Kid Power (3 page)

“I got another job today,” I said, while we were serving ourselves. “I went over to Mrs. Edwards like Mom suggested, and for fifty cents a day, I'm going to run errands for her. That's my senior citizen rate.”

“That's very nice,” Mom said. She didn't sound too cheered up.

“Mrs. Edwards even gave me some extra money today,” I said. “She said she was very impressed with my initiative and family spirit.”

“What does family spirit have to do with anything?” Dad asked.

“I told her about Mom getting laid off,” I said. “I guess she meant that.”

“You told her what?” Dad asked.

“About how Mom got laid off and how you couldn't afford my bike anymore,” I said, and bit noisily into a piece of celery.

“Great,” Dad said, disgusted. He put his fork down. “Now the whole town's going to think we're some kind of charity case.”

“Now Art, don't overstate it,” Mom said.

“I'm not overstating it,” he said loudly. “Next thing you know Janie'll dress up in rags and beg for contributions for her poor, needy family. Janie, when will you ever learn to keep your mouth shut?”

“I just told Mrs. Edwards the truth,” I said. “I didn't think we were keeping it a secret.”

“We're not,” Mom said. “It's just—well Dad thinks you might have made it sound like we need the money, and that's why you're doing these little jobs.”

“Well, isn't that why I am working?” I asked. “Because you can't afford bikes for Carol and me anymore?”

“I can't see why you need new bikes anyway,” Dad said. “But if it's going to stop the neighborhood from wondering about my imminent bankruptcy, I'll go out tomorrow and buy you and Carol the most expensive bikes this town has ever seen. Two for each of you, if that'll do it.”

It was a good thing Carol wasn't there. That was just the kind of offer she wouldn't have turned down.

“Dad, I'm sorry if I said something wrong,” I said. “But please don't make me stop Kid Power. I'm enjoying doing it. I like earning my own money.”

“Oh well,” Dad said. “I suppose you'll tire of it after a day or so, and then this whole discussion will be moot.”

“I will not tire of it,” I said, but then I could see Mom shake her head warningly at me, so I kept quiet. I'd just taken another bite of celery when the phone rang. “I'll get it,” I said, just to keep the peace a little while longer. “Hello,” I said, swallowing rapidly.

“Is this Janie Golden?” the voice asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“This is Emma Marks,” the woman said. “I'm a friend of Mrs. Edwards.”

“Oh yes,” I said. “Hello.”

“Hello,” she said. “I was wondering if you could tell me what dress size you wear?”

“Size 12,” I said.

“That's just perfect,” she said. “I have a little job for you, if you could take it.”

“Sure. What?”

“I have a granddaughter who lives in Oregon,” she said. “And I just love sewing things for her, but it's not easy since I don't have her around to try things on. I was wondering if you'd be willing to model the clothes for me while I sew them. How tall are you?”

“Five feet,” I said.

“Harriet is four-foot-eleven,” she said. “This sounds just ideal. Could you come over tomorrow? I have a half-dozen different projects I've been holding back on, and I'd love to get started on them.”

“Sure,” I said. “What time should I come over?”

“How about after lunch?” she said. “I live at 22 Curry Road.”

“I know where that is,” I said. “I'll see you at one then.”

“Fine,” she said. “Thank you, Janie.”

“Thank you,” I said and hung up. I walked back to the dining room table and said, “I just got another job.”

“It certainly sounds like you're going to have a busy summer,” Mom said.

“You'll quit in a week,” Dad said.

I didn't say anything. I was too busy adding those extra dollars to the ones I already knew about.

Chapter Three

Cleaning the attic with Grandma was a snap, and there was no trick to asking Mrs. Edwards if she wanted me to run any errands for her. Even being fitted by Mrs. Marks for dresses for her granddaughter Harriet (who sounded like a real creep) wasn't too bad. But babysitting for a bunch of kids at a yard sale was my first real challenge, and I hoped I was up to it.

