Lunch Money (10 page)

Then she turned to Maura and said, “Would you go to the girls' room across the hall for me? Wet paper towels. We've got to get Greg cleaned up so that Mr. Zenotopoulous can get up off the floor. Or . . . we could just wait until it gets dark and all the
b-l-o-o-d
becomes invisible.” She chuckled, and then said, “Sorry about the jokes. I'm just relieved this isn't more serious.” Then turning back to Mr. Z, she said, “And I know all the other teachers will also be relieved when I tell them all about it tomorrow.” More chuckles.

Greg had never heard Mrs. Davenport make a joke before, had not known such a thing was possible. And lying there on the floor, Greg thought,
Mr. Z's gonna get teased
by the teachers tomorrow because blood makes him faint. And I'm gonna get teased by the kids because I got a black eye from a girl.

Mrs. Davenport used the wet paper towels to clean up Greg's face, and then the desk and floor. It was a big mess, and before she was done, Maura had to go back for more supplies.

“All right, Greg, up you get . . . slowly . . . and keep your head steady.” Mrs. Davenport helped Greg to his feet and then into a desk. “Stay put while Maura waits for her mother out front. I've got to get back to the office. Mr. Zenotopoulous, will you be all right for another few minutes—or shall I call for an ambulance?”

Greg could hear her chuckling as she walked away. He looked down at Mr. Z and said, “Does she always joke around like that with teachers? 'Cause she's not like that with kids.”

Mr. Z smiled weakly. It didn't seem proper to talk about Mrs. Davenport with a student, so he said, “Most teachers have a sense of humor—and that includes principals.”

Greg stared down at his blue-and-white soccer shirt, now streaked with blood. Greg thought,
Red, white, and blue—very patriotic.
He moved the desk so Mr. Z wouldn't be able to see his front. And then he thought of a question.

“So, Mr. Z, do you wish sometimes that you could have been a doctor? Like you said? Or maybe some other job like that? I mean instead of just being a teacher. Because if you'd been a doctor, you'd probably be really rich by now. Doctors make
so
much money. You know Ed McNamara? His dad's a doctor, and they're
super
rich.”

Mr. Z did not want to discuss his personal life. He just laughed a little and said, “My older brother's a doctor, and he's not rich.”

“Really?” Greg was surprised. “How come?”

“Because he lives in a part of Idaho where
they needed a good doctor but there wasn't a lot of money to pay for one.”

Greg said, “So how come your brother doesn't move to Chicago, or Florida, or someplace like that?”

Mr. Z shrugged. “We haven't talked about it much, but I know he likes where he lives, and he likes his work there. He's not rich, but he certainly has enough. And for him, enough is enough.”

Greg said, “Well, I guess that's okay for some people, but
I
want to be really, really rich. I'm going to make millions and millions.”

“Hmm,” said Mr. Z. “And what's all this money going to be used for?” he asked.

“Money?” Greg looked at Mr. Z as if he was an alien. “What's all the
money
for? To buy stuff. To go places and get whatever I want. And to do anything I want to. That's what the money's for.”

Mr. Z said, “So if you had all the money you wanted, what would you do?”

Greg shrugged. “Anything I wanted to. I could do . . . anything.”

Mr Z nodded. “Right, but give me an example.”

“Okay,” said Greg. “Like the house we live in now, my parents' house? It's not very big. Four bedrooms, two bathrooms, a basement playroom, a family room—just a regular house. So if I had enough money, I'd buy a house with something like ten bedrooms. And fifteen bathrooms. And two swimming pools, and this huge entertainment center with a home theater and surround sound and bass boosters. And a pool table. And air hockey too. Stuff like that.”

Mr. Z raised his eyebrows. “Hmm. Interesting.”

It was the way Mr. Z said
Interesting,
something in the tone and the timing. Greg felt a hint of disapproval from the math teacher, and that annoyed him.

Greg said, “So you're saying that teachers get paid enough, and that you
don't
want more money, right? And you're saying that you don't want a bigger house with fun stuff all over the place, and more bedrooms and bathrooms? Is that what you're saying?”

Mr. Z smiled. “I'm not saying anything. But I will tell you something that I call the Zenotopoulous Toilet Theory: Most people can only use one bathroom at a time.”

After they both laughed a little, the room was quiet for a minute or so.

Then Mr. Z said, “What I was saying earlier, how you should be flattered that Maura tried to copy you? I wasn't kidding. Ever hear the old saying Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery?
I
think that Maura thinks that you are . . . interesting.”

Greg made a face. “No way.”

“You know how teachers can tell which boys the sixth-grade girls like?”

Greg shook his head, and he wished Mr. Z would stop talking. He wanted to put his hands over his ears and sing “Yankee Doodle.” These were things he did not want to know.

