Sweet Farts #2: Rippin' It Old School (Sweet Farts Series)

by Raymond Bean

  “No, not the Fart Factory,” I said. “I want to break away from the whole fart image. It’s getting to be a little too much. I was S.B.D. last year, and now I’m Farts, thank you very much, and I want the company name to be something classier.”

  “You invented something that makes farts smell good,” Scott added. “How classy do you expect to get?”

  “I don’t know. I just think if we put our minds to it…” At that moment I got a whiff of something I haven’t smelled in a very long time. At first I started to gag a little, but I recovered and held it back. It didn’t compute in my brain for a split second, and then it hit me. For the first time in months I smelled a fart! Not a new and improved Sweet Farts fart; I smelled an old-fashioned, gross-you-out job. It hit Scott an instant later.

  “Ooohhhh, no!” he shouted. “What’s going on?” He was holding his nose as he jumped out of his seat and ran out the back door.

  Anthony just stood in front of me and put a hand on my shoulder. “Sorry, dude!” he said proudly. “I’m over your little invention. I’m bringing farting back to the old days.”

  “What are you talking about?” I said, trying to wave the terrible smell out of the air. “That was so gross I can’t even get over it.”

  “I’m saying to you here and now, I am off the Sweet Farts. They just aren’t me. I’m an organic kind of guy. It just seemed fake and artificial to me. From now on I will be rippin’ it old school.”

  CHAPTER 12

  The Family Business

  That night Grandma dropped me off at around eight again. Emma was in bed, and Mom and Dad were at the table. It was like last night all over again.

  “I’m afraid to ask,” I said.

  “How about starting with ‘I’m sorry,’” Mom replied.

  “Why should I be sorry?” I asked.

  “If I recall, you said last night that you were going to wake up and make Emma a great big breakfast. You said not to worry.”

  “Oh my gosh! I completely forgot. I am so sorry, Mom. I wanted to, and then I was just so caught up in my own stuff that I completely forgot.” I slapped my forehead in frustration.

  “It’s okay,” she said. “It wouldn’t have helped anyway. She ate nothing today. The doctor told me to stop giving in to her and letting her have whatever she wants. She said that when Emma was ready to eat good food, she would eat. So today your sister ate nothing at all from the time she woke up to the time she went to bed.” Mom looked like she was going to cry. Dad wasn’t laughing tonight.

  “Oh yeah, and then there was the teacher conference today,” my dad said. “I know I joke around a lot, but we really have to watch it with your sister. She is going over the edge with this Sweet Farts stuff. The teacher said she told the class farts were her family business. Which I guess is correct in a way, but she needs to ease up.”

  My mom added, “I’m relieved to hear your father say that because I am going to need help from both of you with Emma.”

  “I’m sorry I’ve been so crazy, Mom. I promise to try and help more with Emma. I’m just completely freaking about my project. The pressure this time around is too much, and the guys aren’t helping out.”

  “I noticed,” Mom said. “I read the articles from the interviews you did. I’m so sorry they’re calling you Farts now.”

  “Yeah, tell me about it. I thought after being called S.B.D. any change would be nice, but Farts is not what I was hoping for.” Then something happened that hadn’t happened between Mom and me in a while: we both started laughing. We weren’t just laughing about my nickname. We were laughing at all the crazy stuff that had been going on lately. It felt good to see Mom relax for a change.

  Then I smelled it. It was familiar and foreign at the same time. Dad got up. “I think I will be heading off to bed,” he said. “It’s getting late, and I bid you both a good evening.” He bowed and backed out of the room.

  “Honey, you can’t be serious,” Mom said as she covered her mouth and nose.

  “Sweetie, I am doing this for Emma. She has to be reminded of how horrible farts are. Until further notice, I am off Sweet Farts,” he announced, and ran out of the room.

  I looked at Mom in disbelief. “Can you believe this? Anthony stopped taking Sweet Farts, too. Now the two people who inspired me to want to invent Sweet Farts in the first place are refusing to take it. What is happening?”

