Lunch Money (8 page)

The front cover was half gone, and some of the wrinkled pages were streaked with blood.
Illustrated in living color,
Greg thought, and that made him smile, which forced a sharp pain up through his nose and left eye.

He got the book in focus, and using only his right hand, he began to turn the pages.

Greg could tell right away that it wasn't his
kind of story, which did not come as a surprise. It was about a young unicorn who'd gotten lost, also not a surprise. At first the unicorn was terrified, but then she remembered what her mother and father had told her: “If you ever have a problem, find someone with a bigger problem, and offer to help. Do this, and your own worries will disappear.” So the unicorn went looking for someone to help, and found a princess who had been kidnapped, locked in a tower by a wicked ogre. The unicorn used her horn to chop down a tree, which leaned against the tower and gave the princess a way to escape. Then the unicorn gave the princess a ride back to her mother's castle. The queen was so happy to have her daughter back that she asked ten of her best knights to help the unicorn find her way home. And they all lived happily ever after.

Even though it seemed like a lame story to him, Greg had to admit that the writing was good. And the artwork wasn't bad either. It was actually a tiny picture book, not at all like a comic book. Each of Maura's pictures took up a whole page. There were no sequenced panels, no page grids, and no speech balloons
like comics have. Still, the drawings were good. And Maura had drawn vines and flowers around the borders of each page.

Bringing the little book closer to his good eye, Greg blinked. Then he rubbed his finger on the page. The dark gray lines smudged and smeared. He could not believe what he was seeing.
It is—this is original artwork! Maura is drawing every book by hand and putting them together one at a time! No wonder she went nuts when I started ripping this one up!

Leaning his head back and closing both eyes, Greg smiled. He'd just made an important discovery. This meant that Maura did not know how to mass-produce her books. It meant that she had probably made only four or five of them, tops. And it meant that at her current skill level as a minibook producer, she was just messing around—hardly a serious competitor. Maura wasn't even in the minor leagues.

And as his business mind clicked away, Greg saw the future grow bright again, with kids buying so many of his Chunky Comics that he would make tons of money. He would have to start getting his comics printed professionally. He'd have to hire a staff of artists to keep up
with the increasing demand, maybe rent a building—or buy one. He'd start a Web site, and start selling to the major comics distributors, too. Eventually he'd have to open branch offices in New York, Chicago, Los Angeles—Hong Kong and London, too: Chunky Comics International. He'd get so rich that he could have a different limo for every day of the week, each with a comic-book hero painted on the hood.

Bbrrrrnnnnnnng!
Greg sat straight up, completely fuddled. He blinked. A cold pack lay on his arm, his head hurt, and he was on the cot in the nurse's office. Then the events of the day tumbled back into his memory. He'd been sound asleep.

Mrs. Emmet smiled at him from her desk. “Feeling better?”

“Yeah, a little.” Greg leaned back again, reaching for the cold pack.

But then he made himself sit up. “Actually, I feel a lot better. So I guess I should get to my next class.”

Greg had work to do. One more class period and Thursday would be history. He had comics to sell.

Maura came to the doorway. “Hi. I brought your backpack. And your pencil case. Your face looks better.”

Greg didn't know what to say, so he just nodded.

Maura said, “You going to class?”

Greg looked at Mrs. Emmet. “Can I?”

She nodded. “You should be fine. But if you feel uncomfortable, come back, all right?”

“Okay.” Greg stood up and walked to the door. “Thanks.”

“You're welcome.”

Maura gave Greg his things. He swung his backpack onto one shoulder, tucked the pencil case under his other arm, and headed down the long hallway toward the gym.

Maura turned and walked beside him. “So,” she said, “you've got gym now?”

“Nope.” Greg picked up his pace.

Maura matched him, step for step. “Language arts?”

“No . . . art.”

Greg walked so fast that Maura almost had to trot to keep up. “Hey,” she said, “before I forget—you have to go to Mr. Z's room after school.”

Still walking, Greg glanced at her. “How come?”

“He wants to talk to you. And me, too. About what happened.”

“Great,” said Greg. “I'll be late for soccer.”

Maura said, “Should you run around today? I mean, with your eye and everything?”

Greg stopped short and swung to face her. “Look. It's none of your business. It was just a little poke in the nose, all right? I'm okay, and I don't need you to tell me what to do.”

“Fine,” said Maura. “Do whatever you want. I don't care.”

“Good, 'cause I don't care if you don't care. So go away.”

“Don't worry, I'm going. Here,” and Maura pushed a quarter into his hand. “This is yours.”

“What's this for?” he asked.

“One of your comics—they're a quarter, right?”

