Laugh Out Loud Page 6

  “But please be efficient,” said number three, checking something on his wristwatch. “Apparently, my son has a softball game this evening.”

  “You got it!” I said, standing up. “Here we go.”

  I told them we had “proof of concept,” because that was one of the phrases I found in all those How to Start Your Own Business books.

  “We ran off three copies of our first title and—BOOM! Everybody wants to buy it. We’re going viral. Not that we’re making people sick, but word of mouth is spreading like crazy!”

  I told them about all my ideas for books. How I wanted to create books that made reading fun. I pitched with gusto and passion and maybe too many arm gestures (I knocked a water bottle off the table).

  But all I got in return were long faces and robotic responses.

  “Interesting.”

  “What’s your cost of goods?”

  “Who is your target market?”

  “Enter your zip code.”

  “Press the pound key.”

  “If you’d like to talk to a real human being, go outside and find one.”

  I guess I should’ve been upset. Instead, I started grinning. These robotic bankers were giving me another idea for a book!

  Chapter 31

  Robo-Bankers

  “Robots!” I blurted. “You three remind me of robots, which is totally awesome!”

  “Come again?” said the first banker.

  “You guys just gave me another idea for a book kids will love.”

  “Please clarify,” said the frowning banker seated directly across from me.

  “Kids love robots! They make ’em. They remote-control ’em. They ask for ’em on their birthdays. Well, what if I did another illustrated book about a world where all the characters—the teachers, the principals, the lunch ladies, even the bankers—were robots? I could write it with Chris Grabbetts. We’d find a fantastic illustrator to do the drawings. Maybe even somebody from Canada!”

  The venture capitalists frowned in unison. It was like they were all sharing the same operating system!

  “No, wait,” I said as a new idea flashed across my mind. “This is even better. Forget Robo-World. My next book will be about a kid who lives in a house full of robots. His mother is some kind of genius scientist slash professor. His sister is very sick and stuck in her room all day so the mom makes robots to help her out. One has whirling brushes and dust mops to sanitize her room. Another is a robo-dog to keep her company! And there’s this really smart robot named Einstein or Egghead that helps her learn stuff, since she’s too sick to go to a real school…”

  “You wish us to invest in a robotic dog named Eggstein who does light housecleaning chores?” asked one of the confused bankers.

  “No. I want you to help me open the Laugh Out Loud Book Company so I can publish this really cool idea. I already have a title for it: Rooms Full of Robots!”

  The three bankers swiveled their heads and nodded at each other. I could almost hear the whirr and click of their servos and gears.

  “We regret to inform you,” said the lady banker, “that your request for financial support has been denied.”

  “No. This is my dream. You can’t deny a dream!”

  “Yes,” said number one. “It is what we do.”

  “On a regular basis,” added number two.

  “It makes us feel powerful and important,” said three.

  I tried to protest. “But—”

  “Denied.”

  “Just hear me out—”

  “Negative. You have been denied.”

  “Okay. Maybe I shouldn’t’ve called you guys robots…”

  “Denied, denied, denied!”

  The woman stood up. “This customer service interface will terminate in ten seconds.”

  “B-b-but—”

  “Five.”

  I leapt out of my chair and ran for the door.

  I wanted to be out of the building when the lids blew off their robotic heads.

  Chapter 32

  The Friendly Neighborhood Billionaire

  When I hit the sidewalk, I was ready to give up.

  To throw in the towel. To call it quits. No way is anybody going to help me make my dream come true, I thought. Grown-ups weren’t going to lend me money to start the Laugh Out Loud Book Company. They’d just keep laughing out loud at me.

  “Excuse me, young man.”

  I nearly stopped breathing. Steve Grates, the world-famous multimultibillionaire tech tycoon—the guy who created that app where a car comes to pick you up before you even tell it to—had just stepped out of the investment bank, and he was talking to me. At least I thought he was. To make sure, I looked around—just to be certain there weren’t any other “young men” hanging around on the sidewalk.

  Mr. Grates laughed. “Yes, I’m talking to you. What’s your name?”

  “Jimmy.”

  “Hi, Jimmy. I’m Steve.”

  He shot out his hand.

  “Uh, hiya, Steve.” I shook it.

  Grates was wearing the same purple turtleneck sweater he always wore. I figured he had to have like six dozen in his closet. Otherwise, I would’ve smelled some serious BO.

  “You know,” said the multimultibillionaire, “I remember trying to start up my first company. I had this brilliant idea: a computer that doubled as a microwave oven. I used the CD/DVD drive as a food tray. All you had to do was flatten your Hot Pocket, pizza slice, or Pop-Tart, load it in, and thirty seconds later—DING! You’d be enjoying a piping-hot meal without ever having to leave your keyboard. It was brilliant!”

  “People called me a dreamer,” he said. “They said I was too young to start a company. They said my pizza-making idea would never work. And they were right. It didn’t. But that didn’t matter. Because it gave me the idea for the software I developed for pizzerias all over the world to automate and streamline their order-taking systems. I made my first billion before I was twenty-one.”

  “Wow” was all I could say.

  “You know, Jimmy, I heard your pitch in there.”