Mr. Z went on. “Girls like the boys that they're always mad at, or shoving, or turning their heads away from, or sticking their tongues out at. Never fails.”

From down the hall, Mrs. Davenport called, “Greg? Mrs. Shaw's here. Need any help?”

Greg called back, “No, I'm okay.” He jumped up. He wanted to leave before Mr. Z found something else embarrassing to say. Holding the tissues and the cold pack in one hand, Greg got his things together.

Mr. Z said, “Could you leave me a copy of your comic book? I'd like to take a better look at it.”

Greg said, “Sure. It's still there on the desk. With Maura's. You can have it. Free.” He hurried to the doorway, but then paused and turned back. “Listen, Mr. Z, I'm really sorry about making a mess in your room. Both times.”

And Mr. Z said, “Aha—a second apology. Also accepted. That's two for me. One more apology for Maura, and you'll be all caught up.”

Greg didn't smile. In his mind he said,
Don't count on it.
Out loud he said, “Well . . . see you tomorrow.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Z, “and if I'm still on the floor here when you come to class in twenty-two hours,
then
Mrs. Davenport should call an ambulance.”

As Greg headed for the front doors, it was Mr. Z who was chuckling.

 

 

 

Greg was quiet in the car on the way home, and so was Maura, but it wasn't awkward. Maura's mom was perfectly happy to do all the talking.

“Oh, you poor
dear.
Let me look at—ooh, such a bruise! And my Maura did this? But it was just an accident . . . and you know that, don't you? That it was an accident? Not like that time in first grade when you bumped Maura off the end of the sliding board. Or that time you threw the snowball into her face. But still . . . you poor
dear
! It must hurt like crazy. Is that compress still cold? . . . Good. Now you just lean back, because we don't want your nose to start bleeding again—not here in the car. Mr. Shaw would give us
all
black eyes if
that
happened—I'm only kidding. But lean back . . . farther . . . that's a good boy. Remember, Maura, when our Tommy got hit with that lacrosse ball? . . . Snapped his nose like a carrot
stick, and the
blood
—oh! You would not be
lieve
it! And when I got down to that field . . .”

It was only a five or six-minute drive, but by the time he got home, Greg had heard a detailed description of every major blood-producing event endured by the Shaw family over the past fifteen years.

His own mom was not impressed with his condition. She gave him a quick once-over and said, “Go put that shirt in cold water in the laundry room, then take a shower. Since I'm home a little early, I think I'm going to make lasagna for dinner. How's that sound?” And that was it—from his mom.

By dinnertime the bruise had spread under his left eye, and his big brothers wanted details.

“What do you mean, ‘an accident,'” said Ross. “Did you fall off the climbing wall? Or get hit by a baseball? What?”

Greg shook his head. “It was somebody's hand.”

Edward said, “Some kid hit you?”

“No,” said Greg. “It was just a bump, and she didn't mean to.”

“‘She'?”
said Ross. “A
girl
did this? That's lousy. I mean, if a guy whacks you, you can whack him
back, but if it's a girl—”

“Boys.” Their dad's tone of voice froze the chatter. “Nobody in this family ‘whacks' anybody. It was an accident. So just drop it, all right?”

Ross and Edward let it go—at least until after dinner.

Greg was sitting at his desk doing a tally of the day's sales when both his brothers came bursting into his room. They each had painted on a black eye, and Ross, panting like he'd been running, said, “Hide us, hide us! Me and Edward, we were outside just now, and, and this whole gang of tiny little girls came up and started pounding us! It was terrible! They're everywhere, they're everywhere!” And then they both fell on the floor, howling with laughter.

Greg wanted to laugh too, but he didn't dare. Ross was a high school sophomore and Edward was a freshman. The slightest encouragement of their madness could prove fatal. As coldly as possible, Greg said, “Very funny,” and went back to his numbers. He always did the accounting before he started his homework.

About twenty minutes later Greg was almost done with his social studies reading when his mom called up the stairs, “Greg . . . telephone.” He trotted out and grabbed the portable phone off the table in the hall.

It was the last person he wanted to hear from.

“Greg, it's me . . . Maura. There was an assignment in math. And you weren't there. So I thought you'd want to know.”

Greg said, “Uh, yeah . . . sure. I mean, I was going to call and get it from Ted.” And he thought,
What, does she think I'm so stupid that I'd miss a math assignment?
But in a fairly pleasant tone of voice he said, “So, what's the assignment?”

“You have a pencil?”

“Uh-huh.” Greg had already hurried back to his room for fear that his brothers might guess he was talking to a girl.

“On page seventeen, it's exercise B,” said Maura, “all the even-numbered problems. And I could help, if you don't understand it or something . . . because you weren't there.”

“No, that's okay,” said Greg. “I can do it. This stuff is still review. So this is good. Yeah . . . this is good.”