Lunch Money (12 page)

There were drawings on the sheets. Right away Greg knew what he was seeing. It was the rescue scene from Maura's mini–picture book,
The Lost Unicorn.
First there was a close-up of the unicorn's head, with its teeth showing and nostrils snorting, and a reflection of the ogre's tower in its large, dark eye. Then
there was a wide view of the creature with its head lowered as it charged the tree next to the tower, and then another close-up as its horn bit into the rough wood—complete with a spiky sound balloon. Maura had drawn the face of the princess in the tower window as the unicorn struck the tree; the tree falling against the tower; the branches cracking, leaves flying; the
slippered foot of the princess on a branch of the tree; the princess pressing her face against the neck of the unicorn; and then the princess on the back of the rearing animal, with a final close-up of her hand twined into the hair of the unicorn's mane.

Maura had turned two picture-book pages into ten panels—comic-book panels.

Greg was speechless, blown away. The sizing of the panels, the sequence of the pictures—Maura got it. She understood how a comic worked. These were just pencil sketches, and the scale wasn't always perfect, but the drawings were still so strong, so powerful. With a little work, and if they were inked and shaded just right, they would be fabulous, they would be . . . dangerous.

Maura was watching his face. “What d'you think? Are they any good?”

Greg tried to keep his face blank as his mind raced ahead.

If he told her how great these were, it would be like unchaining a monster that was going to turn around and eat him alive. Because if Maura could make drawings like these, she could make
fantastic
comic books. And selling
her comics? That would be easy—
too
easy. She'd get rich in no time. Maura was plenty smart. It wouldn't take her long to figure out how to make copies, and how to fold and trim the pages. And here she was, standing in front of him, and she wanted him to approve, maybe even help her, give her some advice.

Greg kept his eyes on the paper. Knowing that Maura was looking at his face, watching for clues, he frowned. Then he slowly shook his head, and got ready to tell a lie. He looked up from the drawings. He was going to tell her these drawings were pretty bad, tell her she'd better stick with her little picture books, maybe tell her to give up drawing completely—and that she should
definitely
forget about the comics business.

All this took only a second to spin through Greg's mind. He looked Maura in the eye, gave her a sad, understanding smile, and he said—But he didn't. Because Brittany Paxton and Eileen Ripley rushed up next to Maura, and Brittany said, “Oooh, this is so
sweet
! First Maura and Greg have a big quarrel yesterday in math, then Maura throws Greg a little
note
in social studies, and now Greg and Maura are
all lovey-dovey out in the hall.” Turning to Eileen, she said, “What sounds better, ‘Greg and Maura' or ‘Maura and Greg'? I think ‘Maura and Greg.' It's
per
fect, don't you think?”

And then came a flood of giggles.

A more experienced guy would have simply turned away and gone on about his business. But Greg panicked. No one, not even his notorious big brothers, had ever suggested he liked a girl, or that a girl might like him.

Except for the area around his left eye, Greg's whole face turned deep pink. “Don't be stupid!” he snarled. “I can't help it if somebody throws paper at my desk, and I can't help it if she sticks some dopey pictures in my face either. Here—take this junk.” He shoved the sketches and the book into Maura's hands and said, “Get away from me!”

Eileen said, “Oooh—so
tough
—we better call him Big Greg . . . Big Greg and Maura.”

More giggles.

But by then Big Greg was gone, hurrying to his next class, trying to put some distance between himself and that whole scene.

And he succeeded. The gym was all the way
at the other end of the school, and the second Greg got there he grabbed a basketball and challenged John Elders to a quick game of one-on-one. In two minutes he was breathing hard and sweating. He was losing, too, but that didn't matter.

What mattered was that he had gotten away from those girls—all of them. Away from what Eileen and Brittany said, and away from their laughter.

But what Greg could not get away from was the wounded look on Maura's face as he had shoved those pictures into her hands.

As he charged in for a layup, he thought,
I didn't ask her to show that stuff to me. If she likes her pictures, she can go ahead and try to do something with them. It's got nothing to do with me. Like she said, it's a free country.
And as he spun around and scrambled for his own rebound, he thought,
I don't owe her one thing. What's she ever done for me? . . . except steal my ideas and bother me every chance she gets.

But after saying all this to himself, Greg could still see that look on Maura's face.

 

 

 

By the middle of third period Greg had put the whole incident with Maura and Eileen and Brittany out of his mind. Gym class had helped. They'd had a great soccer game out on the big field, and he'd been the left forward—good for two goals. Plus he'd sold seven more copies of his comic book. And now the whole language arts class was having a big argument about which was better—
Holes,
the book, or
Holes,
the movie. Life was back to normal.