  “You did?”

  Mr. Grates nodded. “Those glass walls are pretty thin. You were kind of loud.”

  “Sorry about that.”

  “Don’t be. You’re just passionate about your idea. And you should be. I think it’s fantastic! A book company run by kids that makes books for other kids? It’s brilliant, Jimmy. Billion-dollar brilliant!”

  Oh, boy.

  I was getting excited.

  I felt like my big break, my “Yes!” moment, was right around the corner. In fact, I could already picture it in my head.

  All I had to do was smile and wait for Mr. Grates to make his billion-dollar offer.

  “I wish I could’ve had your book company idea when I was a kid,” said Mr. Grates. “But I didn’t. You did. So I’d like to offer you something.”

  I swallowed hard. This was it. I knew it!

  “Yes, sir?” I said.

  “Jimmy, I want to offer you some advice: Never give up on your dream. Never, ever, ever! No matter what anybody says, no matter how loudly they laugh at you, keep on dreaming, Jimmy. Keep. On. Dreaming!”

  “Yes, sir. I will. I promise.”

  “Okay. Great. Gotta go. Good luck, kid!”

  And then he walked away.

  Yep. I never, ever, ever saw that billionaire again.

  So—how did I ever get this book company started?

  You wouldn’t believe it if I told you.

  But I will anyway.

  Chapter 33

  Mission from Mars

  Biking home, I took a shortcut through that park where (at least in my imagination) Quixote and I’d met those aliens.

  So I couldn’t help but remember what they’d told me. How we earthlings “must read more, and learn more, and think a whole lot more. Or else.”

  It definitely sounded like the planet was doomed and that it was partially my fault.

  I had to fulfill my mi
ssion.

  I had to start my book company and start making books for kids—especially the kids who don’t really like books. I firmly believe that there’s no such thing as a kid who hates reading. There are kids who love reading and kids who are reading the wrong books.

  “The only books I read are the cheat guides to video games” is what this one guy at school (we’ll call him X to protect his identity) always said.

  “But X,” I said, “reading will open up whole new worlds! Once you can read, you are forever free!”

  “Who cares? And why are you calling me X, dude?”

  That’s when my newest friend and neighbor, Hailey, bopped up the hall. She was carrying a dog-eared copy of my Alien Hunter book. The edges of the pages were totally curled and crinkled.

  “Here, X, read this.” She handed him my book. “It’s like a video game that takes place inside your brain. I’ve read it six times!”

  “Are the graphics any good?” asked X.

  “Sort of depends on your brain,” said Hailey. “But I bet after you read the first chapter, you won’t be able to put it down.”

  “You’re on!” said X, grabbing the book, plopping down on the floor, and devouring it. (He was still sitting on the floor two hours later during the lunch stampede.)

  That’s when I remembered: Hailey still had all those copies of my Alien Hunter and Flying Mutant Children books stored in her parents’ garage.

  “By the way,” she said, “I loved Daniel Z and Maximum Flight. Especially that character Max.”

  “Hey, are all those copies you hauled away still in good shape?”

  “Of course. Our garage is an extremely awesome warehouse. There was one mouse, but he didn’t seem interested in nibbling your books, just reading them.”

  “Huh?”

  Hailey laughed. “I peeked through the window and it looked like the mouse was sitting on top of the stack of papers, reading your stories. And get this—the mouse looked blue. Bright blue.

  A blue mouse who was freakishly intelligent and liked words?

  Hmmmmm.

  Words from the Mouse would be a great title for a book.

  Yep, I had another idea for my folder.

  And another reason to open LOL Books ASAP!

  Chapter 34

  After-School Special Delivery

  After school, I headed home with my neighbor Hailey.

  You should see the mansion she lives in! I’m guessing it cost six bajillion dollars (I like stories more than doing math or estimating real estate prices). My first books were piled high inside the five-car garage, which currently only had three cars parked in it (I think they cost a bajillion dollars each, too).

  “Dad sold his Lamborghini and bought a motorcycle,” said Hailey. “I think he’s having a midlife crisis.”

  I nodded. I’d heard about those. That’s when parents get to be like forty years old and decide to do something goofy like buy a sports car or quit their jobs. My parents hadn’t had their midlife crises yet. Their jobs kept them too busy to even think about quitting them.

  The blue mouse wasn’t sitting on top of my stack of stories reading, but I could tell he had been.

  “Gross,” I said. “He pooped on the first page?”

  “Yeah,” said Hailey. “I don’t get it. That’s a real grabber of an opening. I dare anybody—human or rodent—to stop reading after that pie in the face!”

  “Would you mind if I took a couple of these books home?” I asked, brushing the mouse droppings off the top of the heap.

  “Of course not,” said Hailey. “They’re your stories. I’m just warehousing them until you get your book company going full-time.”

  “Thanks. My neighbor, Maddie, needs a new read.”

  “So give her one of each. You’ll still have two dozen copies of each book you could sell or give away. Well, twenty-three clean copies. Looks like the mouse did some, uh, damage to the top copy of Maximum Flight, too.”

  Yes, there were tiny poop pellets decorating it.

  “Critics,” I said, shaking my head.