“What . . . you sold one?”

“No,” said Maura, “I bought one.”

“You?”

“That's right.” Maura stuck her chin out. “Any law against that?”

“No,” said Greg. “But . . . why?”

“That's a stupid question. I read it. In math class. It's good.”

Creative pride won a small victory over ill temper. Greg smiled. “You liked it? Really?”

Maura nodded. “Yeah, it was okay. But—” The bell rang. “Oops—I
can't
be late.” Maura turned and dashed for class.

“‘But' what?” Greg called after her.

“Later,” she called back.

And Greg thought,
Later? Oh yeah. 'Cause we have to go see Mr. Z.

The art room was close, and Greg quickly forgot Maura's comments about his comic book. He had to finish a wire sculpture. The thing was due Monday, and it was going to take a small miracle to get it done on time.

Still, that didn't keep Greg from selling three more copies of
Return of the Hunter
before the end of art class.

 

 

 

When Greg got to Mr. Z's room after school on Thursday, no one else was there. He sat at a desk in the front row and looked over at the clock. It was already 3:05. Greg thought,
Six minutes. If he's not here in six minutes, I'm going to soccer.

A minute later Maura burst into the room. “Sorry, I know I'm late, but I—” Then she saw only Greg was there. She stopped and then walked to the front of the room. “I thought I was late.”

“You
are
late,” said Greg. He jerked a thumb toward Mr. Z's desk. “Just not as late as
he
is.”

Maura sat down a few seats away and turned to look out the windows.

A minute went by. The empty school felt too quiet to Greg. He said, “Um . . . so what's he want to say to us anyway?”

Without turning her head, Maura said, “Three guesses.”

“Right,” said Greg.

Then he remembered what Maura had said about his comic book:
. . . it was okay, but—

Greg wanted Maura to finish that sentence. Then he thought,
What do I care what she thinks?

But after another minute of silence, his curiosity won out. Still, he didn't want Maura to think he actually
cared
what she thought.

Then he hit on a way to bring up the subject. Greg said, “I read your unicorn book. It was good . . . for what it is.”

Maura turned to face him, arching one of her pale eyebrows. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” said Greg. “It's not really my kind of story, that's all—you know, princesses and unicorns. I like comic books. And your book isn't a comic.”

“So why did you read it?”

Greg shrugged. “It was the only reading material I had in the nurse's office. I was bored. How come you read
my
story?”

Maura tossed her head. “Same reason.

There wasn't anything better to do in math.”

“But you
bought
a copy of mine—
and
you said it was good, right?”

“Yeah,” Maura admitted, “but . . .”

That's what Greg had been waiting for. “‘But' what? What didn't you like about it?”

Maura was quiet a moment, and when she spoke, Greg saw she was choosing her words carefully. “Well, it's sort of like what you said about my book, about it not being your kind of story? See, I know you want to try to sell a lot of copies—”

Greg interrupted, “Because you think I'm a greedy little money-grubber, right?”

Maura's eyes flashed. “Can you just listen?”

Greg nodded, and Maura continued. “
I
liked the story, and I liked the artwork, too. But I don't think many other girls would. And since half the kids at school are girls, if you write boy stories, you're only going to sell half as many books as you could.”

Greg pretended to look shocked, and then shook a finger at Maura. “‘Boy stories'? I'm going to tell Mrs. Sanborn what you said.” Mrs. Sanborn was their social studies teacher, and she talked a lot about equal rights for
women—and girls. She got furious whenever someone suggested that men and women or boys and girls should be treated differently.

Maura said, “Don't be dumb. I'm not talking about equal rights. I'm talking about what girls like. And boys. And no matter what Mrs. Sanborn says, most boys don't pick stories about princesses, and most girls don't pick stories about cavemen with spears.”

As Maura finished that sentence, Mr. Z walked in. “Cavemen with spears? Are you two calling each other names again?”

Maura and Greg shook their heads, and Mr. Z said, “Good. I was delayed in the office. I was afraid I'd get here and find you two wrestling on the floor or throwing chairs at each other. But you're not name-calling and not fighting. Looks like progress.” He pulled a front-row desk forward a few feet, turned it around, and sat down midway between them.

Mr. Z had been planning what he would say to Greg and Maura all afternoon. He already knew exactly where he wanted this meeting to end up, but he was prepared to take his time getting there. In his mind it was like a math problem: He would add right ideas, subtract
wrong ones, divide fuzzy thinking by pure logic, and then he and the children would nod and smile at one another as peace and understanding multiplied itself.

Looking first into Maura's face and then into Greg's, Mr. Z said, “Now, tell me precisely what started that mess during sixth period. Greg, you first.”