Billy Sure, Kid Entrepreneur and the Stink Spectacular

by Luke Sharpe

  “I guess it was okay to have Emily in the video after all,” Manny says.

  “Looks like it,” I say. “That’s a relief.”

  I have to admit that I found it hard to believe kids would really want a drink that smells and tastes horrible. But now that I’ve seen the video, I guess they really do!

  I’m curious about how you’re going to make your Stench Quench. I worry a little that it might not be safe to drink. Would you mind sending your worried mother the recipe?

  “Swiped wants the recipe!” I yell. My smile is as big as Manny’s.

  “He took the bait!” Manny says, holding up his hand for a high five. I gladly high-five him. This is great news!

  Please promise me you won’t try to make any Stench Quench until I’ve had a chance to run your recipe by some of the other researchers here. Maybe we’ll make a test batch, just to be sure it’s completely safe.

  “He’s obviously trying to keep you from making the Stench Quench before he does!” Manny says excitedly. “He wants to be the first one to sell Stench Quench! This is so great!”

  Work’s a little slow right now, so this would be a great time for us to test out your formula. But we’re probably going to get swamped with work soon, so the sooner you send me your formula, the better.

  Love to you and your father and Emily and the dog,

  Mom

  “He’s so excited about the formula that he doesn’t even bother to look up Philo’s name in his records!” I point out. “We’ve completely got him! He’s hooked!”

  “Right!” Manny agrees. “Now all we have to do is send him the formula.”

  “True,” I say. “But there’s a problem.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We don’t have a formula for Stench Quench! Remember?”

  “Oh yeah,” Manny says. “Well, we’ll just have to come up with one. How hard can it be to make a recipe for a drink that smells and tastes terrible?”

  I think about this for a moment. Then I grin. “I just happen to know an expert in things that smell and taste terrible!”

  • • •

  “You want me to do what?” Dad asks, not believing what he just heard me say.

  “Show me how to make your kale and cabbage smoothie!” I say enthusiastically.

  We’re in his painting studio. It’s a small wooden building he built himself in our backyard. The ceiling has skylights, so he can get lots of sunlight shining in to light up whatever he’s painting. I always like coming into the studio. It smells like paint and wooden boards and stretched canvas. But I don’t come in here too often, since Dad doesn’t like being interrupted when he’s painting.

  “Well!” Dad says as he sticks his paintbrush into a jar of clear liquid with a bunch of other brushes spattered with paint. “That’s great! But I must admit I’m surprised! I didn’t know you were interested in cooking, Billy.”

  “Oh, I am!” I say, trying to sound as enthusiastic as possible. “Well, at least smoothies. I don’t mean to interrupt you, though. I know you’re busy. . . .”

  “No, no! That’s all right!” He wipes his hands off on a rag. “Any time’s a good time for learning how to cook! I’ll be happy to show you right now, if you like!”

  “That’d be great!”

  We go into the kitchen and Dad immediately opens the fridge and starts rummaging through the vegetable drawer. “Pretty sure I’ve still got some kale and cabbage in here somewhere. . . .”

  He places the leafy green vegetables on the counter, then reaches up into the cabinet above the stove and pulls down a few small bottles. “The secret ingredients,” he tells me with a wink, “are the seasonings. I use a special blend of garlic powder, onion powder, and cumin. That’s what makes this drink really special!”

  As I watch, my dad carefully measures out the stinky spices and mixes them together in a bowl. “Now let’s blend us up a couple of smoothies!” he exclaims.

  I ask him to wait just a moment while I run up to my room to get my tablet so I can take notes and pictures. Dad is thrilled I’m taking such an interest in cooking, so he happily pauses.

  For once, Emily has her bedroom door open. “What are you doing, genius?” she asks.

  “Cooking with Dad,” I explain.

  She makes a face. “You’re a loony!” she says in her British accent. I have to admit, her accent’s getting better. I think maybe she’s watching British TV shows online.

  I’m back downstairs in no time. I make sure to carefully take note of all the ingredients Dad uses, and the exact measurements. Dad turns on the blender, and within moments we have a fresh batch of his kale and cabbage smoothies. It’s a disgusting green color. He pours me a glass and one for himself. Then he raises his glass in a toast. “To your health!”

