by Luke Sharpe
“Okay, meeting over,” I announce. “I’ll see everyone next week.”
I have to say, the second meeting of the Fillmore Middle School Inventors Club was a rousing success.
As I pack up my stuff, I see the two boys who brought the mattress struggling to get it back out through the door. Maybe I should invent PERSONAL ROBOT MOVERS? I jot the idea down.
What Dad Is Best At
THAT NIGHT AT home I’m feeling pretty good. The club seems to be a success. The Best Test prototype is working like a charm. And Emily was actually a great addition to the club meeting this afternoon.
After exchanging a few e-mails with Manny, I head downstairs for dinner.
Dad is hard at work in the kitchen, wearing his “Cooking is Art” apron and the silly, floppy chef ’s hat that Mom bought him years ago.
“Okay,” Dad says proudly, lifting the cover off a casserole he’s just pulled from the oven. Steam rises from the bubbling dish. Steam that smells like a cross between boiled cabbage and the beach after high tide. “Who’s ready for COD AND BRUSSELS SPROUTS SUPREME?”
Emily and I exchange a quick look, but we both remain silent.
Dad inhales the steam deeply. “Yum! Hand me your plates, guys.”
We each hold out a plate onto which Dad spoons a big glop of his creation.
I move a forkful slowly toward my mouth, bracing myself for what is about to happen. The stuff tastes fishy and bitter and the sauce is greasy. I smile as I chew. Dad stares at me, wide-eyed, waiting for my review. I nod a bit too enthusiastically and make as close to a positive grunt as I can muster.
Now it’s Emily’s turn. She takes a teeny, tiny bite of the casserole, moving it around her mouth, trying to find a place on her tongue that might actually make the stuff taste good.
No such luck. I can see that she likes it as much as I do—which is to say not at all. But, as always, we don’t want to hurt Dad’s feelings.
“Very different, Dad,” says Emily. “Surprisingly crunchy, which is kind of . . . new.” I can just about see her brain plotting some emergency that would pull her away from having to eat another bite.
“That’s my goal,” Dad says, smiling. “Whether I’m painting or creating art in the kitchen, I bring a new point of view to whatever I’m working on.”
I nod and put another, smaller bite into my mouth.
“Speaking of work,” Dad says between shoveling forkfuls of casserole into his mouth, “how are things going at Sure Things, Inc., Billy?”
I fill Dad in on the Best Test, its invention, and recent success. Then it strikes me. I should try it out on him! How much fun would that be!
After dinner, Dad, Emily, and I sit in the living room. I slip the Best Test onto Dad’s head. After its symphony of beeps, boops, bells, and flashing lights, it spits out the result.
I look down at the slip of paper and can’t believe what I see written there. “ ‘Bryan Sure is best at cooking,’ ” I read aloud.
Emily and I stare at each other in stunned silence.
“Well, well, well,” says Dad. “I would’ve guessed that I was best at painting, but, of course, my artistic impulses can express themselves in many ways.”
Neither Emily nor I want to be the first one to say anything, so neither of us says a word.
“I mean, I’ve always considered myself a great cook, but this now inspires me to bring my culinary art to a new level,” Dad says, smiling. “And the timing couldn’t be better! I just finished my latest series of paintings based on close-ups of Philo’s tongue. I can use a little time to cleanse my artistic palette by indulging in my other great creative skill—COOKING!”
I smile and nod. Next to me, Emily does the same.
“It’s a win-win for everyone,” Dad continues, his excitement building. “I get to take my culinary creativity to a whole new level, and you guys get to eat what I cook!”
Emily finally speaks. “A ‘win-win’ all right,” she says, forcing a smile and raising her fist slightly into the air in a mock-triumphant gesture.
“So, did you guys test out Billy’s invention on yourselves?” Dad asks.
“I tried it,” says Emily. “It said that I was best at pointing out people’s flaws.”
Dad laughs. “Just remember, Emily, you’re good at lots of other things too. What about you, Billy?”
