Lunch Money (13 page)

Mrs. Davenport opened the folder again and picked up four or five other little handmade
comic books. She fanned them out like playing cards and held them up for all to see. Greg could only see parts of the covers, but what he saw didn't look good. The artwork was crude and poorly drawn. One cover showed an evil-looking muscleman holding a big knife, and the title was
Just in Time to Die.
Another one was titled
Crundoon,
and it showed a huge slobbering monster biting off the top of a girl's head.

After a pause to let the pictures sink in, the principal said, “Because of your example, everybody now seems to think that they can make nasty, violent stuff like this, and then bring it to school, and sell it.”

Greg put his hand up again, and this time he started speaking before the principal nodded at him. “But my comic's not like that. I mean, there's action in the story, and things get sort of rough, but I wasn't trying to make it violent. It's history. I based it on real Stone Age people—I got books from the library.”

Mrs. Davenport waved her hand. “I'm not going to have a discussion about which comic book is worse than another. I am going to say what I said to you last June, and this time let me be even clearer. Do
not
sell things at
school. Do not sell
anything.
School is a place for learning and thinking. It is not a place for buying and selling. Mr. Zenotopoulous, do you have anything to add?”

The question caught Mr. Z off guard. “Um . . . well, I was just going to say that . . . that I think it's important—what you've said to Greg and Maura. And . . . and that's all.”

Mrs. Davenport stood up, and as if there were strings connecting everyone, the other three people popped up too. “Very well then,” the principal said. “We all understand one another. And I'll be making an all-school announcement during sixth-grade lunch today so that everyone else understands too. Now, let's all get back to work—our
real
work. This is a school day.”

And with that, the meeting ended.

In the hall outside the office, Maura turned right and hurried toward the science rooms. Since his language arts class was in room 25, Greg turned left and walked alongside Mr. Z. Neither of them spoke.

About halfway down the long hall, Greg wanted to ask Mr. Z a question. He held back, because the question seemed improper, too
bold. But . . . hadn't they both been knocked flat on their backs together, down onto the bloody math-room floor? And hadn't they discussed money and careers and the Zenotopoulous Toilet Theory? Didn't sharing that experience mean they were sort of related now—not exactly blood brothers, but . . .
something,
right?

And so, relying on this odd feeling of kinship, and hoping that Mr. Z wouldn't get offended, Greg worked up the nerve to ask his question. “Mr. Z? I was wondering . . . do you really agree with Mrs. Davenport, with everything she said?”

Mr. Z hesitated half a second, and then nodding his head, he said, “Mrs. Davenport is very logical. Kids can't be scrounging around all day trying to make money at school. It's not the right place for that.”

“But what she said about comic books?” Greg asked. “And
my
comic book? Do
you
think my comic book is ‘nasty'? And ‘violent'?”

It took six steps along the hallway before Mr. Z had an answer to that one, almost to the door of room 25. “Personally, I have nothing against comic books. And as a comic book, I didn't mind yours at all. It's actually quite
good. But as something to sell at school, no. Mrs. Davenport's right about that part.”

Greg went back to his desk in language arts class feeling a little better. At least Mr. Z wasn't lumping Creon in with those other comics. But the facts were still pretty discouraging. He wasn't going to be able to sell his comics at school. Sure, he could still write stories, still do his drawings, and still make all the comics he wanted to. And he could even try to sell them to kids some other way. But it would be so much harder. There didn't seem much point to it. School was where the kids were, and the kids were his readers, his customers.

And it had to happen just when things were going so well, too. Fourteen more units, and he would have made his goal for the first week—one hundred comics sold.

It felt like another punch in the nose.

 

 

 

No lunch recess. It was the only thing Greg really hated about sixth grade. After the kids finished eating, they had to dump their trays, sit back down, and wait for the bell. No walking around, no loud talking, and Mr. Percy, the custodian, was always there, leaning on his mop handle, watching.

It reminded Greg of mealtime in an old prison movie. Mr. Percy was like the guard, always edgy until the prisoners were locked up in their cells again. Except the convicts got to go out into the exercise yard every afternoon, and the sixth graders didn't.

Greg had done some thinking since third period, and he'd decided he ought to say something to Maura about her drawings. He hadn't actually lied to her in the hallway after social studies, but he had come close. And he remembered that hurt look she gave him as
he'd shoved her pictures back in her face.

Yes, Maura was annoying, and she was a copycat, and he was glad Mrs. Davenport had fixed it so he was going to see even less of her every day. Still, she had gone out of her way to ask his opinion about her drawings, and her excitement about comic books seemed real. So why not tell her the truth about her artwork? It was the least he could do. And besides, it wouldn't cost him anything now that he couldn't sell comics at school.

Greg knew that if he went over and tried to talk to Maura at her table, he'd be surrounded by girls. No way could he say what he wanted to with an audience like that. Plus, with Mrs. Davenport's orders to keep away from Maura, he didn't dare just walk up to her.