First of all I insisted that Carol letter another sign for me, and she did, for a dollar. I wasn't too thrilled about paying her at all, but she pointed out if I wanted to be paid for my labor, so did she. It almost hurt to hand that dollar over to her. I hadn't spent a penny that I'd earned since I'd started Kid Power. I'd even bought a little notebook (from my allowance) and started to keep records of who'd paid me what and when. Mom offered to teach me double entry bookkeeping, but I decided to stick to my own system, which recorded all the money coming in and didn't allow for the possibility that any of it might be going out. Except, of course, Carol's dollar.

“You're going to have to spend more money than that,” Carol told me a couple of nights before the yard sale.

“Why?” I asked. “You haven't spent any money in ten years.”

“But I'm not in business for myself,” she said. “People who are in business for themselves always have to spend money. It has to do with gross and net.”

“Gross and what?” I asked.

“Gross and net,” she said. “That means you have to spend money to make money.”

“That doesn't make any sense at all,” I said, and walked over to where Dad was reading a book. I knew he wasn't the best choice of people to ask about my business, but Mom was making her daily check of jobs in the paper, and that wasn't to be interrupted. “Dad, can I ask you a question?”

“Sure, honey,” he said and put his book down. “You know you can always ask me whatever you want to know.”

“What's gross and net?” I asked.

“Gross and what?” he asked.

“Gross and net,” I said. “Carol says it has to do with business.”

“Oh, that gross and net,” he said with a sigh. “You know in some families daughters ask their fathers about how to get boys or improve their fastballs.”

“I don't want to get any boys,” I said. “And my fastball's just fine. What's gross and net?”

“This conversation is pretty gross, if you ask me,” he said.

“Daddy!” I said. “Whatever happened to ‘Ask me anything you want?'”

“You're right,” he said. “Okay, gross and net are business terms. Let's take that job you did for Grandma. How much did she pay you?”

“Three dollars,” I said.

“Okay, your gross profit was three dollars. But it cost you fifty cents to take the bus there and back, right?”

I nodded.

“So if you subtract the fifty cents from the three dollars, you have a net profit of $2.50. The net profit is the gross profit minus expenses.”

“And there have to be expenses?”

“Yes, Scrooge,” Dad said.

“Then Carol was right,” I said.

“That's been known to happen,” he said. “Now do you want to learn about profit sharing or capital gains?”

“Not tonight,” I said. “Thanks, Dad.”

“Come the revolution,” he said and grinned. “But if your whole generation is like you, I guess the revolution won't be for a while.”

I didn't care about revolutions nearly as much as I did about gross and net. I'd never thought about there being two kinds of profits in the world. I went back to Carol and sat by her feet. Carol likes it when I do that.

“Tell me about spending money to make money,” I said.

Carol put down my sign and said, “What do you want to know?”

“How much do I have to spend?”

“That depends,” she said. “Now take this yard sale business.”

“Yes?”

“If I were in charge of the kids, I'd make sure they had something to keep them busy.”

“I've already thought about that,” I said. “But if I bring some of my own toys, they might think they're for sale.”

“Then bring something else,” she said.

“Like what?”

“Like food,” she said. “Everybody loves food.”

“That's certainly true,” I said. “And little kids aren't on diets, so they can eat just about anything.”

“Of course, it'll cost you some money,” she said. “But it'll make your job easier, and then you'll do it better, and then other people'll be more likely to hire you. That's what I mean by spending money to make money.”

“What kind of food do you think I should bring?” I asked. I was hoping she'd suggest something inexpensive.

“I make a really good oatmeal cookie,” she said thoughtfully. “It's practically nutritious.”

“They are good,” I said. “Carol, would you really bake me some?”

“Sure,” Carol said.

I got up and hugged her. “Carol, you're the greatest big sister in the whole world!” I shouted. I didn't even care if I disturbed Dad and Mom.

“A dollar a batch,” she said coolly.

I broke away from her. “What?”

“You heard me,” she said. “A dollar a batch.”

“You little cheapskate!” I said.

“Whatever happened to best sister in the world?” Dad asked from his side of the living room.