Up until now, I had never thought about trying the Best Test on myself. I know what I’m best at. After all, I’m the guy who invented the thing in the first place.
“I haven’t,” I say. “Maybe I will.”
• • •
For the rest of the weekend, Dad is in his glory. He hardly leaves the kitchen.
For breakfast on Sunday, Dad whips up kale and cinnamon waffles, topped not with maple syrup, but with mustard!
“My creative juices are flowing now!” says Dad as he thwaps a glob of mustard onto his waffles.
And, of course, Emily and I have to stand up to this latest assault on our taste buds and stomachs without barfing or hurting Dad’s feelings.
“I have to say that these are the greenest waffles I’ve ever had,” I say with as much enthusiasm as I can muster.
“Aren’t they?” Dad says proudly, shoving another chunk into his mouth.
For lunch that day Dad whips up a combination hot dog and hamburger. “I can’t decide whether to call this a hot burger or a ham dog,” he says.
It doesn’t really matter to me what Dad calls it. I see him pull out a pack of hot dogs, a lump of ground beef, avocado paste, cottage cheese, and a blender, and my stomach starts to moan.
Dinner that night takes Dad’s “creativity” to a whole new level. For starters, he combines mint chocolate chip ice cream with asparagus and then sprays whipped cream over the whole thing.
Words don’t even come close to describing how GROSS this mess tastes.
Dad’s cooking was always terrible, but now it seems that, spurred on by the results of the Best Test, his culinary choices have gone off the deep end. And there is something else troubling to me about this new development. For the first time, the Best Test was completely wrong. It took the thing that Dad is worst at and said it was the thing that he’s best at.
I decide it’s time. I have to administer the Best Test again, this time on someone who knows exactly what he is best at—me. I ask Emily to join me for the test, and so after dinner we sit in my room.
“This is kind of dumb,” Emily says. “I mean, we both know what it’s going to say. ‘Billy Sure is best at inventing things.’ On the other hand, here in your room we’re safe from Dad’s cooking.”
“But that’s just what’s got me worried,” I say. “If the Best Test can be so wrong about Dad, who’s to say it can’t be wrong about anyone else?”
I slip the helmet onto my head and turn it on. “I’m ready,” I say, my voice a little shaky. A few seconds later the paper comes out.
Emily snatches it. Her mouth falls open wide and she starts HOWLING WITH LAUGHTER.
“What?” I ask. “What does it say?”
“Okay, okay,” Emily says, trying to compose herself. “It says . . .” Again, Emily roars with laughter.
“Come on!” I shout.
“It says ‘Billy Sure is best at spinach farming.’ ”
I sneer at my sister. “No it doesn’t,” I say, grabbing the paper from her hand. I look down and read aloud. “ ‘Billy Sure is best at spinach farming.’ What does that even mean?”
“It means you’d look good in overalls and a straw hat, holding a pitchfork,” Emily says, bursting into a fit of laughter again.
“Very funny,” I say. But not only is this not funny, it’s really got me worried. Either my invention doesn’t work, or I am really off base about what I’m best at. And Dad, well, there’s no way he’s best at cooking, right?
“You may think this is all one big joke, but it’s not,” I say. “This problem has to be solved before we move into mass production. I’m going to have t
o build another prototype to make sure everything is working properly.”
“I still like the idea of BILLY THE FARMER,” Emily says, getting up and heading to her room.
Later that night before I go to bed I shoot off another e-mail to Mom. I tell her about the not-so-great results of the Best Test, knowing that she, of all people, will get a kick out the idea of Dad being a great cook and me being a spinach farmer.
So much for things slowing down for me. I now know exactly what I’ll be doing at the office tomorrow.
Best Test, Take Two
THE FOLLOWING MORNING I get up and check my computer. As I had hoped, there’s an e-mail reply from my mom waiting:
Hi, honey, I laughed out loud when I read the results of your tests. We all know about your father’s culinary skills, though nobody tries harder to be a good cook. And you as a spinach farmer? Spinach is your most hated food!
