Sophie Simon Solves Them All (4 page)

Julia wasn't looking his way.

She was holding a piece of paper over her head. She'd ripped one out of her green journalist's notebook and scribbled a note on it. Owen knew she'd written it just for him.

Get on with it already.

Owen ran his hands over the creases in his pants.

He turned back to Sophie Simon.

“Um, Sophie?” he said softly.

Sophie did not look up.

Owen cleared his throat and tried again.

“Um?
Sophie?
”

She still did not look up.

Maybe it was useless, Owen thought. His problem was too big. Probably even someone as smart as Sophie Simon couldn't solve a problem as big as his.

It all had to do with his birthday on Sunday.

For most kids, birthdays were happy times.

For most kids, birthdays meant pin the tail on the donkey and balloons and maybe a dinosaur cake.

Most kids did not have Owen's mother.

This year, Owen's mother was planning a “birthday pool-party extravaganza.”

There would be an eight-layer ice cream cake.

There would be a high-dive contest.

And there would be an “old-fashioned taffy pull.”

Owen didn't like eight-layer ice cream cakes. One of the layers always toppled off your plate and landed in your lap and got you messy.

He didn't like high-dive contests. He was terrified of heights and petrified of diving.

And he did
not
want to participate in an old-fashioned taffy pull. Taffy was sticky and sloppy and sweet. He didn't want to pull it. He didn't want to do
anything
to it.

But the worst part of Owen's birthday was the present.

Every year, Owen asked his mom for something he really, really wanted.

And every year, she got him something completely different.

Two years ago, when Owen was turning seven, he'd asked his mom for a new pair of shoes—black lace-up ones to go with his school pants. Owen had really wanted a pair of nice, clean, shiny black school shoes.

But Mrs. Luu hadn't gotten him nice, clean, shiny black school shoes.

Instead, she'd bought him antigravity boots.

Those boots sent Owen flying into the ceiling like a rocket, and off to the hospital with a concussion.

Last year, for Owen's eighth birthday, he'd asked for a book about robots—one with colorful pictures and fun facts about robots through the ages. Owen had really wanted a nice, small, fact-filled book about robots.

But Mrs. Luu hadn't gotten him a nice, small, fact-filled book about robots.

Instead, she'd bought him an actual, life-size robot with “realistic battle action noises” and a toy laser gun.

That robot had fired sparks at Owen for five days straight, until he finally figured out how to take out the batteries.

It seemed like no matter what Owen wanted, his mother got him the
exact opposite
.

So
this
year, Owen hadn't been so sure it was a good idea to tell his mother what he wanted. But she'd promised to get him exactly what he asked for.

Crossed her heart and everything.

So Owen told her.

He said that all he wanted in the world—the only thing he'd wanted for
years
, actually—was a rabbit. A nice, gentle, soft, quiet little rabbit of his very own.

And when Owen's mom had replied, “Oh, a pet is a
fabulous
idea!” well, for a second there, Owen had thought he might actually get a birthday present he wanted for a change.

But fifteen minutes later, Owen overheard his mom on the phone with Petes' Pet Store, asking Mr. and Mrs. Pete if they had any “really exotic” pets she could buy for her son's birthday.

“Do you have any alligators or duck-billed platypuses?” she asked them. “Or maybe an aquarium full of piranhas? Owen would love that!”

Owen would
not
love an aquarium full of piranhas.

He wanted a rabbit.

But no matter how many times he told his mother that, he simply couldn't
convince
her.

She had already paid Mr. and Mrs. Pete a one-hundred-dollar deposit to find something “absolutely wild.” And his birthday was in just two days. If he didn't do something quick, he'd never get a rabbit.

Sometimes Owen wondered if maybe his mother wasn't really his mother. Maybe, Owen thought, the person he
believed
was his mother was really his mom's evil twin, Esmeralda, a crazy woman who loved all the things Owen hated, like fireworks and roller coasters and jalapeño peppers. Maybe his real mother—who was much quieter and calmer and who would
never
buy him a piranha—was locked up in a cabin somewhere right now, far off in the woods, looking for a way out so she could give Owen a rabbit for his birthday.

But really, Owen knew that the woman who woke him up every morning by blaring mariachi music from the stereo
was
his real mother. Because Owen had asked his grandparents once, and they swore up and down there was no evil twin named Esmeralda. So Owen's mom was definitely not locked up in a far-off cabin.

Too bad.

But if anyone could think of a way to get his mother to give him a rabbit, it was Sophie Simon. She was the smartest girl in the third grade, possibly the world.

All Owen had to do was ask her.

“UM, SOPHIE?”

Sophie finally looked up from her book.

“Yes?” she said.

Owen blinked. Sophie Simon made him nervous. Most things made Owen nervous—clowns and geese and moving sidewalks and Mr. St. Cupid, just to name a few. But Sophie Simon made Owen
very
nervous. He felt like she could rearrange his brain cells just by looking at him.

“Um,” he said again. “Could you, um, help me with something?”

“Probably,” she said. “But I'd rather not.”

And she went back to reading.

“Oh.”

If Sophie didn't want to help him, what was Owen supposed to do?