“Those are my terms,” Carol said. “After all, I should be paid too for working in a hot kitchen in July just to bake cookies for some little kids I don't even know.”

“You'd be baking them for me,” I said.

“That's even worse,” she said. “A $1.50 a batch.”

“Carol!”

“Okay, a dollar,” she said. “How many batches do you want?”

“How many cookies are there to a batch?” I asked.

“A couple of dozen,” she said.

I did a little mental arithmetic. “I'll take three batches at fifty cents a batch,” I said. “And I won't pay for any burnt cookies, and you have to give me my money back for any cookies I don't sell.”

“I will not,” she said. “A dollar a batch and you keep what you get.”

“Fifty cents and I'll let you make a sign saying you made the cookies,” I said. “You might get some business that way.”

“A dollar and I get to have the sign anyway,” she said.

“I think we need a mediator,” I said. “Daddy!”

“You don't have to shout,” he said. “Okay, come on over.”

Carol and I crossed the room and explained our problem to him. Dad listened and then thought about it.

“How does this sound?” he asked. “Seventy-five cents for each batch, no burnt cookies allowed. That's two dozen unburnt cookies to a batch. Carol gets to advertise, and Janie's responsible for any extra cookies.”

“That sounds okay to me,” I said. The main thing was to make sure I didn't have to take any burnt cookies. I wouldn't have put it past Carol to burn them all.

Carol scowled. “I guess it'll be okay,” she said. “But I want to make four batches instead of three. It's the same amount of work. All I'd have to do is double the ingredients.”

“Are you willing to order another batch?” Dad asked me.

I thought about it. It was better to have too many cookies than too few. But it meant I was going to have a lot of extra cookies, and seventy-five cents less net profit.

“Okay,” I said. “But only if Carol throws in two free pitchers of homemade lemonade.”

Dad raised his eyebrows, but didn't say anything.

“I get to advertise?” Carol asked.

“Absolutely,” I said.

“Deal,” she said.

“You'll bake the cookies tomorrow?” I asked.

“I sure will,” she said.

“Fine,” Dad said. “Now if you'll leave me alone for a while, I'll read my book and think about how many oatmeal cookies this family is going to eat on Sunday.”

“None,” I said. “I'm going to get rid of each and every one of them if I have to ram them down those kids' throats.”

“You'll make a great mother,” Dad said and started reading again.

So Carol finished the sign for me, and then she made a sign that said, “Homebaked Oatmeal Cookies by Carol Golden.” She decided not to put her phone number down to avoid getting calls from cookie cranks. The next day she made four dozen oatmeal cookies. Mom was out all day going to different employment agencies, so she didn't notice just how much of her ingredients Carol was using.

“These cookies,” Carol said to me, as she nibbled on a slightly burnt one, “are pure net profit.”

I paid her the three dollars, which lowered Kid Power's net profits considerably. I knew I'd be getting a lot of money the next day, but it still hurt to see so much of the company's profits go into somebody else's hands.

I cleaned the kitchen up for Carol so Mom wouldn't see what a mess she'd made of it. We hadn't discussed who'd do the cleaning, but I figured it was easier to just do it than to negotiate all over again. I packed the cookies into a paper bag, and stuck in a couple of paper plates to put them on. The lemonade she said she'd make after supper.

Mom got in just before Dad did. “How did it go?” I asked while she took her shoes off.

“Nothing,” she said, kicking her left shoe clear across the room. “Between all the other social workers that got laid off and all the June college graduates, there are a hundred applications for every job. One of the agencies suggested I get a Ph.D. and teach sociology to future unemployable social workers.”

“You'll get a job,” I said.

“Sure,” she said. “When your father gets in, tell him I'm upstairs taking a nap.” She trudged out of the room, leaving her shoes where she'd flung them.

So Dad treated us all to hamburgers and french fries that night, and we tiptoed around all evening, even though Mom had the airconditioner on and couldn't have heard us anyway. Things were much easier when she had a job. Sure there were some nights when she'd come home tired and depressed from her work, but we never had to tiptoe.