But seriously, Billy, I hope there isn’t a problem with your new invention. I know how disappointed you were when the Cat-Dog Translator didn’t work out like you’d planned. Good luck figuring this out. If anyone can, it’s you! Gotta go! Love you lots,
Mom
I lean back in my chair. E-mail is great, and I love hearing from my mom, but it also reminds me of just how much I miss her.
But I don’t have time to dwell on that . . . or anything, for that matter. As soon as I walk into school, I start running into members of the inventors club.
First, Timothy runs up to me.
“Hi, Billy!” he says. “Look what I invented all by myself!”
“Hi, Timothy,” I say. “You know, now is not the best time. I have an exam, and the next meeting will be here before you—”
Ignoring me, Timothy shoves his invention into my face.
“It’s my AUTOMATIC HAIR COMBER,” he says proudly. “Watch!”
Timothy’s invention is an electric toothbrush with a plastic comb glued to the spot where the toothbrush normally goes. Timothy flips the switch to turn on his invention.
ZIP! ZIP! ZURRRR!
The toothbrush motor buzzes and whines, sending the comb around and around and around. Timothy lifts the contraption to his head. But his hair isn’t automatically combed—instead, he knocks off his glasses and—smack!—pokes himself in the eye.
“Looks like it needs a little work,” I say, doing my best, as always, to be kind. “Let’s look at this at the next club meeting.”
I only have a chance to take a couple more steps when Clayton catches up with me in the hall. I notice his shirt isn’t buttoned up all the way to his neck anymore.
“Billy, look!” he says. “I made an invention. It’s the SPINNING SANDWICH MAKER.” He holds up a plastic spinner from a board game. Attached to the spinner are a bunch of metal spatulas. A different sandwich ingredient sits balanced on each spatula—bread, salami, cheese, lettuce, tomato, mustard, ketchup.
“Watch this!” Clayton says.
Just hearing those words makes me nervous.
Clayton spins the game spinner. The spatulas whirl around, sending the sandwich ingredients flying in every direction.
A piece of bread bounces off my head. A slice of salami slams into the wall and slides down, leaving a trail of grease behind it. Chunks of cheese land on the floor. And then . . . you guessed it, the mustard and ketchup sail through the air, splattering all over my shirt. A mixture of red and yellow glop trickles down, dripping onto my shoes.
“Um, I haven’t figured out how to make the ingredients land together yet,” Clayton admits. “Maybe we can work on that at the next meeting.”
“Good idea, Clayton,” I say, heading as quickly as I can toward my locker where I have an extra T-shirt for gym class.
After school I race home, pick up Philo, and ZOOM to the office. I have got to nail down another Best Test prototype.
I walk through the door and head to my workbench. Manny, who is on the phone and has his back to me, lifts his hand and wiggles his fingers to say hello.
“No, sir, I think you’re confused,” I hear Manny say. “This invention doesn’t tell you what your dog is best at. Well, yes, we had been developing a dog-related device, but our focus has now shifted to learning what people are best at and—what’s that? Well. I’m sure if your company invests in Sure Things, Inc.’s Best Test, what you’ll be best at is counting the return on your investment. No, sir, I’m not trying to be funny. Thank you. I’ll get that information right out to you.”
“What was that all about?” I ask as I unroll my blueprints and start to gather the parts I’ll need to construct another prototype.
“Oh, the usual,” Manny replies. “Rounding up investors. Hey, how’s the testing going?”
“I’m a little concerned,” I explain. Even though it’s been a day since I took the Best Test, I’ve been afraid to admit my result. In my head I practiced what to tell Manny. “I got a couple of weird results. The Best Test said that my dad was best at cooking and that I was best at spinach farming. So today I’m going to work up a new prototype and retest people I’ve already tried it on.”
Manny cracks up. “The thought of you as a spinach farmer,” he says. “I can just see you out in the field, in overalls and a—”
“If you say ’STRAW HAT’ and ’PITCHFORK’ you may just have to find yourself another partner!” I say, cutting him off.
