I negotiated them up to ten bucks a week for service-on-demand. The Schwa cost more than cable!

They used him a lot in the first few weeks he was on retainer. Mostly they asked him to go into the teachers’ lounge, hang out in a corner, and report back to the student government on all gossip. He always slipped in right behind one of the fatter teachers, and never got caught. The student officers also had him hang out in the cafeteria kitchen to see who was mooching all those missing snack cakes, because the principal was blaming it on students. It turned out to be Mr. Spanks, the school security guard.

“We’d like to sign him up as an investigative reporter,” the journalism class said, after they heard how old Spanky got busted. But the class officers made a big stink since they already had him on retainer, claiming we couldn’t work for both government and the press, so we had to tell them no.

The jobs made us decent money for doing nothing more than not getting noticed—but it was dares that payed the most, depending on how many kids paid into it. Since I acted as the bank, paying out of my own pocket when we lost, the Schwa and I shared our dare winnings fifty-fifty.

“I dare the Schwa to walk into the principal’s office, thumb his nose at Principal Assinette, then leave, without being seen.”

Piece of cake. Total take: $32.

“I dare the Schwa to cut in front of Guido Buccafeo in the lunch line without being noticed, then dip his finger in Guido’s mashed potatoes, and not get beaten up.”

No problem. Total take: $26.

“I dare the Schwa to spend an entire day at school wearing nothing but a Speedo and not be noticed by his teachers.”

We lost twenty-two bucks on that one, but he made it all the way to third period!

I told the Schwa he was like Millard Fillmore—the president famous for going unnoticed—and as his manager, I found my middle-finger syndrome fading away. I was suddenly being treated with respect.

“It’s all gonna crash and burn,” Ira kept telling me after Ralphy Sherman started spreading the rumor that the Schwa could teleport. No one believed it, but it still damaged our credibility. “It’s like Las Vegas,” Ira said. “No matter how much you think you’re winning, the odds are stacked against you.”

I reminded him we had already scientifically proven that the odds were on our side. “We can still cut you in on the action,” I offered him—and then I had to add, “You can take your money and buy more clay.” Ira was not amused.

Still, no matter how much he and Howie frowned on our scheme, it didn’t faze the Schwa, so I tried not to let it faze me.