone knocked on the front door.

  “Is this where Lexi lives?” asked some large, deep-voiced, seventh-grade guy in a football jacket.

  “Maybe,” I answered.

  “I’m here for tutoring,” he said. I stared at him, clueless. “My teacher recommended her.” I continued staring. “Lexi’s tutoring. You know. I brought cash.” He waved some bills in his hand.

  I might have caught on slowly, but as soon as I saw the wad of money in his oversized paws, my eyes opened wide. “I’ll take that.” I held out my palm. “You have to pay in advance.”

  But before Mr. Football Guy could slap his money on me, Lexi hollered from upstairs, “Almost done! I’ll be down in a minute! Don’t give my brother any money!”

  Football Guy frowned at me and put his dough in his pocket.

  He waited in the hallway as I stomped to the family room. I should have known teachers would point kids in Lexi’s direction. Teachers loved Little Miss Perfect because she listened in class and got straight As and raised her hand. But if you ask me, that was brownnosing.

  I couldn’t waste any more time watching cartoons, not if Lexi was already earning serious coin. I needed to make money, and I needed to make it quick. But it’s not easy coming up with excellent moneymaking schemes when your sister is making stacks of riches all afternoon by tutoring. It’s about as easy as eating horseradish without gagging.

  In other words, it’s practically impossible.

  So I turned off the tube and called Malcolm.

  “Help!” I squeaked. “Lexi’s earning a fortune. Do you think we could dig for oil? Or buy a metal detector and find hidden treasure on the beach?”

  “We don’t live near a beach,” said Malcolm.

  “Which is so unfair!” I wailed.

  “Listen. You just have to be smart,” said Malcolm. “Think economics.”

  I yawned. “You’re boring me again.”

  “No, listen. It’s the law of supply and demand. Why did you sell so many apples?”

  “Because I only sold them for a dime.”

  “Right. You supplied apples for ten cents. There was a demand for them at that price. You need to supply something people want. That they demand. At a price they want to spend. That’s what economics is all about.”

  Supply and demand. I thought I had heard that before in school, in between naps. “I bet I could sell autographed pictures of myself.”

  “No one is demanding pictures of you.”

  “I could give dance lessons.”

  “You can’t supply that.”

  “I could open a kissing booth.”

  “There are no demands for your kisses. And do you really want to supply that?”

  “No,” I admitted, trembling at the thought. “I could sell magical beans that make you fly.”

  A pause. “You have magical flying beans?”

  “Of course not. But you’re killing all my other ideas,” I groaned.

  “Remember, supply and demand. It’s not enough that someone demands it. You have to be able to supply it, too.”

  After I hung up with Malcolm, I had plenty to think about. I needed ideas that people demanded! A need I could supply! I was still mulling this whole economics thing over when Lexi walked Mr. Football Guy out of the house. “See you tomorrow, Eric!” she sang. After she closed the door, Lexi flopped on the recliner across from me. “So how’s it going?” she asked me.

  “Awesome,” I grunted.

  “Well, at least you don’t have to tutor some of these kids. Eric is nice and everything, but he doesn’t even know the difference between a gerund and an infinitive!”

  “Imagine that,” I said. I had no idea what she was talking about.

  Lexi laughed at my blank look. “Okay. Bad example. What are you doing to earn money?”

  “Stuff,” I mumbled.

  She smiled. “I thought of a bunch of terrible ideas at first, like being on a reality show. Can you imagine? I’m sure your ideas are way better.”

  “Way better,” I mumbled, looking down at my feet.

  “I even thought of putting on puppet shows or magic shows. Remember when we were little kids and we put on that magic show for Mom and Dad? We were horrible. I tried to make you disappear, but you refused to sneak out of the hole in the box because you said that was cheating.” She laughed, and I laughed a little bit, too. She leaned over to me. “So how are you going to earn money?”

  I stared at her. I knew her game. She was just trying to pry for information. She wanted to get the upper hand. But I wasn’t giving her anything.

  “None of your business,” I hissed. “I’ve got so many great moneymaking ideas, I don’t know which one to try first.”

  She smiled and leaned back. “Name one idea.”

  “So you can steal it? No way. Just because you have some crummy tutoring jobs doesn’t mean this contest is over.”

  “Face it, baby brother. You don’t have a chance of winning and you know it,” she said with a stuck-up, I’m-way-better-than-you grin.

  “In your dreams!” I shouted. “It’s not over — by a long shot! Don’t count your kittens before they’re hatched.”

  “Kittens don’t hatch.”

  “Exactly! Because that’s the only way a cat is coming into this house!” I howled, leaping from the couch.

  “That doesn’t even make sense,” chortled Lexi.

  “Says you!” I hollered. Her giggles followed me as I stomped up the stairs.

  My stomach twisted into shoelace knots in school the next day — the kind of knot Mom usually got out for me because she had long nails. Lexi’s After School Tutoring signs plastered the hallway walls. I didn’t even know the school allowed signs like those. Wasn’t that against the law or something? Commerce and school should never mix, just like firecrackers and cauliflower.

  Don’t ask.

