Lunch Money (14 page)

“Seventy-five percent,” Maura said, “or else I'll just go ahead and figure out how to do it all myself.”

Everything he did not like about Maura came crashing back into his mind, and Greg was tempted to shout,
Fine, go ahead and do it all yourself, you stupid, stubborn lump!
But he wasn't going to give her the satisfaction of seeing him get angry. Besides, they weren't going to sell many comics now, maybe none at all. And seventy-five percent of nothing . . . is nothing. So Greg said, “Deal. Seventy-five percent. But, you have to buy me an ice-cream sandwich. Right now.”

Maura stepped up, laid four quarters on the dessert table, reached into the freezer, grabbed two ice-cream sandwiches, and slapped one of them into Greg's hand. She looked him in the eye, cracked half a smile, and said, “Deal.”

Three minutes later as Greg sat at his regular table enjoying the last gooey bites of his free ice-cream sandwich, the speakers crackled, and the PA chimes sounded. Silence settled over the cafeteria as Mrs. Davenport began to speak. Again Greg thought of a prison movie. It was time for a few words from the warden.

“Good afternoon, boys and girls, and good afternoon also to all the teachers and staff. I'm sorry to interrupt classes this way, but I have an important all-school announcement.

“Some of our students have been making small comic books and bringing them to school. I have looked at some of these, and they are not the sort of thing we want here at Ashworth Intermediate School. Also, I have learned that some students have been selling
these little comic books to their friends right here at school.

“Even if these comics were appropriate—and they are not—even then, no one would ever be permitted to sell them at school. Our town School Committee has a strict policy about this.

“So please listen carefully: Starting right now, I want all students and all teachers to understand that these little comic books may not be
brought
to school, they may not be
created
at school, and they certainly may not be
sold
at school.

“Thank you all for your cooperation, and have a productive afternoon.”

The chocolate wafers were Greg's favorite part of an ice-cream sandwich, and as he chewed the last sticky bits from his left thumb, he thought,
So that's it. The warden has spoken. Chunky Comics is now officially dead.

And suddenly Greg was surprised, startled, almost shocked. Not that Chunky Comics was dead. He'd known that was going to happen. What amazed him was that he wasn't more upset about it. Because only yesterday he'd been shouting in Maura's face, all set to go Cro-Magnon on her because she was cutting into his profits. And today his whole
comic-book empire was crushed, all that money was swirling down the drain, and what was he doing about it? Eating ice cream.

And Greg thought,
What's
wrong
with me? I should be furious; I should be pounding on this table, shouting, “Unfair, unfair, unfair!”

But Greg didn't have a chance to think more deeply about this. Because at that moment the bell rang. Everyone stood up, Mr. Percy began barking orders, and the inmates at the Ashworth Intermediate Security Facility started trudging back to their cells.

***

After math class on Friday afternoon, Greg rushed out and went straight to the art room. He needed every possible minute to work on his wire sculpture. Maura took her time leaving room 27, and as she got to the door, Mr. Z called, “Maura? Just a quick word, please.”

She turned around, made her way through the other kids, and walked over to stand in front of his desk.

Mr. Z started slowly. “I just wanted to say that I feel like what happened yesterday between you and Greg was partly my fault. When Greg started yelling, I should have pulled
him right out into the hall. Then all that mess wouldn't have happened, and you wouldn't have been called to the principal's office today. Or been switched out of my class—and by the way, that was not my idea. So I wanted to say I'm sorry. And I feel like I've turned you two into worse enemies than ever.”

Maura shook her head and said, “It's okay. Really. Things are better now. I mean, it's not like Greg and I are friends or anything, but we're sort of in business. We've got a deal and everything. I'm going to make comic books. For Greg's company.”

Mr. Z's dark eyebrows went up. “Greg's company? Well, that's . . . good news. Great.” He smiled, and didn't seem to know what to say next.

“So . . . ,” Maura said, “can I go now? I can't be late for language arts. Again.”

“Of course.” Mr. Z nodded. “Go right ahead. And . . . and have a good weekend.”

“You too, Mr. Z.”

After Maura was already out the door, Mr. Z called, “And if you two want any advice, I know some economics. And accounting . . . business stuff.”

Maura called back, “Thanks.”