Then the intercom speaker next to the clock on the wall crackled to life. It was Mrs. Ogden, the school secretary. “Mrs. Lindahl?”

The teacher held up her hand for quiet. “Yes?” All eyes swung to the speaker, as if there was something to see.

“Pardon the interruption. Will you please send Gregory Kenton to the office?”

Mrs. Lindahl nodded at the speaker and said, “He'll be right there.” Then she nodded at Greg.

When the secretary said his name, Greg had felt his stomach tighten, felt a tingle in his mouth and across the top of his scalp. But he pushed back the fear, stood up, and walked out the door into the hallway.

The hall was empty, quiet. His cross-trainers squeaked on the tiles as he walked. Greg told himself,
Could be a message from my mom. Like maybe a dentist appointment after school. So I don't take the bus home.

But Greg knew he was kidding himself. This had to be about something else. And when he turned the last corner and looked through the office windows, he knew. Maura was sitting on the little wooden bench on one side of the principal's door. And Mr. Z sat in the chair on the other side. So this was going to be about what had happened yesterday, about arguing and yelling in math class, about getting whacked in the nose. Because fighting of any kind was absolutely forbidden at Ashworth Intermediate, a huge no-no, right up there with vandalism and stealing. And
Mrs. Davenport came down hard on fighting. Always.

When Greg entered the office, Mrs. Ogden looked up and then pointed to the bench. Greg sat down.

Without turning her head, Maura whispered, “This is
your
fault. I have
never
been called to the principal's office before.”

Greg snorted and whispered back, “Well, boohoo. We didn't even fight. It was an accident. We can prove it. So relax. We're just gonna get yelled at a little.”

“Or
suspended,
” Maura said.

The principal's door opened. “Mr. Zenotopoulous, Maura, Greg—please come in. Sit down.”

She pointed, and Greg and Maura took the chairs in front of her desk, and Mr. Z sat off to the right a few feet.

Mrs. Davenport sat down. “I've talked now with Mr. Z and also with the school nurse about what happened yesterday. I understand that Greg's knock on the nose was an accident, and I'm ready to let it go at that. But I want both of you to know how serious I am about fighting. I will have none of that in this
school—and I'm not going to have angry shouting or arguments either, because that's almost the same thing. You two have a bad habit of not getting along. You both need to grow out of that, but until that happens, my advice—no, my
direction
—is that you simply keep away from each other. And to help this happen, Greg, starting Monday, you will have Mr. Scully for first-period social studies, and Maura, at sixth period on Monday you will report to Mrs. Toroni's level-four math class. Any questions?”

Maura shook her head. Her face was pale. She wasn't going to say a thing. She felt lucky not to be suspended. Or expelled. After all, she was the one who had thrown that wicked right hook.

Greg also shook his head. The new schedule was fine with him. In fact, it was great. The less he saw of Maura, the better.

Mrs. Davenport looked from face to face, and said, “All right, then. That's that.”

Greg put his hands on the arms of his chair, all set to stand up and leave.

“Now about
this
situation,” the principal said, and she opened a folder. She held up a
copy of
Return of the Hunter
in one hand, and a copy of
The Lost Unicorn
in the other. “I saw these in Mr. Z's room yesterday afternoon, and he tells me that you two have been selling these little books around the school. Is that correct? I've been seeing them all over, especially this one.” She shook the Creon comic.

Talking fast, Maura pointed at the unicorn book and said, “I only made five of mine, and I mostly gave them to my friends. I just sold one.”

Mrs. Davenport said, “Greg, what about you?”

He nodded at her other hand. “I've been selling that one since Monday. And everybody really likes it. So I'm working on a whole series. Did you read it?”

Mrs. Davenport seemed surprised, both by Greg's chatty reply, and by his question. She gave a halting nod, and Greg said, “Did you like the story?”

The principal put a stern look on her face and said, “We're not discussing the quality of your writing today. Do you remember the talk we had right here in my office last June? I told
you I did
not
want you selling things at school. Do you remember that?”

Greg had an answer to her question. But he didn't just speak up. Instead he raised his hand. He was about to tell the principal she was wrong, so it seemed like a good idea to wait politely for her permission to speak.

When she nodded at him, Greg said, “Last June I was selling little toys. And you told me that I wasn't allowed to sell them at school. So I stopped right away, just like you said. And I'm not selling toys. I'm selling books.”

A student telling a principal she's mistaken—that doesn't happen very often. And there's a good reason for that.

Mrs. Davenport's eyes flashed, and with clipped words she said, “I know perfectly well what you are selling.
This
is a comic book, and in my view, comic books are practically toys, and
bad
toys at that. This is hardly what I would call a book. When I saw the first one of these on Monday, and I saw your name on it, I should have called you in here that instant and put a stop to it. Because look what's happening now.”