  But maybe it was illegal. Maybe Lexi would be tossed in jail. Maybe I could hide the jail key and she would be trapped behind bars forever. Lexi couldn’t earn money in prison except from making license plates. And I’m pretty sure that gig didn’t pay well at all.

  Lexi’s signs were smothered with so much glitter and bright neon paint you couldn’t ignore them even if you wanted to — and believe me, I wanted to. She’d painted pictures of books and graduation caps and pencils and even Albert Einstein. It was a pretty good picture of him. She’d gotten the hair just right, and that’s the hard part.

  I stared at the bloodcurdling boards, seething. When did she possibly have time to create them between tutoring and going to school? As I stewed, Ms. Gurney, the assistant principal, brushed past me. She reminded me of a giraffe, with a long neck always craning forward past her feet and casting shadows on the floor.

  Class was just about to start, but this was my chance to turn the tables on Lexi. I jumped in front of the assistant principal. “Hi!”

  Ms. Gurney skidded to a halt. “Yes? Hello down there.” She stretched her long neck to look down at me. “Didn’t see you. But I do now. I’m in a bit of a rush.” She tried sidestepping me. But I sidestepped, too. Between Mom and Ms. Gurney, I was getting pretty good at sidestepping.

  “Do you think those signs are a good idea?” I pointed to Lexi’s glitter-covered abominations. “You can’t advertise in school. It’s against the law.”

 
“Many students need studying help. I think it’s wonderful that Lexi is being so industrious,” Ms. Gurney trilled. “And I do not think it’s against the law. Now, excuse me.”

  I didn’t budge. I wasn’t going to let Ms. Gurney go that easily. “It’s dangerous. What if someone was reading a sign and walked into the wall? They could break their nose. The school could be sued. Do you want to be sued by kids with broken noses?”

  “I appreciate the concern, but I don’t think that’s likely. I think the signs are pretty. Lexi did a wonderful job on them. She’s so talented! Now, I really must go.”

  But Ms. Gurney wasn’t leaving. Not yet. Not when every sign inched Lexi closer to a cat, and a life of misery for me. “People could be allergic to glitter,” I offered.

  “No one is allergic to glitter.”

  “The posters could fall off the wall and poke someone in the eye.”

  “They’re not going to hurt someone.”

  “They could.”

  “Unlikely.”

  “What if a poster fell and then someone slipped on it? That would be dangerous.”

  “I really don’t think that’s a problem. Thomas, right?”

  “My name’s Otto. I’m Lexi’s brother.”

  Ms. Gurney’s face lit up like a streetlamp. “I didn’t know Lexi had a brother. Lucky you! Now, get to class! I have to run! Excuse me, Otto.”

  Lucky me? Assistant Principal Gurney raced around me while I gagged. Finally, after the nausea went away, I stood alone in the empty hallway. The bell rang. Class started, but I stayed put. Those posters! All those posters! I had to do something about them. I stared at one with a picture of an owl wearing exceptionally large glasses.

  WHOOO WANTS TO BE SMART? YOU DO! LEXI’S AFTER SCHOOL TUTORING.

  But what it really said was, “Whooo knows Otto will never get a dog? You do! So there!”

  I grabbed the glistening board, with its shining orange glitter, ripped it off the wall, and tore it in half.

  That would show her!

  I stood in the hallway holding the two poster halves, staring at them. I pictured Mom’s eyes glaring at me as she shook her head and said, “What have you done?” I began to sweat. The hall was completely noiseless except for my rapidly beating heart. I shouldn’t have felt bad. This was war! Lexi had it coming to her for all her teasing and know-it-all-ness.

  So why did I feel horrible, then? Why did I stand in that empty hallway gripping that torn sign, my face turning red and my stomach tied in even more complicated shoelace knots than before, knots that no one could get out, ever, even with extra-long fingernails?

  I put the poster back onto the wall, carefully pressing down its still-sticky tape. But you couldn’t miss the big rip in the middle. I couldn’t fix that.

  I dragged myself into class, my shoulders sagging. My teacher barked at me to take my seat and next time get to class on time, and he gave me a warning.

  Two warnings and you get detention.

  I barely heard him through the loud, yelping moan of guilt swirling inside my head. I had to ignore it. I couldn’t get soft. Not now! They say all is fair in love and war. And this battle had nothing to do with love.

  After school, I pedaled my bike out of my neighborhood, past the apartment complex, by the park, over the bridge, to Grand River Avenue, with its lineup of small stores.

  I hoped to find a Help Wanted sign. Maybe someone needed a magician, or wanted someone to run a kissing booth. Okay, definitely not a kissing booth. I walked my bike up and down the sidewalk, and then down and up. I saw a sign asking for a busboy on a restaurant door, but the owner said I had to be twenty-one years or older. I spoke in a really deep voice and told him I was twenty-two years old, but he told me to go away. It’s hard to pretend you’re twenty-two when you’re walking a bike and you’re about eight years away from shaving.

  Before I left, I pointed out the sign was for a busboy not a busman and it was false advertising and that he could go to jail, but I’d look the other way if he gave me a job.

  He slammed the door on me.