Earlier, during lunchtime, Maura Shaw had listened to the announcement from the principal, and she had heard the same words Greg had heard. But for her, Chunky Comics wasn't dead—it was just coming to life. She intended to make Greg keep his word. He was going to help her turn
The Lost Unicorn
into a real comic book—whether he actually wanted to or not.

And Maura couldn't wait to get started.

 

 

 

Friday night at the Kenton house was family movie time, but tonight Ross and Edward had gone out with their high-school friends, which was fine with Greg. That meant
he
got to pick the movie. By seven thirty Greg had his mom and dad, half the couch, a big bowl of popcorn, a bottle of root beer, and good old Indiana Jones all to himself.

The movie started with a bang. Between the action and the music and the sound effects, Greg barely noticed the doorbell, barely noticed his mom getting up to answer it. She came back to the family room and said, “Greg, it's Maura Shaw.”

With his eyes still on the screen, Greg said, “What?”

She said, “Put the movie on Pause.” When the room was quiet, she said, “It's Maura Shaw. At the door.”

“Maura?” Greg said. “What's she want?”

His mom shrugged. “She just asked if you were home.”

Greg took a quick sip of root beer and got up off the couch.

Maura stood by the door. She held a big brown mailing envelope, and before Greg could say a word, she handed it to him. “New drawings. I did them after school. And you have to look at them before I make any more—to tell me how I'm doing. I know I've got the size right, because they're just like the ones in your Creon story. And I used good art paper. Because I know you have to put ink on them. But you have to tell me about everything else.”

Did Maura ask, “Is this a bad time?” No. Did she say, “I'll leave these so you can look at them”? No. She stood there, tapping her foot, bossy as ever. Greg hated cold popcorn, and he wished he'd kept his mouth shut about Maura's pictures.

He ripped open the envelope and yanked out the papers so he could whip through them. Then he could push this intruder out the door and get back to his movie. But Maura's first
picture grabbed him and pulled him in.

She had done the cover art. The picture focused on the unicorn, its long, twisted horn poking all the way up through the word
Unicorn
in the title—a nice touch. But best of all, Maura had drawn dark woods with the scary outline of bare trees, and in the distance, the tower. And in the bottom right corner of the picture, an ogre lurked in the undergrowth, eyes huge, jaws open.

Greg nodded. “
Great
cover. Really. This is
great.” Without thinking, he sat down cross-legged on the front-hall carpet and flipped to the next picture, which was page one, where the unicorn first realizes she's lost. The small page was split in half from the upper right corner to the lower left corner, which made two panels shaped like triangles. The top panel showed the frightened creature walking down a forest path, looking back over her shoulder. The dividing line was a jagged lightning bolt, and below it there was a close-up of the unicorn's eyes looking up at storm clouds, with the woods and the darkness crowding in.

Still nodding, Greg looked at the third drawing and said, “This is good too.” Maura had already figured out how to use every bit of space—a big challenge on such tiny pages. One larger panel helped the reader understand the whole scene, and other smaller ones zoomed in on the most dramatic details. She had also trimmed the story down into a real comic-book script. The words were penciled into the speech balloons.

“Greg?” It was his dad. “Should we hold the movie?”

“Um . . . no, it's okay,” Greg called back. “I've
seen it. And I have to help on this a little. . . . It's some drawings. We'll be down in the playroom. I'll be there later.”

At the moment Maura's sketches were a lot more interesting than the Temple of Doom. Greg wanted to try inking one or two of them.

“Here.” He handed all the drawings back to Maura and pointed her toward the basement doorway. “Go down there. I've got to get some stuff from my room.”

Three minutes later Greg carried a bin of his art materials into the playroom. He dragged a chair over and set up a work area on the Ping-Pong table. He took Maura's cover picture out of the envelope, hurried upstairs to the family room, ignored his mom and dad and the movie, and made two copies of the cover—practice sheets. Greg trotted back to the playroom, sat down, chose a small brush, dipped it into a bottle of india ink, and began to experiment. The unicorn was going to be white, so that meant he had to darken everything around it. He loved working with the sharp contrast of black and white. He put down the brush, picked up a pen, and dipped its thin metal point into the ink. Time to add some
detail to the unicorn's mane.

Maura came and stood behind him, craning her neck to see. Greg ignored her. She moved to his right side, put a hand on the Ping-Pong table, and leaned in closer. “Hey!” Greg said. “Don't shake the table!”