So he ate fast and watched carefully. And when Maura got up to take her tray to the drop-off window, Greg made his move. His timing had to be perfect. It was, but Maura saw him coming.

As Greg slipped into the short line behind her, he saw her shoulders stiffen. So he talked fast, his voice low. “That thing in the office went okay, don't you think? I mean, it stinks
not being able to sell comics anymore. But at least we didn't get in trouble. Not even a detention. Pretty good, huh?”

Maura didn't turn, didn't nod, didn't react. Nothing.

So Greg took a deep breath and said, “Listen, I didn't mean what I said. After social studies. When Eileen and Brittany came up. But you heard what they said. And it just—”

“Just
what
?” Maura hissed, still keeping her back to him. “Did the big, mean girls
scare
you? You could've said something like, ‘We're just talking,' you know. Because you only made everything look worse, which is just what they wanted. Besides, who's stupid enough to even
care
what those two think? Oh . . . I forgot—
you
are!”

If Maura wanted to trade insults, she was messing with the wrong guy. “Oh yeah?” Greg said. “Well,
you're
—”

“I'm what?” Maura whipped around so fast that the empty milk carton flew off her tray.

Greg had the words. He could have hit her hard. But that wasn't what he wanted. He took a breath.

Again Maura demanded, “I'm
what
?”

“You're . . . you're right,” Greg said. “What I did was stupid. And what I said was stupid. So . . . I'm sorry.”

Then he bent down, picked up her milk carton, and tossed it into the recycling barrel along with his own.

“Oh . . . ,” Maura said. She was surprised he'd apologized, and also that he'd picked up her trash. She said, “Um . . . thanks,” and then slid her tray onto the conveyor belt.

Greg said, “You're welcome,” and then he dumped his tray too.

With his hands empty, Greg felt suddenly awkward. He missed having his red pencil case to hang on to. He stuffed his hands into his pockets. He said, “So . . . don't you want to know what I was thinking this morning?
About your drawings? Before . . . all that?”

Maura said, “Yeah . . . but only if you were going to say something good.” And she turned and walked toward the crowd of kids at the dessert table.

Greg followed her, glad that the noise and talking in the cafeteria seemed to be getting a little louder. The sound was like camouflage. He edged up next to Maura and said, “If you only want to know what was good, your drawing won't ever get better.”

She turned her head. “So some of it was good? Really?”

Greg looked into her face to see if she was kidding. Her eyes didn't lie. Maura actually had no idea how brilliant her pictures were. And it struck him that this might be the first time he had ever looked into Maura's face when they hadn't been yelling at each other.

He turned his face forward, and took a step closer to the dessert table. Choosing his words carefully, he said, “I don't want you to get all conceited or anything, because your pictures . . . well, they're good. Maybe it's just beginner's luck or something. But I don't think so. Because . . . you got it—the whole
idea of how pictures work in a comic. The timing of the panels in that scene? You just . . . nailed it.”

Greg sneaked a sideways look at Maura. Her cheek, usually pale next to her blond hair, was flushed with color. She was smiling slightly—trying not to, but smiling.

He said, “There's more. Ready?”

Maura angled her head his way, but wouldn't look him in the face. She nodded.

He said, “Okay. Some problems. You know what scale is? In a drawing?”

Maura nodded, and Greg said, “So tell me.”

She said, “It's when you make sure things look like they're the right size compared to other things. Like, if a unicorn looks like it's actually bigger than a tree, then the scale is messed up.”

Greg said, “Right. So, in a couple of your panels, the scale was wrong. But only in a few. The truth is, they're amazing. Just . . . incredible.”

With something in her voice that sounded like fear, Maura said, “You're not . . . just saying this, right?”

Greg shook his head and said, “No.” Then he said, “I mean, I'm not some big expert or
anything. But I've seen a lot of comics, and I think your pictures are really good. Really.”

Without even looking Maura in the face, he could tell how much those few words meant to her. And it seemed like she actually cared about his opinion. It was scary to feel how much power that gave him. And suddenly Greg felt kind of responsible—like he wanted to help her. It was an entirely new feeling.

But Greg didn't let himself get carried away. His business mind kicked in, and in a flash he saw a way to be sort of helpful, and also to possibly make a little money.

“So,” he said, “how'd you like to make your whole unicorn story over into a comic book? And then print some copies? And then try to sell them—not at school, but there are other places. If you want, I could help. And your comic could be one of the Chunky Comics. And if any of them sell, then you could even make some money, share in the profits. And if you come up with more story ideas, you could make more. And try to sell them. What d'you think?”

It seemed like a decent idea to Greg. And a very generous offer.

Without missing a beat, Maura said, “How much money would I get?”

“Forty percent of the profits on every copy sold—just on your comics, not mine,” Greg added, again feeling generous.

Maura shook her head. “Seventy-five percent. For my own comics. And you don't get to tell me what my stories should be about or anything.”

They both took a step closer to the dessert table.

“Fifty percent,” said Greg. And he thought,
She is the bossiest, most annoying, most—