  Lastly, I walked into Schnood’s Grocery Store. That was the largest store on the street. It was the only store with its own parking lot, too. I locked my bike outside, strode in, and asked to speak to the manager. As I waited, I looked at my reflection in the mirror. I had a bit of cheese cracker stuck in my teeth, so I picked it out. It’s important to make a good impression when you’re interviewing for a job.

  That’s why I wore my jeans without grass stains on the knees and a clean T-shirt. You can never overdress for a job interview.

  I hadn’t been in this store for about a year, ever since what Mom called the Canned Goods Catastrophe.

  Schnood’s has these giant pyramid displays of canned goods at the end of some of the aisles. I always wondered what would happen if I pulled out a can from the very bottom row.

  The answer: Nothing good happens. If you have the urge to pull a bottom can from a giant store pyramid, don’t. You’ve been warned.

  After that, Mom said I wasn’t going grocery shopping with her for the rest of my natural born life. Which raised the question: Is there such a thing as an unnatural born life, like if you’re a vampire?

  I hoped so, because there were a whole bunch of things I couldn’t do for the rest of my natural born life. Here’s a partial list I made:

  Use the oven (you already know about that one)

  Throw snowballs from the roof of our house

  Go on the roof of our house when there is snow on it, or ever

  Carry four glasses of milk to the table at one time

  Use Lexi’s blanket as an umbrella

  Shake all the cans of soda in the refrigerator (or any can in the refrigerator)

  Mr. Schnood himself came out to talk to me. He wore a butcher’s apron with blood smeared on it. If you want to be a serial killer, you should work in a meat department, because no one would wonder why you walked around with blood splattered all over you.

  I just hoped Mr. Schnood wouldn’t recognize me from the Canned Goods Catastrophe.

  “You look familiar,” said Mr. Schnood. “Do I know you?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said, coughing and looking away. “I’m looking for a job. I’m a really good worker,” I squawked. “I can do magic tricks. I can even saw someone in half, maybe.”

  “Why would I need someone to do magic tricks?” he asked.

  “I can do other things, too,” I quickly added.

  “We don’t need any help. Sorry.”

  “Please!” I begged. When you can’t persuade someone to do something, you should always try begging. “I’ll do anything.”

  I think my guardian angel watched over me at that moment. It was about time, too. Because if I had a guardian angel, I think he spent most days sleeping and watching cartoons. As soon as I told Mr. Schnood I would do anything, a lady shuffled by us holding a grocery bag. She was old — wrinkly and blue-hair old — and her back creaked. In a foot race, a snail would beat her by a few laps. She hobbled to the door. It must have taken her a minute to go about ten feet.

  “On second thought, you can be a bag boy,” said Mr. Schnood. “You carry bags to the car for people who need help.”

  “Really?” I asked, excited. “I’d be great at that. I carry things all the time.” It was true, too. I carried books to school, and my coat to the mudroom when I remembered, and glasses of milk to the table (as long as there were less than four). I was practically born for this job. “How much does it pay?”

  In business, you need to be skilled in the art of negotiation. You don’t just accept the first offer. Let’s say Mr. Schnood offered to pay me five dollars an hour. I’d tell him I wouldn’t do it for less than forty dollars an hour. He’d offer ten bucks an hour, I’d go down to thirty an hour, and so on.

  “I can’t pay you,” he said. “But you can work for tips.”

  “I’ll take it!” I boomed. “Do you think anyone will tip me five hundred doll
ars?”

  “I doubt it.”

  So it wasn’t my dream job, but at least it was a way to make money. In a nanosecond I was by the side of that old, blue-haired lady shuffling slowly across the floor.

  “Can I give you a hand with that, ma’am?” I asked. Old ladies love it when kids call them ma’am. It shows proper upbringing.

  “Yes, thank you,” she replied, and just like that, I had my first gig at the grocery store.

  Parking lots have handicap spaces, so people who don’t have legs can park close to the front door. They should have old person spots, too. Old Lady Blue Hair had parked in the very last spot in the very last row. Her bag was heavy, too. She’d bought a gallon of milk and a half a watermelon. By the time I got to her car, my arms throbbed and I panted.

  She sat in the front seat and popped open the trunk, and I put the bag inside. Then I hurried over to her, cleared my throat, and held out my hand.

  “Yes, young man?” she asked through the open window.

  “Um, I don’t get paid,” I muttered. I felt greedy holding out my hand waiting for money, but you can’t be too shy about this sort of thing. After all, she had a demand and I supplied it. Supply and demand. Now I demanded to get paid.

  The lady nodded and turned away to start her car. I cleared my throat. “Yes?” she asked again.

  “Um. I accept tips?”

  “Oh, silly me!” She reached into a small change purse next to her. She gave me a nickel.

  Luckily, other people weren’t as cheap. You might think there would be a standard bag-boy-tipping amount. Nope. One man gave me five dollars, but most people gave me a one-dollar bill or loose change. Some people asked me how much they should tip, and I always said, “Whatever you can afford. But five hundred dollars would be great!”

  They usually frowned and gave me a couple of quarters.

  Money adds up fast, though. I must have helped forty people to their cars in the two and a half hours I worked. It was tiring, but when I was done, my pocket practically exploded with cash. This was the job for me.