  Anyway, I biked home with two books (clean copies from the middle of the piles) for Maddie to read. I put on a sterile mask (and washed my hands because: yuck!) before I went up to her room to deliver them.

  “Is this the one about middle school and the boy who breaks all the rules?”

  “No, we still don’t have new copies of that one,” I explained. “But these are sort of science-fictiony.”

  “Oooh,” said Maddie. “I like science-fictiony books. I read that Obsidian Blade book you brought me from the library six times!”

  Hailey had said the same thing about reading books “six times,” so I made a mental note: When I started my book company, I had to make sure that every book I put out into the world was so good, kids would want to read it at least six times. I even thought about changing the name of my publishing company from Laugh Out Loud to Six Times Books. But then I thought too many kids would think I was giving them a multiplication problem with no answer.

  After dropping off the fresh reads for Maddie, I went home, did my homework, fretted about that speech Mrs. Delvecchio could spring on me any day, and reread “The Raven” (a cool poem by Edgar Allan Poe). Then I brushed my teeth, went to bed, and basically couldn’t fall asleep—not even when I dug out one of the boring books I keep on my bedside table for just such an emergency. (This one took seventeen pages to describe what was in a sandwich!)

  I had what they called insomnia. It meant I couldn’t sleep. Maybe it was because I was nervous about not flunking English. Or maybe I was worried about starting my book company without any money or investors. Or maybe I was freaked out by the strange noise coming from our garage.

  It was an eerie, high-pitched wail.

  Quixote heard it, too. He was lying at the foot of my bed with his ears perked up, whining.

  Another screech followed the first. And then several more squeals and squawks.

  I knew it couldn’t be the cat.

  We don’t have one.

  Chapter 35

  Life Is but a Dream

  The noises grew louder.

  They started rushing on top of each other.

  It sounded like demons screaming and wailing at each other.

  “Quiet,” I heard someone whisper. “You’ll wake up Jimmy.”

  Oh, no. The demons knew my name.

  The shrieking cries grew softer but they were still there.

  I immediately knew what was going on. Our garage had been invaded by evil duppies! A duppy is a type of ghost that roams the islands of Trinidad and Tobago late at night. My friend at school, Kenny Wilson, had heard all about them from his aunt Cherelle, who grew up in the Caribbean and loved to scare her nieces and nephews with folktales. Kenny says to keep the duppies out of your house, you need to sprinkle salt or rice all over the place because a duppy can’t come into your dwelling until it’s counted each individual grain.

  Unfortunately, I hadn’t sprinkled any salt in our driveway since the last time it snowed, and that was months ago.

  Then I heard a tapping, as of someone gently rapping, rapping at my garage door. That’s when I realized I should probably never read scary Edgar Allan Poe poems right before bedtime.

  “Come on, Quixote,” I said to my faithful canine companion. “We need to go sprinkle salt.”

  I swung my legs out of bed and slid my feet into my slippers. Quixote whimpered and tucked his head between his paws.

  “Fine,” I said. “I’ll do this without you.”

  He merrily wagged his tail when I said that.

  I tiptoed out of my bedroom (without my faithful canine companion), down the hall, and into the kitchen.

  Slowly, very slowly, I creaked open the squeaky door that leads out to the garage.

  I heard another screech. It was so shrill, it sent goose bumps shivering up my back and I realized why R.L. Stine named his spooky books after that particular spine-tingling sensation. Holding my brea
th and mustering all the courage I could, I pushed open the door.

  Just as Mom plucked another note on an electric guitar.

  “Mom?”

  “Go back to bed, Jimmy,” she said. “You’re sleepwalking.”

  “No, I’m not,” I said. “See? I have goose bumps on my arm.”

  “That’s a very common side effect of sleepwalking,” said Dad, who was also in the garage, sitting at some sort of angled table, drawing cartoons on a sketchpad. “Go back to bed, son.”

  I rubbed my eyes. They were both still there. Mom with her electric guitar, Dad with his drawing board.

  “B-b-but,” I stammered.

  “Go to sleep,” said Mom, trying her best to sound like a hypnotist. “You are sleepy, very sleepy.”

  “Go to bed,” said Dad, “and you will receive your allowance five days early this week.”

  He handed me ten dollars.

  I played along.

  Clutching the cash, I raised both arms, zombie style, and turned around.

  “I am sleepy, very sleepy…”

  I Frankenstein-marched back to my bedroom, where I had a new question to ponder: Who were those two people in the garage and what had they done with my ’rents?

  Chapter 36

  A Winning Idea

  The next morning, at breakfast, nobody said anything about the after-midnight weirdness in the garage.

  I ate my cereal. Mom and Dad slurped coffee and nibbled PowerBars. There was no talk of garage-band guitar shredding or ninja warrior illustrations.

  I headed to school with my crisp ten-dollar bill and made it through another English class without Mrs. Delvecchio calling on me to make an extemporaneous speech. Chris Grabbetts wasn’t so lucky.

  “Christopher?” said Mrs. Delvecchio. “Your speech, if you please.”

  Luckily, Chris was ready. He gave an impassioned plea for kids to be able to play the state lottery.