Lunch Money (9 page)

Greg took a deep breath and then let it out slowly. “Well, it really started at the end of lunch period. That's when I found out Maura was selling little books like mine, ripping me off.”

“I did
not
rip you off!”

“Maura—” Mr. Z raised a warning finger. “Quiet. Your turn's coming.”

Maura nodded, but kept on talking. “He just said a minute ago that my story is
nothing
like his!”

“Yeah,” said Greg, his voice rising, “but it's still a minibook, right? Admit it—you ripped me off!”

“QUIET! Both of you!” Mr. Z was not used to raising his voice. “I am
not
going to put up with this. If you two can't talk this out with
me, then I'll turn the whole matter over to Mrs. Davenport. And your parents.” He looked from Maura to Greg and then back again. “Is that clear? Now I asked Greg to speak first. Maura, not another word.”

Turning to Greg, he said, “So you found out Maura had these booklets for sale, and you got mad. Anything else?”

“Well,” said Greg, “just that it didn't seem fair. It was
my
idea. So, yeah, I got mad. And I came to class that way, and . . . you saw the rest. And that's all.”

Mr. Z nodded and said to Greg, “Okay. Now it's your turn to listen—not one word.” Turning to Maura, he said, “Let's hear your side.”

Maura shrugged. “There's not much to tell. I mean, what did
I
do? I was sitting here in class, and he comes blasting in and starts shouting and throwing stuff in my face. And me hitting him? That was an accident—he said so himself, to the nurse. So
I
didn't do anything.”

“Pfffhh!” Greg pushed a puff of air between his lips—not a word, but close enough to draw a glare from the math teacher.

Mr. Z turned back to Maura. “Show me your little book. Do you have one?”

Maura zipped open a pocket on the front of her backpack, pulled out a copy of
The Lost Unicorn,
and handed it to Mr. Z. He quickly turned the pages, scanning the text and looking at the pictures.

Then turning to Greg, he asked, “And how about yours?” Greg took a copy from his pencil case and handed it over. Again Mr. Z did a skim.

Looking up from Creon's face to Greg's, he said, “So even though these are clearly very different items, you're still mad that Maura did something similar, right? Used the same idea?”

Greg nodded. “Right. My idea.”

Looking Greg in the eye, Mr. Z said, “So you agree with me that a little book with pictures is an idea?”

“Yeah,” said Greg, “of course. Like I said. It was my idea.”

Mr. Z shook his head. “That's not what I said. I said, a little book with pictures is
an
idea—not that it is
your
idea.” Then, holding up both minibooks between his thumb and index finger, he said, “These two different things are still just
one
idea. Right?”

Greg nodded. “Right, and the idea was mine. First.”

Mr. Z leaned forward. “But the thing about a true idea is that no one can really own it—even the person who uses it first. In mathematics the Sumerians were the first to use the idea of place value—over five thousand years ago. But they do not
own
that idea. And when you sit here in my room adding large numbers, and you carry tens or hundreds over into the next place column, does a Sumerian come running into the room and say, ‘Hey—quit it! That's
my
idea!'”

Greg didn't answer. He lowered his eyes and stared at a smear of green gum on the floor.

Mr. Z went on. “Now, if Maura had used your character, this Creon guy, or if she had made her drawings look just like yours, then I think you'd have more reason to be upset. But she didn't do that. She used an old idea—a small book—in her own way. And yes, she might have seen you do it first. But that's the way ideas work. They spread. So I don't think you should be mad at Maura. If anything, you should feel flattered. Someone thought the way you used an old idea was so new and interesting,
that she wanted to try it out for herself.”

Mr. Z paused.

Greg was looking down at his feet, studying his sneakers. He'd decided to just let Mr. Frizzyhead talk himself out. Why argue? The sooner this guy finished yakking, the sooner he could leave for soccer practice.

“Look at me, Greg.”

Greg tipped his head back. He flicked his eyes to the teacher's face and then back to the floor. The math teacher said, “Is any of this making sense to you?”

Greg shrugged. “Sure. I guess so.”

“Then I think all this adds up to one thing.” Mr. Z paused, waiting for Greg to look him in the face. It didn't happen, so he said. “Greg, you need to apologize to Maura.”

Greg's head jerked up. “Apologize?
Me?
No. No way.”

Maura knew how stubborn Greg was, and she'd liked the talk they'd been having before the teacher had arrived. She quickly said, “It's okay, Mr. Z. He doesn't have to apologize.”

Mr. Z said, “Yes, he
does.
First he has to apologize to you, and then he has to apologize to me for making a huge disturbance in my
room and wasting precious class time. And all because of a comic book.”

Greg felt the fury rising in his chest. He wanted to tip his head back and howl like Creon. He wanted to get up close to this man's huge nose and shout, “
I'm
the guy with the black eye here.
I'm
the one who's had his idea ripped off. Apologize? That is so
stupid
—no, actually,
you're
stupid!” Greg felt his face getting red, felt his heart pounding.

And then, for the second time in one day, Greg felt his nose begin to bleed. Only this time it was a real gusher. Blood streamed out his left nostril, over his lips, and dripped off his chin, spattering his shirt and the desk.