  “I don’t know, but if your father isn’t going to take Sweet Farts, I might just grind them up in his breakfast every morning. I have enough to worry about with Emma. I’m not going back to the smelly old days.”

  “So you admit it,” I said smiling.

  “Admit what?”

  “Admit that Sweet Farts made your life better.”

  “I am proud that you are smart enough to think of such an amazing invention. Just do me a favor, this time invent something the other moms won’t laugh about behind my back, okay?”

  “I’ll try, Mom, but I can’t promise anything.”

  CHAPTER 13

  What Happens When You Don’t Eat?

  The rest of the week went by pretty much the same. Anthony and Dad continued to punish the rest of us, reminding me why I had invented Sweet Farts in the first place; Grandma stayed locked up in her lab room working away on making fruit square; and Emma didn’t eat. She had gone almost a whole day without so much as a glass of water when Mom finally gave in and let her eat anything she wanted. Emma chose fruit snacks. Mom seemed relieved that Emma’s choice at least had the word fruit in it. The fact that they were basically sugar and food coloring was beside the point. Emma ate something! Unfortunately, it was the only thing she would eat.

  So at breakfast Emma had one small bag of fruit snacks, at lunch Emma had one small bag of fruit snacks, and at dinner Emma had one small bag of fruit snacks. That was it—nothing more, nothing less. Emma was really worrying me, too.

  I sat at my computer Saturday night. The stress of Emma was really getting to me. I decided to search on the computer to find an answer to Emma’s problem. I typed into the search box, “What happens when you don’t eat?”

  I clicked on the first site that came up. The response to my question was, “You die.”

  I read through a few more sites, and they said the same thing only in nicer terms. Emma definitely had to eat, and I wasn’t sure how to help her. I decided I would get up in the morning for real this time and see if I could get her to try.

  Then I started thinking about ideas for my science-fair project. I typed: “The Problem.”

  I sat there for a long time thinking about what problem I wanted to solve. The only problem I could think of was the fact that I did not have a problem I wanted to solve. Maybe I should just take Grandma’s idea and try to help her grow square pears. Or I could work with Anthony and Scott and try to make farts silent—although I didn’t think I could handle another fart experiment. Dad wouldn’t be any help; he hadn’t been in the lab since the day of the barf fest. He was probably afraid to come back.

  Going to bed and starting fresh the next day seemed like the best idea I had, so I saved my work before shutting down the computer. The words on the screen simply read, “Problem: I have no ideas.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Welcome to the Fart Palace

  Sunday morning I woke up late. The clock read eleven fifteen! I was amazed; I almost never sleep that late. I felt rested for the first time in a long time, but my relaxed feeling quickly melted away when I realized I had slept right through breakfast.

  I jumped out of bed and ran downstairs in my pajamas. Dad was asleep on the couch, Mom was on her computer researching how to get kids to eat, and Emma was watching a show. I clicked the TV off.

  “Hey! What’s the big idea, brothow?” Emma demanded.

  “It’s brother with an ‘er’ at the end, not brothow with an ‘ow’ at the end. And you are coming in the kitchen with me to cook, little lady.”

  “I can cook with you?” she asked, excited.

  “
Yes, you can. We’re going to make some delicious food together. What do you say?”

  Mom smiled at me, and I think she had a little bit of a “happy cry,” as she likes to call them. It made me feel good to be helping out and not worrying about my own problems so much.

  “What are we making?” Emma asked.

  “We’re going to make my famous vegetable stir-fry,” I said. Vegetable stir-fry was the only thing I knew how to cook. When I was in third grade, I thought I wanted to be a chef, so I looked up on the computer how to make my favorite food at the time, which was vegetable stir-fry. My mom helped me make it, and I’ve been making it ever since. I lost my passion for being a chef once I had to clean up all the cutting boards and pans, though. But I had learned how to make one thing—and vegetable stir-fry was about to become Emma’s new favorite, too. I could feel it. I was going to save the day.

