Lunch Money (17 page)

 

Sitting in social studies, Maura stared at a copy of the announcement. She read it, then she read it again. And one sentence stood out
to her:
Our town School Committee has a strict policy about what may and may not be sold at school.

“May and may not.” So that meant some things were okay to sell at school, and some things were not. And the School Committee got to choose. Interesting.

In her mind Maura began arguing with the School Committee, imagining what she would say to those people. Because, really, what was wrong with selling their comics to other kids? Nothing—or at least nothing she could see. Certainly not with her little comic book. Or Greg's either.

And sitting there thinking in Mrs. Sanborn's class, Maura happened to look over and notice the front of Brittany's social studies book. Except she couldn't actually see the
World Cultures
book. On the first day of school Mrs. Sanborn had required that all the kids tape covers onto their new books. And the glossy book covers Mrs. Sanborn had handed out were loaded with pictures of high-school athletes wearing Nike shoes and Nike shirts and Nike shorts and hats and warm-ups. And Maura realized that every social studies book in
the classroom was trying to sell her something. And she thought,
I guess the School Committee decided that was okay.

Then in the gym a couple periods later, Maura saw posters about a fund-raiser for new uniforms for the soccer and basketball teams. They weren't posters kids had made. These were large, bright, printed posters, and every one showed beautiful, full-color pictures of M&M's, 3 Musketeers bars, and Skittles. So someone must have decided that it was okay to buy and sell candy at school.

Outside during gym, Maura took a good look at the new scoreboard on the soccer field. It was all red and white, and it was trying to sell her a Coke. Next to the door on the way back inside, a big black-and-blue machine was trying to sell her a bottle of sports drink. And in the cafeteria at lunchtime, a long banner was selling pizza because it was Domino's Pizza Day. And over in the corner, a machine was selling frosty cans of juice.

Seeing all this got Maura thinking. But then during seventh-period language arts class something happened that got Maura really excited. And when she saw Greg in the hall
right after school, she ran up, grabbed him by the arm, and blurted out, “Did Mrs. Lindahl pass out something in your language arts class today?”

Greg looked at Maura as if she'd escaped from a zoo. He shook his head, and Maura said, “No? Well, look what Mrs. Pelham passed out last period—to every kid in the room. Here.”

Greg took the papers she held out. He looked at the front, flipped it over to look at the back cover, then turned a page, and said, “Yeah . . . so what?”

Maura looked at him, disgusted. “So what? Don't you get it? Think about what Mrs. Davenport said. About selling stuff at school. About selling comic books. Now look again.”

Greg looked again, and this time he got it.

Because what Greg held in his hands was the new flyer from the book club—a full-color, eight-page advertisement. The ad was selling books, more than seventy-five different titles. There were classics and there were Newbery award winners. But there were also Garfield and X-Men books, and Scooby-Doo cartoon books, and Calvin and Hobbes collections. There were
magic-trick books, drawing books, and even books that came with toys—like bobble-head key chains and little silver necklaces.

This book-club flyer was like all the other ones Greg had looked at once a month, ever since first grade. Because once a month, the teachers handed out the flyers, and then the kids placed their orders. And then the teachers collected the money.

And where did all this buying and selling happen? At school.

 

 

 

Three minutes after Maura showed Greg the book-club flyer, they rushed into Mr. Z's room, and Maura said, “Mr. Z! We've
got
to ask you something.”

Startled, Mr. Z looked up from the quizzes he was grading. “Oh—sure. About math?” he said hopefully.

Greg shook his head. “Look.” He put the flyer on the teacher's desk, and pointed at the book of Garfield comics. “How come it's okay for kids to buy books like
that
here at school, but it's
not
okay for us to sell our mini–comic books?”

Mr. Z picked up the flyer and flipped through it. “Hmmm.” He had seen packets of these in the office by the teacher mailboxes, but they always went to the reading and language arts teachers, never to him. “Very interesting.”

“So?” said Maura. “Does the book club have
special permission from the School Committee or something?”

Mr. Z nodded. “I guess they must.”

Maura said, “Well, then it's not fair. Because our comics aren't so different from some of these books. And they're selling them right here at school. Here. Take a look at this.” Maura had borrowed back her new copy of
The Lost Unicorn
from Allyson, and she handed it to Mr. Z. “Greg and I finished it this weekend. And I know it's not supposed to be here at school. But it's been hidden away all day. And I
just wanted you to see it. Because it's good, and it's not even violent.”

Mr. Z began to thumb through the comic. The drawings were exceptional, especially for student work. Remembering Mrs. Davenport, he glanced toward his doorway, and then quickly flipped through the rest of the pages. Maura was right. There was less violence in this comic book than there was in a lot of classic fairy tales. And looking at the credits on the back cover, he saw that these two former enemies had apparently worked together.