Owen looked toward the front of the bus again.

Julia was holding up another piece of paper.

JUST ASK HER, YOU BABY!

“Um, Sophie?” Owen said, trying to be brave. “I need your help. I want a rabbit for my birthday, but my mom wants to get me a piranha or something. She already ordered a pet from Daisy Pete's parents' store, but I don't know what it is yet. Something terrible.” He bit his lip. “I really think you should help me.”

Sophie turned a page. “And why should I do that?” she asked.

“Well…” Owen thought hard. “During final recess today you told Daisy you wanted to buy a computer.”

“A calculator,” Sophie corrected him. “The Pembo Q-60. The latest model.”

“Right,” Owen said. “And you said you'd help Daisy with her problem if she could pay you enough money.”

“But she couldn't,” Sophie said. “She was short thirty-five dollars.”

Owen didn't see what being short had to do with anything. But he said, “Well, if you helped me, I'd give you all my birthday money from Grandpa Ricky.”

Sophie looked up.

“Twenty dollars,” Owen told her.

Sophie looked back down.

“That still wouldn't be enough for the calculator,” she said. “Even if I helped both of you. Which is a lot of helping. I'd still need fifteen dollars.”

“But—”

“What makes you think I'd be able to help you anyway?” Sophie asked him.

“Oh, I'm sure it wouldn't be too tough for someone like you to figure out!” Owen said. “You know everything. You're always reading those big, fat books.”

Owen looked at the page Sophie was reading.

“Reverse Psychology,” it said at the top.

“What's reverse psychology?” he asked Sophie.

Sophie stuck a finger in her book to hold her place. “It's a way to
convince
someone of one thing”—Owen's ears perked up—“by telling them you want the
exact opposite
.” Owen sat up a little straighter in his seat. “Like if a teacher wanted her students to do their spelling homework, so she told them that she didn't think they could do it because they weren't smart enough. Then they would try very hard and finish their homework, just to prove her wrong. Which was exactly what she wanted in the first place.”

Owen thought about that.

“Does it work on moms?” he asked.

“What?” Sophie said.

“All that stuff you just said. Reverse photography.”

“Reverse psychology,” Sophie corrected.

“Yeah, that one.”

The bus screeched to a stop.

“Stanford Avenue!” the bus driver called out.

“Sorry,” Sophie said, zipping her book into her backpack. “This is my stop.”

“But—”

“I have to get off,” Sophie said. She poked him in the knee. “Please move.”

“But I need your help!”

Sophie sighed. “Why don't you get your friend to help you?” she asked. “That curly-haired girl. Maybe she has some ideas.”

The bus doors squeaked open.

The driver went outside to direct traffic.

“Julia won't help me,” Owen said as Sophie squeezed past him into the aisle. “She's too busy trying to think of a story to write for the school newspaper.”

“Newspaper?”

Sophie sat down so quickly that she landed right on top of Owen.

She didn't move.

She just stared at the top of Owen's head.

“Um, Sophie?” he said. She was acting sort of weird.

Plus she was wrinkling his pants.

“Sophie?” Owen said again.

Sophie blinked at him. “Did you say that Julia is looking for a news story?”

“Yeah,” Owen said. “For the school paper. But she only has until Monday, and she'll never find one. Plus she doesn't have anything to type on. Last weekend her dad made her sell her typewriter at their yard sale. She got fifteen bucks for it.”

Sophie's eyes grew wide as watermelons.

“Fifteen dollars?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Owen said. “Why?”

The bus driver popped his head back inside the bus.

“Anyone else for Stanford Avenue?” he shouted.

Sophie grabbed Owen's hand.

“Come on!” she hollered.

She dragged him down the bus aisle.

“But-but…” Owen stuttered. “Where are we going? This isn't my stop. What if I—?”

One step from the bottom, Sophie whirled around to face him. “Do you want a rabbit?” she asked him. “Or do you want a piranha?”

And she leaped down the last step to Stanford Avenue.

Owen turned to look at Julia.

She was grinning at him.

“Well?” she said. “What are you waiting for?”

And just like that, right as the doors were about to close, Owen Luu made a decision.

“Sophie, wait!” he called, throwing himself from the bus just as the doors snapped shut behind him. “Wait, Sophie, wait! I DON'T WANT A PIRANHA!”

*   *   *

They'd been walking for about five minutes when suddenly Sophie stopped.

“Here we are!” she cried.

They were standing in front of Petes' Pet Store.

“Wh-what are we doing here?” Owen asked. Pet stores made him nervous. They were filled with guppies and geckos and gerbils.

“You said your mom is buying your birthday present from this pet store, right?”

“R-right,” Owen said.

He peeked through the window.

Daisy Pete was in there, practicing her twirling.

She was not a very good twirler.

She twirled once.

She twirled twice.

She twirled three ti—

CRASH!

Daisy fell over.

From somewhere inside the store, a parrot squawked.

“If you want to use reverse psychology on your mother”—Sophie scanned the flyers pasted in the window—“and what you really want for your birthday is a rabbit”—she ran her finger down an advertisement for pet food—“then we need to make sure that the Petes sell your mom the exact
opposite
of a rabbit.”