  Emma helped me take all the vegetables out of the fridge. She helped me wash them, and after I cut them up, she put them all in a dish. I tried to get her to taste each vegetable while I was cutting them, but she wouldn’t have any of that. We cut carrots, broccoli, tomatoes, string beans, and even the little baby corns. Emma was having fun, but she ate nothing.

  I had her help me mix together all my secret ingredients for the sauce. We mixed soy sauce, wasabi, teriyaki, brown sugar, garlic, onion, and chicken stock in a bowl. Then she helped me make brown rice. She measured it out and poured it into the water for me. I was sure that if she ate anything at all, it would be the brown rice with a little of my famous sauce.

  When we were done, the kitchen was an absolute mess. It was twelve thirty, and I was exhausted. I had Emma spoon some stir-fry onto four different plates. She walked the plates to the table, and then we poured lemonade into four glasses. She was having a ball.

  When everything was finally ready, I told her we could pretend it was a fancy restaurant and get dressed up. The food was hot, and I figured this would be a great way to let it cool off and keep her excited about eating.

  “Can I wear my pink dress with the stripes?” she asked. “The one Grandma got me?”

  “You sure can,” I said. “Just hurry up, because we don’t want it to get cold.”

  “And my fancy black shoes?” she added as she ran toward her room.

  “Sure,” I said.

  She disappeared into her room like a bolt. And I ran up to mine and quickly put on my one and only suit. As I put the tie around my neck, straightening it in the mirror, I have to admit I was feeling pretty proud of myself. Why hadn’t my parents thought of this? Maybe I was a great mind after all. I mean, they had been dealing with this problem for a while. They had even talked to the teacher and the doctor, and now I was about to solve the Emma eating problem on my first try.

  I ran back downstairs and sat down at the dinner table. Emma raced in a second later.

  “You look beautiful, Emma. This food sure smells delicious. I can’t wait to eat it. Why don’t you go get Mom and Dad,” I suggested. I knew I was laying it on thick.

  She gave me two thumbs up and ran out of the room smiling. Just a few more minutes and I would be a hero. I could barely take the excitement.

  Mom and Dad walked in together. “Welcome to our westauwant,” Emma said proudly.

  “Wow,” Dad said. “What’s this all about?” He winked at me as he took his seat. Mom looked really happy, too. She didn’t even seem to mind that Emma didn’t pronounce the r’s in restaurant. It was a pretty awesome feeling. They were so lucky to have a kid like me around.

  “What is the name of your lovely restaurant, Emma dear?” Mom inquired.

  “I don’t know,” she said, looking at me. “What is our westauwant called?”

  “Anything you like, Emma,” I said in my sweetest voice.

  She tapped her finger on the side of her head for a moment, as if she were thinking real hard, and said, “I got it!”

  “What?” Mom asked, glowing.

  “My westauwant is called Emma’s Fart Palace,” she said, and fell out of her seat laughing.

  Dad started to laugh, too, but caught himself. “Emma, farts are not funny,” he began. “Do you want Daddy to drop one and show you what I mean?” he added seriously.

  “No!” I cried. “For the love of all that’s sensible, are you serious right now, Dad? Emma, if you want to call it the Fart Palace, then go right ahead. I, for one, can’t wait to eat.” I picked up my fork and took a bite. “This is wonderful, Emma,” I said as I stared at my parents, waiting for them to follow my lead.

  Mom got my hint, took a bite, and then exclaimed, “Oh, honey, you have got to try this.”

  Dad finally got with the program and took a bite, too. “Wow, this is great, Emma!”

  “Why don’t you have a bite, Emma?” I asked.

  “Naaah,” she said. “I don’t like food, wemembow?”

  “You can’t have a restaurant and not eat, though,” I replied, rather cleverly, I thought.

  Just then Emma noticed that she had a fairly large stain on her beautiful pink dress with the stripes. It looked like soy sauce.

  “Oh, no!” she shouted. “My dress is ruined.”

  “It’s okay,” my mom said. “I can fix your dress, Emma. Don’t worry.”

  Emma started crying like crazy. She went to get up out of her seat and accidentally knocked her plate off the table and onto her fancy black shoes. At that point, her sobbing turned into hysterical screaming.