  I take a sip, pretending to gulp down more than I’m actually drinking. “Delicious!” I manage to croak out.

  “Glad you like it!” he says, beaming. “Any more questions on how it’s made?”

  I shake my head. “Nope. I think I’ve got it.”

  “Good! If you don’t mind, I think I’ll take my smoothie out to the studio. I’d like to get some more done while the light’s still right.”

  “Sure!” I say. “Thanks, Dad!”

  “Anytime! Maybe next you’d like to learn how to make my tuna–guava–lima-bean casserole!”

  “Maybe!” I say. “I’m not sure my cooking skills are quite up to that yet, though.”

  Once he’s gone, I add some more ingredients to the drink. Sure it’s disgusting, but I think it could be worse. Both the smell and the taste could be even more repulsive. I only use things I find in the fridge, like red onions, stinky cheese, and maple syrup. The more I add, the harder it gets to try tasting it. I consider calling Emily down to the kitchen, but I don’t think any amount of money would make her drink this sickening slop. Even she’s not that greedy.

  I keep careful notes on everything I add to the Stench Quench. I think it’s ready, but I’m not absolutely sure. . . .

  “WHAT IS THAT HORRIBLE SMELL?” Emily suddenly yells from her room, completely dropping her British accent.

  That’s it. I’ve got it!

  I jump on my bike and zoom over to Manny’s. He’s got the ancient computer ready.

  Hi, Mom!

  Thanks so much for offering to test my Stench Quench recipe! I really appreciate it!

  I have to admit that at first, I didn’t want to wait for you to do the safety tests on my Stench Quench. I’m excited about the idea, and so is Manny, so we’d like to get our new product on the shelves as soon as possible.

  But we do want the Stench Quench to be safe for kids to drink, so we decided to wait until you give us the results of your tests. I’m attaching the recipe to this e-mail. IT’S SUPER-DUPER TOP SECRET AND WE HAVE NOT HAD TIME TO FILE ANY PATENTS ON IT OR ANYTHING LIKE THAT! PLEASE DON’T LET THIS FALL INTO THE WRONG HANDS!

  “Like Swiped’s hands!” Manny jokes.

  “Exactly. Hey, maybe I should say that in the e-mail!”

  Manny considers it, then shakes his head. “No, I think that’s too risky. We should pretend we’ve never even heard of Alistair Swiped. We don’t want him to suspect we’re onto him.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. It’d be funny, though. We could say something like, ‘that obnoxious, ugly, smelly thief, Alistair Swiped.’ ”

  “That dumb, stinking baboon, Alistair Swiped!”

  “That nauseating, loud-mouthed loony, Alistair Swiped!”

  “ ‘LOONY?’ ” Manny asks. “Who says ‘loony’? ”

  “My sister.”

  “Quick piece of advice: Don’t pick up vocabulary words from your sister.”

  Reason #239 Manny is a great CFO: He gives really good advice.

  “Let’s see,” I say. “Where was I? Oh yeah. . . .”

  Manny and I will really be looking forward to hearing what your tests say. Hope the results don’t take too long to come back.

  Miss
you and love you,

  Billy

  I read over the e-mail to see if it’s all right. Manny agrees it’s good. I click send, and off it goes.

  “When do you think Swiped will send us his safety-test results?” I ask jokingly.

  “Oh, probably on the twelfth.”

  “The twelfth? Of what?”

  “Of never.”

  I get up from the desk chair and stretch. “Well, I’m glad we’re done with the Stench Quench. It’s in Swiped’s hands now. I can concentrate on making the Stink Spectacular.”

  “Or the Personal Force Field Belt. Or the Dog Translator. . . .”

  I pretend not to hear him.

  • • •

  Later in the week I realize I actually feel grateful to Emily for her help in making the Stench Quench video. And feeling grateful to Emily is so unusual that I decide to thank her.