Mr. Z put one hand over his mouth and with the other, he pointed a shaky finger, his eyes wide. “Oh . . . oh. Your nose. It's . . . it's . . .” But he couldn't say the
b
word.

Mr. Z's face went pale as paper. Sweat stood out on his forehead, and behind the hand still covering his mouth, his breath came in gasps.

Earlier, Greg hadn't noticed Mr. Z's reaction to blood. This time he couldn't miss it. And he decided to enjoy it.

Greg leaned forward and nodded at Mr. Z,
making no effort to stop the flow. “Yes, my nose is bloody, very bloody. It's bleeding, and blood is getting all over the place—bloody, bloody, blood.”

Mr. Z turned away, almost throwing up.

“Greg!” Maura snapped. “
Stop
it! That's
mean.
” She'd already grabbed the tissues from the teacher's desk. “Here.” And she pushed the box into Greg's hands.

Turning to Mr. Z, she said, “Can I get you something . . . some water?”

Mr. Z shook his head. “I . . . just need to . . . lie down.” And with Maura to steady him, he eased out of the desk and onto the floor, flat on his back, eyes closed.

“Now you,” Maura said to Greg. “Sit on the floor and lean forward. And squeeze your nose. Hard.” Greg followed orders, but then decided he'd be more comfortable lying down.

Maura said, “I'll get the nurse. And a cold pack—two cold packs.”

And she left Greg and Mr. Z littering the floor of room 27.

 

 

 

Greg lay on his back, completely still. Even with one nostril plugged, he picked up the oily scent left over from last night's dust mopping. He watched the second hand on the big wall clock and listened to Mr. Z's deep breaths. His math teacher was also stretched out on the floor, about ten feet away.

And Greg thought,
Now I'm completely sunk. This guy is gonna ruin me.
And then another, deeper voice said,
Yeah, and I deserve it.
And Greg knew that second voice was telling the truth.

He said, “Mr. Z?”

In a voice so weak it was hard to hear, Mr. Z said, “Yes?”

“I'm sorry, about the blood stuff—after I saw it made you sick. Maura's right . . . it was mean. So I'm sorry.”

Mr. Z was quiet, and then he said, “I know
it's irrational, my reaction to . . . that. It's only a liquid . . . and only a word. But seeing it, and hearing that word, and thinking about it—it gets me, every time.”

Greg thought a moment. He said, “With me, it's snakes.” And lying there on the floor, Greg shivered. “I don't even like pictures of them.”

Mr. Z said, “Ah, yes—pictures. When I was in junior high, I thought I wanted to be a doctor. I went to the public library and found a medical textbook. It had pictures. That was the end of my medical career.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Irrational. Anyway, apology accepted.”

After a moment Mr. Z said, “What about the other matter, losing your temper over the little books? Any apologies for that?”

Greg didn't say anything.

Mr. Z said, “Earlier, when I told you I was delayed in the office? I was looking through your student file. And Maura's. You two have quite a history of conflict. And I thought I was going to be the big problem solver. I thought getting you to apologize would be a help. For both of you.”

Greg turned his head to look at Mr. Z,
moving a little so the legs of the desks didn't block his view. The teacher had his eyes shut, and his face still looked pale. “But you don't understand,” Greg said. “About my comic books, I mean. I worked all summer. It's like this whole business I'm trying to start, and it'll make
tons
of money. And at the start of math class I was thinking Maura would mess it all up.”

“What—you don't think that anymore?” asked Mr. Z.

“Not really,” said Greg. “I got a better look at her minibook. She's drawing all her pictures by hand, making her books one at a time.”

“And you're not.”

“No,” said Greg. “I make one original, and then print the rest using a copier.”

“Ah—,” said Mr. Z. “Mass production, economies of scale, increased profits, and market dominance, right?”

Greg only understood about half of that, but he said, “Right. I can make forty or fifty copies in an hour, and the materials cost around two cents per copy. Then I sell each one for a quarter. And I've got about twenty more comics all planned out.”

Mr. Z opened his eyes and turned his head
to look at Greg. “You see that? Talking was good. Helped me understand. So why didn't you just talk to Maura?”

Greg shrugged. “Because she's so . . . annoying.”

Mr. Z's eyes drifted to the blood on Greg's shirt, and he quickly turned his eyes to the ceiling. He said, “I've got a theory about why you two keep fighting. You're both very much alike. And you're each too stubborn to take a step toward being friends.”

Greg wasn't sure what to say to that, and while he was thinking, Maura came back into the room with the principal right behind her.

Mrs. Davenport said, “My goodness! Looks like an emergency room in here! A bleeder and a fainter come face-to-face—what are the odds of that? If we can patch up the math teacher, he can run the numbers and figure that out.” She chuckled. “Mrs. Emmet's gone, so I'm your nurse, like it or not.”

She went to Greg first and handed him a cold pack. “Maura tells me you already know what to do with this.”

Greg nodded and pressed the blue plastic bag against his nose.

The principal gave a towel and a cold pack to Mr. Z, then she pulled a desk closer and lifted his feet onto the seat. “Get the feet above the head—that's first aid for big, strong swooning victims.” Mrs. Davenport chuckled again. Mr. Z did not.

The principal said, “Greg, I've already called your mother, and she'll meet you at home. Maura's mother is coming in about five minutes, and she's driving you both.”