Bittersweet

Chapter Fifteen: Enough

"Get me Gala Electronics," I stride past my desk. "And tell procurement I need to double our supply of Xantham gum."

My new assistant, Mr. Green, is not nearly as good at anything as Freddie. He licks his fingers as he rifles through paperwork, has absolutely no sense of humor, bad politics, and prefers to fax things. The only thing I like about him is the fact that he, as a retired teacher and amateur magician, is really good with kids in that honest, non-creepy way.

Mr. Green snaps his fingers, pretending to pull a Rollilolli out of a little girl's ear, who giggles into her fists.

I've been doing more VIP tours to help drum up more cash, and Mrs. Honeybee's first-grade class won the lottery.

"Oh, hello!" I say, altering my stern look to a circus-worthy smile, lowering my hat off my head with a slight bow. "Welcome to the factory."

They all stand together like ducklings around the mousy teacher.

"I'll be with you all in two shakes of a lamb's tail!" I wag my finger twice. "Mr. Green? Could you get me Gala?"

He splutters, "Um. Of course, Mr. Tender."

He doesn't dial the CEO, or the CEO's assistant, or the project lead, or the head of consumer products, but the 1-800 number that people call to complain about their phones. I roll my eyes and hang up, stabbing the button with my middle finger.

One of the little ones presses their face against the glass wall until their open mouth widens like a frog's, farting with their lips until wet condensation plumes.

I snort, flicking a switch under my desk. An animatronic cacao plant outside of my office snaps to life and babbles to the class about the "Wonderful World of Wylie's Wonders!" in a cartoon voice.

I crack my knuckles. Back to business.

JellyBots have sold like happy cakes. They're now a bigger Christmas item than even the major gaming consoles. The three big electronics magazines have been absolutely singing its praises, with full-cover spreads and excellent reviews. I'd posed with one of the bots for Electronic Monthly. No one has experienced defects so far – I knew they wouldn't because of Gala's a solid manufacturing team – and the worst review so far reviled it as "the perfect, space-aged food alternative for anal, health-obsessed Americans," which I don't mind because ... it is.

We've gotten so much good press that the Pete and Remus Show wants to have me on as a guest during the Thanksgiving Day parade.

"Do it," Freddie had texted me, despite the fact that he'd spent nearly two weeks trying to perfect his scratch-made fig jam for the big family dinner. "That's so much press! You've got to do it."

Dimas was really mad at me, though. He refused to chat with me on MMX5 and called me a "fart-face" on the Gram's chat. I asked him what was wrong and he said he was mad that I'd made his dad sad, that he'd seen his dad crying and knew it was my fault. I told him I was sorry, but he hasn't responded since.

I'm packed for New York City.

"Mark! Hi," I half-yell into my phone at the hard-of-hearing computer genius on the other end. "I heard you needed more globule inserts – the Pennsylvania plant I bought off Peterson's has everything we should need." A few of the less-impressed children press their chubby cheeks against the glass of my office wall, peering in despite Cracky the Cacao Plant prattling about how it's good for consumers to know how things are made. They're probably looking to figure out where all the supposed magic happens. I click my pen rhythmically and smile at them. "Anyway, I'm told that's scale-able at about 80% of the rate of my main factory, so it shouldn't be a problem to fulfill the current orders."