by Gary Paulsen
I nodded, but my mother shook her head. “Salmonella, Buzz.”
I was glad she hadn’t seen how many fingerfuls of dough I’d eaten all day. You know, to keep my energy up. Nothing like melted butter and two kinds of sugar, plus chocolate chips, to give a guy a boost. Plus, I’m sure salmawhatsit only affects older people.
The hope was that JonPaul and I would do modest sales the first time out, spread the word and build a client base over time.
We were swarmed from the start. Hands were grabbing for coffee and cookies and thrusting crumpled bills and fistfuls of change at us.
We only managed to get to one dorm before we ran out of everything. And the college had four dorms on the side of campus closest to my house.
Hmm. I was going to have to think bigger. Nightly campus runs. Skip Fridays and Saturdays, though.
I was sitting in the kitchen the next day after school while that night’s brownies baked, realizing that Markie’s wagon had already become obsolete. I needed more efficient transportation.
I was thinking about my options when my dad came home from a business game at the golf course midfume.
My dad has a habit of starting in talking to people like they’ve heard the first part of a conversation that actually happened somewhere else, so I didn’t understand what he was going on about. I just nodded along until I finally figured out that he was furious about the defective golf cart he’d rented.
“It doesn’t go over three-point-eight miles an hour, I couldn’t put it in reverse and the steering wheel stuck if I tried to turn left. I could only make right-hand turns! We abandoned it on the sixth hole and called the clubhouse to complain.”
A golf cart. Really nothing more than a minicar.
And a minicar is really nothing more than a microvan.
Perfect.
“What happened to the cart then, Dad?” I asked, very calm even though I was so excited I could have hovercrafted myself over to the golf course.
“They towed that fragmented pile of motorized rubble to the maintenance shed for repairs. They should shoot it between the eyes, that’s what they should do.”
Dad’s phone rang. He ruffled my hair on his way to his home office.
I dug through his golf bag and found the map to the course that was printed on the back of the scorecard. One reason we live where we do is that we can walk to the course.
I studied the map and found the garage. Then I traced a route of right-hand turns (and, of course, forward gear) only, back to my house. I’d go for the cart as soon as darkness fell. When I got back, JonPaul and Sam would be waiting to load it with our baked goods.
I took four of the most perfect-looking cookies and two corner pieces of the brownies and wrapped them carefully in plastic wrap. I’d offer them to Tina the next day at lunch and casually mention my new business. Girls like guys who can cook and bake. I’d read that it makes us seem sensitive and thoughtful or something. Finally! I’d come up with a way to make her aware of how hard I was working to be the ultimate boyfriend. There’s no way a girl is going to pass up the chance to date a guy who bakes from scratch. If I was a girl, I’d date a guy like me, and I have very high standards.
8
The Successful Person Knows He Is a Force for Good in the Universe
I nodded off in homeroom Tuesday morning. There’s something about daily announcements that puts me to sleep. Plus, I’d worked really hard the past two nights. The income stream was good, I thought, but the output of effort was bad. I was going to need another variable to even things out in my getting-rich plan.
I was going to need another business partner. Preferably one who already had a blossoming sideline and could benefit from my skills to make it into something much more impressive, like I’d done with Sarah.
I glanced around homeroom. Any likely candidates?
Sometimes the last thing you’d ever think of is the first thing you should consider. The difference between being smart and being really smart is looking at things in a way no one would ever expect.
“I need Katie Knowles,” I told JonPaul in the hallway on the way to first period. “She’s the next piece of the puzzle.”
“She’s still not speaking to you after the way you lied to her about the social studies project a couple weeks ago,” he said, looking at me like I was crazy. “She doesn’t like you.”
“No, that’s not it. She loathes and despises me.”
“Yeah, well, then, how do you figure she’s going to work for you?”
“While it’s true that she looks at me like she’s wishing my internal organs would fall out of my body and land with a wet thwack on the ground, I think she’s just waiting for me to make the first move.”
“And what move would that be?”
“A job offer.”
“You’re going to offer a job to a girl who pretends you don’t exist and believes you’re not worth talking to?”
“I don’t need her to talk to me. We can communicate through notes—I told you about those abstract thingies she wrote for the social studies project, right? She’ll probably appreciate correspondence rather than conversation.”
“Why would she bother?”
“Simple. I can give her what she wants most in the world: malleable minds to sculpt.”
“How does that work?”
“You know she tutors, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Dude. She’s doing that for free.”
His silence proved that he was as horrified by that as I was.
“I know. Wrong, so wrong, so very wrong, isn’t it? Giving away a valuable service like that for nothing. It’s unnatural.”
“How do you fit in?”
“As the, uh, purveyor of, um, managerial services.”
“Huh?”
“I am exactly the right person to help her make more of her little tutoring gig by giving it some professional flair.”
“I’m pretty sure she won’t see it like that.”
“I’m going to talk to her about it today.”
“I thought you were going to write.”
“I can’t propose a partnership other than face to face.”
“I hope she doesn’t laugh in your face. Or slap it. Or—”
“Yeah, I get the picture. But I’m not worried. I’m a very persuasive guy, and I only need to say a few words to convince her.”