Mr. Z smiled and nodded his approval, and immediately Maura said, “So we want special permission too. Like the book clubs. To sell our comics. Who should we talk to?”

Mr. Z looked from Maura's face to Greg's. He could see there was no point in trying to talk them out of this. He took a deep breath and decided to try anyway. “Well, the School Committee has a meeting once a month. But the principals of each school are always at the meetings. And you already know how Mrs. Davenport feels about comic books.” Then handing the little book back to Maura, he said, “And please, put that away.”

“But what about
these
comics?” said Greg, pointing at the flyer again. “She's letting these be bought and sold at school. So that's not fair.”

Mr. Z nodded. “I'm not saying you're wrong. I'm just telling you that what you're asking is . . . well, it's complicated.”

Mr. Z pulled a handful of papers from the in-box on his desk, flipped through five or six sheets, and then said, “The School Committee meets this Thursday night at seven thirty in the municipal building. And I guess if you wanted to go and talk to them, there's nothing stopping you. But . . . it's complicated.”

Greg shook his head. “You keep saying ‘complicated, complicated.' Why? We're just asking for the same deal the book club is getting. What's so complicated about that?”

“Well,” said Mr. Z, “for one thing, book clubs are big companies, and I know they have teachers and librarians and reading experts working for them, helping to pick the books. And on the back of the flyer here it says that teachers get free books for their classrooms when they send in the orders. So the book clubs help teachers. Plus, they're helping kids learn, and getting them excited about reading and books. And you're just
a couple of kids who want to sell some little comics and maybe make some money.”

Greg said, “But aren't the book clubs making money?”

Mr. Z nodded. “I'm sure they are.”

“So there's still no difference,” said Greg. “And we can give away free copies of our comics to teachers too. That's not a problem.” “Yeah,” said Maura. “And . . . and we'll even give some of our profits to the school library fund—ten percent of our profits for buying new library books.”

“What?” said Greg. This girl was giving money away—
his
money.

Maura ignored him. “So what do you think, Mr. Z? Don't you think we have a chance?”

“Well . . . I suppose so,” he said.

“Great!” said Maura, “'Cause I already told Greg how on Friday you said you could help us. With business stuff. So this is great. What should we do first?”

Mr. Z gulped. “Oh . . . you mean . . . um . . . Well, I really don't think I could . . . I mean . . .” Mr. Z looked from Maura's face to Greg's, and then back to Maura's. And he saw there was no way out.

So he decided to stall for time. “Well, I guess . . . first, I'd better do a little thinking—all of us should. And you should both talk to your parents about this, because they ought to know what you're thinking about doing. So how about we all take some time, and then we can get together again. To compare our notes. How's that sound?”

Maura made a face. “It sounds slow. Because the School Committee meeting is Thursday night. So we have to meet again tomorrow. Before school. Like at seven thirty.”

Greg nodded. “Before school. Okay, Mr. Z? See ya tomorrow.”

And both kids turned and rushed out, Greg to soccer practice, and Maura to catch her bus.

Sitting there at his desk, Mr. Z felt like he'd been run over by a couple of go-carts. He tried to remember what he'd been doing only two minutes earlier.
Oh, yes—grading quizzes.
He picked up his red pen.

But Mr. Z couldn't concentrate. And even the peace and quiet of room 27 didn't help. Sure, it was calm and orderly now. But he had an uneasy feeling—the kind that comes just before a storm.

 

 

 

On Tuesday morning Mr. Z sat in his room, secretly hoping that Greg and Maura wouldn't show up, hoping something might have derailed their plan. Like maybe a big
No!
from somebody's mom or dad. Or maybe a sudden outbreak of common sense. Or even a flat tire on a school bus—something, anything.

But at exactly 7:30 Maura walked into the math room and said, “Hi, Mr. Z.” She sat at a desk and began digging around in her backpack. She pulled out a pencil and then a new spiral notebook. She opened it to the first page and carefully wrote the date and the time. She looked up at Mr. Z and said, “I'm going to keep a record. Of our meetings.”

About a minute later Greg walked in. Maura looked at him and said, “You're late. It's not businesslike to be late.” She turned and wrote something in her notebook.

Greg made a face at the back of her head. Turning to Mr. Z, he said, “So what should we do first?”

Mr. Z said, “First, I need to know what your parents think about all this.”

Greg said, “Mine are fine with it, with talking to the School Committee and everything. They're gonna come to the meeting, at least my dad is for sure, and my mom's gonna try to cancel another meeting she has for Thursday. But they both think it's fine, especially after I showed them the flyer from the book club.”