The Best in the World: Chapter Three
The story so far: Nick and his best friend, Clay, have decided to set a world record by making a ton of money. Then Nick has an idea how to do it.
The question struck Nick as they were crossing the street. “Hey!” he said. “Who’s going to get in the book for making the most money? You or me?”
Jazz tugged at his arm again.
“Not now!” he said, watching Clay skip ahead and turn to face them, walking backwards.
“I just made us twenty bucks,” Clay said. “Well, almost. And I just got a great idea, and you didn’t. Unless you come up with something, it’s gonna be my record.”
It sounded fair, but Nick didn’t like it. “That was my mom’s twenty dollars,” he argued. Jazz tugged again. To get her to stop, he squeezed her hand tighter.
“And I’m the one who’s going without chips and soda. Not you.” Clay spun around and walked just ahead of them.
Nick felt a fight coming on. Two fights in less than half an hour. A new world record?
Before he could say anything back, Jazz tugged again. Hard. “What!” he exploded. “What do you want?”
“I want to tell you something,” she said, and suddenly looked shy. “But it’s a secret.”
Nick rolled his eyes but leaned closer. Jazz whispered into his ear, then stood there, trying not to giggle. She had told Nick one of the stupidest jokes he’d ever heard. But the way Jazz told it – like it was the most hilarious thing in the world – made Nick laugh in spite of himself.
“What’s so funny?” Clay asked, looking over his shoulder.
“Now I’ve got a great idea for making money.” Nick grinned.
“So.” But Clay looked a little worried.
“So. I think whoever makes the most money with their idea should get all the money for the world record. Deal?”
Clay stopped in front of his house. “Deal. What’s your idea?”
“Tell me yours first.”
Before Clay could say anything, his older sister, Faye, swooped out the front door. “Mom’s with Grandma,” she announced. “When she comes back, tell her I’m at Lucille’s. Got it?”
“Yeah, I got it,” Clay said. “And it’s contagious.”
The kitchen smelled like leftover breakfast – heavy on the bacon. “OK. Let’s get busy.” Clay held out his hand for the list. “Get a grocery bag, Jazz.” Clay pointed to the pantry.
“Why?” she asked.
“Do you want to help us or not?”
Jazz shrugged but walked to the pantry anyway.
Clay looked at Nick. “Sugar’s in the cupboard.”
It didn’t take long to finish “shopping.” Nick looked at the full bag. “We’ll need some money for toilet paper,” he said.
“No problem,” Clay said. “Want to help me get ready?”
“Sure. And you can help me, too. Got some cardboard? I need it to make a sign for my idea.”
“Hey! Me too,” said Clay. “And we’ll need a big pen.”
The three of them raced up to Clay’s room. “We can both use the back of this.” Clay pulled some posterboard from his closet.
“Got scissors?”
Clay nodded, but reached under his bed instead of fetching them. He pulled out a lump of blue cloth. “I was wearing these when I crashed my bike last month.” He shook them out. “Mom wanted to toss them! Can you believe it?”
Nick stared. They looked bad – torn and stiff with blood.
Clay stepped to a chest of drawers and pulled out a T-shirt. “Jazz. Take this outside and mess it up. You know, dirt and grass and junk.”
“Why?”
Clay threw up his hands. “Do I have to explain everything?”
Jazz jumped high enough to grab the shirt. “Big shot,” she huffed.
“But no dog stuff!” Clay called as she ran out the door.
“So what’s your idea?” Nick asked.
“Write ‘Help Homeless Hungry’ on my half,” Clay answered, handing him a marker. “Three different lines. Make it sloppy.”
“You’re going to beg for money?” Was Clay’s idea OK? Nick didn’t want to sound like a baby, but …
“What do you think? What are you going to do?”
Nick got ready for Clay to tell him his idea was stupid. “Sell jokes. Jazz’s joke. It’s so lame it’s funny.”
Clay pulled off his pants. “How much?” he asked, kicking a leg into his wounded jeans.
“A quarter.” Nick was relieved that Clay wasn’t scoffing.
“What if they don’t laugh?”
“I’ll give the quarter back.”
Clay shrugged. “I’ll make more money. What’s the joke?”
Before Nick could answer, the kitchen door slammed. Nick looked at Clay in surprise. Jazz never shut doors.
The footsteps approaching the bedroom stairs were too loud to be Jazz’s, anyway. Faye? But they sounded angry.
A look of horror crossed Clay’s face. “Mom!” He struggled to pull off the jeans, but his heel caught in a tear. He fell to the floor as the footsteps clumped closer and upward.
• Next Week: Lights! Camera! Action!