“If you say so.” JonPaul was doubtful. A lesser guy than me would have held his lack of faith in me against him, but I just felt sorry that he didn’t believe in me as much as I did. Because believing in someone like me is a great thing. He’ll see. He just needs time.
At lunch, I went right over to Katie’s table. She looked up.
“Kevin.”
Funny how one girl saying one word can make your blood run cold.
I flashed what I hoped was a dazzling smile at her. “Katie. Good to see you. You look great. How’re you doing these days?”
“What do you want?”
“I like a person who cuts to the chase. Clearly, small talk is wasted on someone of your intelligence. I’ll get right to the point: I have a business proposition for you.”
“What? I do the work and you get the credit? Like the last time?”
“I see you’re still upset about our … misunderstanding. I’d hoped you’d put that behind you.”
“People don’t so much put that kind of thing behind them as learn from their mistakes. And what I learned is to stay far away from you.”
“Point taken. But hear me out, because I have an idea that is going to appeal to you both academically and financially.”
She didn’t laugh or hit me or run away or lean over and puke on my shoes, so I quickly explained.
“For a small fee, a teeny, tiny percentage of your earnings, I will help you transform your informal tutoring situation into a structured educational enrichment provider.”
I was using my best and most impressive vocab; I thought I sounded pretty good—I jus
t hoped I was making sense. So much of this business jargon sounds stupid to me.
“You think I’m going to pay you to come in and meddle with my tutoring? That I don’t even charge for in the first place because that would be shallow and unfair and then I couldn’t use the sessions as my service hour requirements anymore?”
“At the current time, you have no profits, but I could change that. And there’s nothing wrong with being compensated for your services. Besides, people value what they pay for. You’ll be making yourself look more professional and worthwhile if you start charging. And you’ll get more work out of your students.”
She didn’t say anything for a second, but I knew she was tempted.
“What do you have in mind? Precisely?”
“We sit down with the yearbook and figure out which kids are vulnerable in a GPA kind of way and then we send letters to their parents offering your services and spelling out what you charge. Given your reputation as a brainiac, we sit back and wait for the flood of job offers.”
“It’s that easy?”
“Sure. Doesn’t it sound easy?”
“It sounds smart. That’s not like you.”
Ouch.
“Look, I’ve got this computer system that I set up to keep track of your appointments. I’ll do all the scheduling for you. You won’t have to do a thing but teach. Which you’re doing anyway. And collect the money. Which you’re not doing.”
She looked torn.
“Are you in?”
She bit her lip.
“This will look ah-may-zing on your college applications.”
“I’m in.”
“Good. Meet me here after school and we’ll walk back to my house together and get started on the letters.”
She laughed. Snorted, really.
“Right. Like I’m not going to have finished and polished final drafts by the end of the school day.”
I may not like Katie Knowles. But I absolutely love Katie Knowles. I wish I could bottle her crazed perfectionism. She’s got all the right stuff for a corporate whiz kid.
I noticed that Tina was sitting a table over and had probably noticed me talking to Katie. Perfect! Guys always look more attractive to girls when they’re talking to other girls. I heard Sarah say that once. I am a genius even when I’m not working at it.
9
The Successful Person Is Not Afraid to Admit That He Is Easily Intimidated by a Show of Force
I was walking home after school that afternoon, planning: It was my babysitting day, so I’d pick Markie up at his house, take him to my place and start baking before JonPaul and Sam showed up. Maybe that way I’d have time to make a few extra batches and we could hit another dorm that evening.
“Dutchdeefuddy. I’m learning how to spell,” Markie told me as we cut through the yard between our houses. “C-A-T. Cat. D-O-G. Dog. B-A-R-F. Barf. F-A-R-T. Fart.”
“How’d you learn to do that, Markie?”
“Mommy gave me a toy where I press the letters and the voice inside tells me if I got the word right. T-O-O-T. Toot. B-U-R-P. Burp.”
“Very impressive. Here’s another one: B-A-K-E. Bake. You’re going to help make cookies today.”
“Can I lick the bowl and shout ‘BAM!’ really loud?”
“Yeah, sure, just don’t go near the oven. And don’t touch anything sharp.”
“O-K. Okay.”
As soon as we got to my house, I gave Markie the flour sifter and tied an apron around him. He was making a mess, but at least he wasn’t going to slow me down. I had my baking schedule timed to the second.
I’d put the first batch in the oven when my mother pulled a boxed spaghetti dinner from the freezer and put it in the microwave. My family had learned to work around needing the kitchen while JonPaul and Sam and I baked every day. Mom clapped when Markie spelled M-O-M, and she pretended not to see the pile of sifted flour on the floor while she waited for her food to nuke.
“Your father has a business dinner, Sarah and Auntie Buzz are going out to eat and catch a movie, and Daniel is at a team banquet. We won’t bother you in the kitchen today. But”—she hesitated, choosing her words carefully—“we’re wondering how much longer we’re going to be eating sandwiches in the family room every evening.”