“Okay, okay, calm down, Spinach Farmer Billy,” Manny says, still giggling. “I’d say a new prototype is probably a good idea. After all, I’ve tasted your dad’s cooking.”
“Agreed,” I say.
“If everything is okay with the new prototype, then I think we can start production by the end of the month,” Manny explains. Then he turns back to his desk. I think I hear him mumble something about spinach, but I choose to ignore it.
About an hour later I have assembled a second prototype for the Best Test. Building something a second time, especially when I have good blueprints right from the beginning, is generally a pretty quick process.
“Can we bother your parents again to test this new prototype?” I ask Manny.
“No bother,” Manny replies. “You know they love seeing you.”
I gather up the new device, and we head into Manny’s house.
“It’s nice to see you again, Billy,” says Manny’s mom. “Is this another new invention you’ve brought over to show us?”
“Actually, it’s an updated version of the Best Test,” I explain. “Would you and Mr. Reyes mind if I tested it on each of you again?”
“Not at all!” Mr. Reyes booms in a deep voice. “Anything for science! Right, Manny?”
“Yeah, Dad, anything for science,” Manny repeats in a tone that tells me that the sooner we head back to the office, the happier he’ll be.
Manny’s mom goes first. I put the new prototype on her head. A few seconds later it spits out the result: Alma Reyes is best at keeping people’s feet healthy.
Same exact result as the first time.
Mr. Reyes goes next. Again, the result is the same as the first test: David Reyes is best at telling stories about the past.
“Seems to be working just fine,” says Mr. Reyes.
While we’re testing, I place the helmet onto Manny’s head. His result is also the same: Manny Reyes is best at math and computer science.
I sigh as I pack up the prototype. I now know that the device works on the people whose result was correct the first time.
“Thanks, everyone,” I say. “See you tomorrow, Manny.”
I head for home to do the more serious and worrisome tests—the ones on Dad and on me.
At home I run into Emily first. She’s in the kitchen, munching on a bag of chips.
“Are you still testing that thing?” Emily asks, spotting the prototype.
“Actually, this is a second prototype,” I explain. “After the results for Dad and me, I got worried. Here, let me test it on you and see if the result is the same as the first time.”
“Whatever,”
Emily says, lifting the bag and emptying the chip crumbs into her mouth.
I slip the Best Test onto her head. The result of the test is the same as the first time: Emily Sure is best at pointing out people’s flaws.
“This is getting boring,” Emily whines, lifting the helmet off her head.
“Hey, are you still testing that thing?” asks Dad, walking into the kitchen carrying a bag of groceries he just bought. “Wait until you see what I’m going to cook up for you guys tonight!”
He starts unpacking the bag. Out comes celery, a whole fish with its eyeballs still in place, a jar of hot sauce, and a bag of chocolate chips. My mind reels at the thought of the LATEST HORROR Dad is preparing to unleash on us at the dinner table tonight.
“Would you mind if I tried the Best Test on you again?” I ask.
“Why not?” Dad replies. “I’m sure you’ll get the same result. I’ve never felt more creative or inspired in my cooking than I have in the last few days.”
I slip the helmet onto Dad’s head. Here goes! I think.
Just as with everyone else, the result with the second prototype are exactly the same as with the first one: Bryan Sure is best at cooking.
Oh no! I think. What do I do now?
“What about you, genius?” says Emily. “Try it on yourself.”
This is it, I think. The big one. Here goes . . .
I place the Best Test onto my head. A few seconds later the result comes out. I read the piece of paper with great trepidation: Billy Sure is best at spinach farming.
I start to wonder if maybe it’s time to give up on Sure Things, Inc. and the whole inventing thing and start a new life as a spinach farmer.
Maybe I wouldn’t look so bad in overalls, after all.
Farmer Billy
THAT NIGHT I have a hard time falling asleep. Should I really be a spinach farmer? I know I’m good at inventing things, so why didn’t that come out when I used the Best Test on myself? And for the spinach farmer result to come up twice, on two different prototypes . . . that just plain scares me.