  Her door’s slightly open, so I stick my head in. “Emily, I just wanted to thank you for all your help with the—”

  I stop talking when I realize she’s not listening. She’s crying and punching her pillow. Like many things Emily does, the crying and punching seem a little overdramatic.

  “What’s wrong, Em?”

  “Get lost!”

  I turn and start to leave, but she sits up and shoots her arm straight out. “Wait!” she cries. I notice that even though it sounded like she was crying, her face looks dry. “Maybe it would be good for my soul to unburden myself.”

  She says this in her British accent.

  “Okay,” I say. “Unburden away.”

  She starts to speak, but then stops, as though it’s too painful for her to say out loud.

  “What is it?” I ask. “Is someone trying to kill you? Is it a vampire? Are you a vampire?”

  She sighs heavily. Then, with her lower lip trembling, she blurts out, “Dad won’t let me wear makeup!”

  My brain immediately says, That’s all? but luckily I’ve gotten better at not saying everything my brain comes up with. “Really?” I ask. “That’s . . . terrible.” I’m guessing, based on how she’s acting, that Emily thinks it’s terrible.

  Sniffing, she says, “Yes, it is. All my friends get to wear makeup. I’m fourteen years old! I’m sure Mom would let me wear it if she were here, but she’s off doing her stupid research! So I have to live under Dad’s tyranny!”

  I’ve never thought of my dad as a tyrant before. Somehow he doesn’t seem like much of a tyrant, painting pictures of animals in his studio and cooking meals for us. If he forced us to eat the meals, knowing we hated them, I guess that might be kind of tyrannical. But he thinks his food tastes great, so he thinks he’s doing something nice for us. But maybe all tyrants believe they are doing the right thing?

  “Dad told me that if I sneak wearing makeup one more time, I’ll be grounded.”

  “That’s, uh, terrible.” I’m having trouble thinking of different words for Emily’s makeup tragedy. Or should I say made-up tragedy?

  “There’s this huge party tomorrow, and if I can’t wear makeup like every single one of my friends, I’ll just die!” She throws herself back down on her bed with her face buried in the pillow. She resumes punching the pillow, even though it doesn’t seem like the pillow’s done anything wrong at all.

  Emily drives me crazy most of the time, but I certainly don’t want her to die. And I feel as though I owe her for the Stench Quench video. I mean, not only did she act in the video, drinking my gross-looking fruit punch, but she also got a bunch of her friends to be in it.

  She starts making crying sounds again. I know this sounds weird, but I’m pretty sure she’s crying in a British accent.

  “Em,” I say. “Em, listen. I’ve got an idea.”

  She immediately stops crying and sits up. “What is it? Some kind of FATHER FREEZER?”

  “What? No! What’s a Father Freezer? You want to put Dad in a freezer?!”

  “No, it’d be kind of like the Sibling Silencer, only instead of silencing your sibling, it’d freeze your father. You could go out and do whatever you want, and then when you came back you’d unfreeze your father, and he’d be fine, but he’d never know he was frozen or that you were at a party wearing makeup.”

  She’s clearly given this some thought.

  “Um, no, my idea isn’t a Father Freezer. It’s much less . . . diabolical. I think I could probably make my idea into a real thing for you in a couple of days.”

  She frowned. “That’s no good. The party’s tomorrow! If you’re going to help me, you’ll have to hurry. Go on! Get out of here! I’m sick of looking at you anyway!”

  I guess it’s nice to help my sister. But she doesn’t make it easy.

  Making Up Makeup

  IT’S LATE FRIDAY NIGHT. I’VE spent every second since Emily kicked me out of her room learning about makeup. It’s like makeup is this whole world I never knew existed. Thank goodness for the Internet.

  I’ve got kind of a minilaboratory in a corner of my bedroom with a lot of chemicals and other stuff I can use for experiments. But I need even more chemicals, and other compounds that go into makeup. Down in the basement, I find old chemistry sets of mine and raid them. I even ride my bike to this chemical supply store on the edge of town to pick up a few things. They know me there. “Hi, Billy!” they call out when I walk in the door. “How’s the invention business?”