“Yeah, well, see, the thing is that I’m really on to something here. Everything is going so well: Sarah is booked back to back with clients, I just talked Katie into letting me manage her tutoring job, I have six garages scheduled for this weekend, JonPaul and I are doing dorm runs five nights a week, and the poker ga—”
“Poker?” Even though I’d tried to bite off the last few words, my mother caught them. And she didn’t look happy about my success or proud of my efforts.
“I’m keeping up with my homework.” I tried to show her the bright side.
“Don’t change the subject. What’s this about poker?”
“I’m not lying anymore,” I reminded her.
Before she could continue pursuing the poker game issue, her cell phone chimed. She looked at the screen, frowned and said, “Work,” as she headed off to her desk in the family room. “But we will definitely talk about this poker situation later.”
I took her dinner out of the microwave and gave it to Markie. There. Now I didn’t have to worry about feeding him later.
I sighed and turned back to my pan of cookies, peering at the temperature knob because the oven seemed to be running a little hot; this last batch had looked a tad overdone.
“B-I-G. Big,” Markie spelled.
“What’s big?” I asked.
“H-I-M. Him,” Markie said. I looked up and saw that he was pointing toward the back door.
Where a couple of very big, very solid guys about nineteen or twenty years old stood. “Who the heck are you?” I asked.
“I’m Dash’s older brother, Wally.”
Oh no.
Despite my coaching at the game the night before, Dash had still been trying to read the other players’ faces and had bet according to what he thought their hands were rather than what his cards were. He’d lost. A lot.
“And I’m Joe, the resident advisor on Goober’s dorm floor.”
“We work together at the martial arts school,” Wally said. “I was telling him how my kid brother is losing his butt in a poker game and he mentioned that these five drips on his floor do nothing but play poker. They’ve been cutting class trying to get good.”
“What a coincidence that you two would know each other,” I said, trying to put a positive spin on what was feeling potentially very negative.
“You’re the house, right?” Joe asked.
I nodded and felt an ugly clench in my gut, in the place that usually feels really bad just before I spend a whole lot of time in the bathroom. Funny how terror and the runs have so much in common.
“And taking a profit per hand?” Wally asked.
Per hand? Shut. The. Front. Door.
That never crossed my mind. Why hadn’t I figured that out on my own?
“Um, well, no … see, the games—”
“How many poker games are you running?” Joe squinted at me.
“Three.”
“You’re taking money from three different sets of idiots who don’t know the first thing about cards?” Wally pounded one fist into the other. I hoped it was a nervous tic and not the sign of things to come.
“No! It’s only Dash who doesn’t have a clu …” I trailed off when I saw Wally frown.
“The way I see it,” Wally said, “Dash either starts winning—which, let’s face it, is not about to happen, because that kid can’t play poker—or the game ends so he can’t get into any more trouble.”
“No, wait,” Joe said, “I think all the games end so that you don’t get in any more trouble.”
“I’m not in any trouble.”
“Yeah. You are.” Joe looked down at me.
“You’re just too dumb to have figured that out yet.” Wally did the pounding fist thing again.<
br />
“I never thought anyone would get upset.”
“No one’s upset. Yet.” Joe nodded.
“Stop the games and everything’s fine,” Wally said. “Dash will stop losing money and pay me back what I’ve lent him.”
“If you don’t stop the games,” Joe said as he and Wally headed out the kitchen door, “we’ll have to come back, and we might not be so nice.”
“N-I-C-E. Nice.” Markie waved goodbye to Wally and Joe from the table, where he’d been eating spaghetti and watching me get threatened.
’Vorces and bankruptcy and now intimidation. Man, for a four-year-old, Markie was really racking up the life experiences.
Good thing Tina and I weren’t officially going out together yet. No one wants a boyfriend who gets caught up in seedy stuff like this.
The timer dinged and I took the cookies out of the oven. This batch was perfect, and my mood lifted a little. The poker games might be over, but my other ideas were still okay. Every business was bound to go over a few bumps. I was just getting mine out of the way in the beginning so that I could look forward to smooth sailing from here on in.
JonPaul and Sam showed up and, as JonPaul made the coffee and Sam packed the cookies in plastic containers, I told them about the end of my poker games.
“Thatwasfast,” Sam said. “You’donlyhadthemforaweek.”
“Maybe I was too diversified,” I said. “You know, I had too much going on and my attention was spread too thin. This is probably for the best. Now I can focus on what really matters.”
“P-O-O-P. Poop,” Markie sang out.
You got that right, kid.
10
The Successful Person Knows That the Bigger the Problem Seems, the More Extraordinary the Solution Will Be
I shook off the disappointment of being forced to shut down the games. Guys who want to be successful have to learn to live with setbacks. I started making phone calls to the players letting them know that the game was over, while Sam made a spelling list for Markie, and JonPaul went to get the cart from the golf course.
Goober thought my experience with Joe was subversive and cool. I was mostly surprised he knew the meaning of the word subversive, considering he still couldn’t play a hand of poker without referring to a crib sheet. Truthfully, Goober and his buddies were probably glad the stress of counting and keeping colors straight was over.