  “Get it off!” she shouted.

  Mom jumped up and tried to calm Emma down. Dad looked like he was in complete shock. I couldn’t believe this was happening. I tried telling Emma it was all right, but she was so upset that there was no point in talking to her.

  As Mom was trying to wipe the vegetable stir-fry off Emma’s shoes, Emma started to run, and as she started to run, she slipped. When she slipped, she fell face-first into a giant pile of vegetable stir-fry. When she raised her head, her face was covered in brown sauce. Rice and vegetables dangled from her hair, and she screamed, “I hate food!” before running out of the room.

  CHAPTER 15

  Grandma’s Room

  That week came and went in the blink of an eye. Emma continued to eat candy and chips, Mom continued to worry, and Dad—well, I’m not exactly sure what Dad did, but I sure smelled him a few times. Me, I still hadn’t moved beyond the problem stage of my project. I had a few good ideas, but nothing good enough for the fair. I was down to five weeks until Mr. Gonzalez came back from Africa, and only six weeks until the science fair and my humiliation.

  I was at the lab hitting baseballs off the pitching machine in the back. It was pretty cold out, but I didn’t care. The crack of the ball and the swinging of the bat were helping me think.

  After about an hour, my hands started to get cold, and I went inside. Anthony and Scott were busy in their room, working away. They had a few scientists from Mr. Gonzalez’s lab with them. I headed down to Grandma’s room instead. When I walked in, my jaw literally dropped. I couldn’t believe how many fruit trees she had crammed into one room. And five or six scientists were busy poking and prodding the different trees. One woman was injecting a blue liquid into the base of a pear tree with a really big needle. Another scientist was spraying the tree’s leaves with a bottle full of some kind of mist. Grandma was nowhere to be found.

  “Excuse me,” I said to the woman with the scary needle. “Have you seen my grandmother?”

  The woman pointed up at the pear tree. And there, about seventeen feet up, was my grandma. She was wearing goggles and spraying that same mist on the pears hanging from the tree’s highest branches.

  “Hey, Bubble Gum!” she said, looking down at me. My grandmother has a habit of calling me random words as nicknames. She has called me Rock Star, Bean Pole, Jumping Jack, and my personal favorite, Mince Meat. Don’t ask me why she does it or where they come from. It’s just one of those things that makes Grandma, Grandma.

  She scurried down the tree in a flash. “W
hat’s the story, Morning Glory?” she asked.

  “I just thought I’d come by and talk to you for a while. Are you free?”

  “For you, I am always free. You know that.” She handed her spray bottle to a scientist who was walking by. “Can you climb up there and keep working for me, please?” she asked him.

  “Sure, Grandma,” he replied. I was kind of surprised that even the scientists were calling her Grandma. Then again, it’s hard to think of anyone calling her anything but Grandma; she is just such a grandma.

  Grandma walked out of the room with her goggles still on, and I followed her. Anthony and Scott were on the court playing basketball with a few other scientists. “Let’s go somewhere quiet where we can talk,” Grandma suggested.

  “Follow me,” I said. “I know the perfect place.”

  Once we got to my lab room, Grandma’s face sank at the sight of the empty room. “Oh, sweetie, you really don’t have anything going on in here, do you?”

  “No,” I confessed. “Why? Did you think I was kidding?”

  “I thought you had to be working on something by now. I figured that you just weren’t ready to talk about it. Okay, here’s what we will do. I’ll have the people in my room move everything over here tonight, and you can continue my great pear experiment.”

  “No, Grandma. I’m not looking for you to save me. I just wanted to spend some time with you.”

  “Oh, you sweet, sweet thing! I appreciate that but, Keith darling, the fair is in less than five weeks. What are you planning on doing?” She looked as concerned as I felt.

  “I’m not sure. I keep getting stuck. I’m so worried about doing well that I can’t think at all.”

  “Like I said, I’ll have them move the trees in here in the middle of the night. You will be the square pear man if it’s the last thing I do. We aren’t quite there yet, but we did grow an orange that was shaped like a banana! That’s something, right?”