  So now it’s really late. Luckily, since it’s Friday, I don’t have to get up early tomorrow. I’ve made some progress on my idea, but there’s still a pretty good distance left to go before I arrive at the thing I have in mind for Emily.

  Should I keep working? I yawn so wide I think my mouth might split open. If I keep trying to work tonight, I’m probably going to pass out facedown in a bunch of chemicals.

  Maybe I should forget the whole thing. Let her wait until she’s sixteen to start wearing makeup, or whatever age Dad’ll let her.

  But she is my sister. And it would be nice.

  How? There just isn’t enough time.

  Then I get an idea. I open one of my desk drawers and get out blueprint paper. I set the paper on top of the desk with pens and pencils. I find an index card and write “DISAPPEARING MAKEUP” on it.

  That’s my idea. Makeup that disappears after you apply it, only to reappear after you’ve left the house and passed Dad-inspection.

  The question is, am I close enough with the formula to sleep-invent it?

  I don’t want to overdo it with the index cards under my pillow. It seems like if I stick a card under there every single night, I’ll run out of sleep-invention power or something.

  But since I really have no idea how my sleep-inventing works, I don’t know how often is too often. I decide it’s worth a shot.

  I stick the card under my pillow, pat Philo on the head, and lie down in bed.

  But before I fall asleep, I have another idea. I get up and turn on the little video camera on my computer, aiming it so it records most of my bedroom. I leave a small light on.

  Will I be able to fall asleep with this light on? Yes, almost immediately.

  • • •

  I’m back in the empty room. But this time I’m not tied to a chair.

  I’m sitting in front of a makeup mirror, staring at my reflection. There are all kinds of makeup on the counter in front of me, things I never knew existed—base, blush, eyeliner, eye shadow, mascara, lipstick, lip liner. . . .

  My reflection starts to move. It turns blurry. And then it turns into the man dressed all in gray. This time he isn’t wearing a mask. His face is gaunt and unfriendly.

  I stare at him. He stares back at me. Then he frowns.

  “What is all this?” he asks in his low voice.

  “All what?” I ask.

  “All this . . . makeup!”

  “Just an invention I’m working on.”

  He looks confused. “What do you know about makeup?”

  “Oh, I know plenty,” I brag.

  “Really?” he asks. He reaches
out of the mirror and picks up a small container. He holds it up for me to see. “What’s this?”

  “That,” I say confidently, “is lip liner.”

  “Wrong!” he says as he unscrews the top. He pulls a small brush out of the container. “Everyone knows that this is nose makeup.”

  “Nose makeup? There’s no such thing!”

  “There is now!” he says as he starts brushing wet makeup onto the tip of my nose. . . .

  • • •

  “Philo! Enough! Enough licking!”

  It’s Saturday morning. Too early to get up yet, but Philo doesn’t know that, so he’s licking my nose, waking me up. I gently push him away and get out of bed.

  I feel really sleepy. Really, really tired . . .

  But then I see the blueprints on my desk, and suddenly I’m wide-awake!

  I hurry over to look at them. They’re the formula for making Disappearing Makeup!

  Sitting at my desk, I click on my webcam video. At first I’m just sleeping. But when I fast-forward, I see myself get up out of bed, walk to my desk, sit down, and write with my left hand.

  I pause the video and check my minilab desk. I find prototype makeup—everything Emily needs! It’s not perfect yet—some of the colors are pretty weird—but it’s a good start.

  No wonder I felt so tired when I first got up. I must have been working most of the night!

  Still, there’s a lot more work to be done. I’ve got to refine this makeup, test it, and have it ready for Emily before her party tonight.

  Just before lunch, I’m ready. I gather everything I’ve made and go down the hall to Emily’s room. The door’s closed. I knock. Gently.

  “Enter!” she commands in her British accent.

  I open the door and go in. Emily’s lying across her bed on her stomach, looking absolutely miserable. “I have no life,” she says. “I can’t wear makeup, so I can’t go to the party tonight. My social life is over.”

  I hand her the makeup. “Here. Try this.”

  She looks disgusted. “I thought you were supposed to be smart. I told you, Dad won’t let me wear makeup! I’ll be grounded!”