Authors: Andrew Clements
Maura nodded. “My parents think it's okay too. Only my mom more than my dad. He thinks it's sort of crazy. But they both said to thank you for helping. And they're both coming to the meeting too.”
Mr. Z took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Now there was truly no way out. He felt trapped. He honestly wanted to help these kids. And he honestly saw nothing wrong with either their comic books or their wish to make them available to their friends. It even seemed okay to make a little money. But sometime soon he knew he would have to talk to the principal.
Mr. Z had spent most of his life carefully avoiding disagreements and disputes. First in grade school, and then right through high school, college, and graduate school, he had learned to keep away from controversy. Because any situation that might include yelling could easily lead to pushing, and pushing sometimes led to all sorts of unpleasantness. Even
b-l-o-o-d.
But this current situation had conflict written all over it. He certainly didn't imagine that Mrs. Davenport was going to haul off and sock him in the nose or anything, but as he thought of facing her and explaining his involvement in this business, his hands began to sweat.
Then Mr. Z had a good thoughtâanother way out. He said, “Well, one thing I have to do as soon as possible is call the superintendent's office and ask if they have any room on the agenda for Thursday's meeting. We might
need to wait a month. Maybe we're too late.”
“But maybe we're not,” Maura said, “so I think we should go ahead and get ready anyway.”
Greg nodded. “Yeah, like we need a whole plan of what we say, and who says what. Because we really have to look like we know what we're doing, or I bet they won't even listen to us.”
“Then I think I should talk first,” Maura said. “Because I know exactly what we want to ask permission for.”
Greg snorted. “You? Why you? I know what we want. This whole thing was my idea, remember? I should talk first.”
“
Your
idea?” said Maura. “
I
was the one who saw the book-club flyerâand when I showed it to you, you didn't even see the point until after I told you. So don't start acting like this is all about you.”
“Oh,
right,
” Greg said, “because everybody knows that you're such a greatâ”
W
HAM
! Mr. Z slapped his right hand flat onto his desk. “E
nough
! I thought you two had gotten past this. And if you haven't, then just get up and leave, both of you.”
After a few seconds of silence Greg said,
“Sorry. I mean, if everyone wants Maura to talk first, that's fine with me.”
And Maura said, “No, it's okay. I don't have to talk first. That was stupid.”
Greg thought,
Yeah, really stupid,
but he kept his eyes on Mr. Z's face. Because he knew that without the math teacher's help, this idea was going nowhere.
Glad to see the immediate change in attitude, and pleased with himself for being so forceful, Mr. Z became the self-appointed chairperson of their little meeting. For the next twenty-five minutes they had a lively, friendly exchange of ideasâas Maura took furious notes.
And Mr. Z actually enjoyed himself. True, there was a dull ache in his right hand from whacking his desk, but the plan that started taking shape didn't seem crazy or dangerous or hopeless. In it's own weird way, it made perfect sense.
As the bell rang for homeroom, Maura believed that she might actually get the chance to have all the other kids at school read her stories and see her artwork. Mr. Z believed that the clear, almost mathematical logic of the
proposal might actually convince the School Committee that this was a good idea. And Greg believed that maybe, just maybe, Chunky Comics might actually make him a whole bunch of money.
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It was about twelve thirty on Wednesday afternoon, right in the middle of Mr. Z's preparation period. He was writing short equations on the board, one for every student in his next class.
Mrs. Davenport appeared in the doorway of room 27 and said, “If you have a minute, I'd like you to explain something for me.”
Mr. Z knew that voice. He turned around and saw the principal waving a sheet of blue paper.
“Sure . . . what's that?” he asked.
She took a few steps into the room. “It's the agenda for tomorrow night's School Committee meeting. And there's an item under New Business: âStudents and faculty advisor to propose new comic-book club at Ashworth Intermediate School.' ”
“Oh,” said Mr. Z. “That. I hadn't heard
anything yet. I was hoping that the School Committee wouldn't even consider the request. But it looks like they did.” The math teacher felt his hands begin to sweat.
Mrs. Davenport said, “Let me guess: The students are Greg Kenton and Maura Shaw, and the faculty advisor is you. Right?”
Mr. Z nodded. “And I had planned to talk to you just as soon as I found out if the committee was going to accept a presentation. Because I didn't want to cause . . . a stir. Not if it wasn't necessary.”
Mrs. Davenport smiled at his choice of words. She waved the blue sheet again and said, “And now it's necessary. So talk to me.”
“Well,” said Mr. Z, “you know these two kidsâboth of them so smart. And they figured
out that it's the School Committee who sets the policy about selling things in the schoolsâit was right there in your announcement. And they think their little comics are as good as some of the books the kids can buy here at school from the book clubs every month. So they want to make their case. And I sort of told them I'd help. That's all.”
Mrs. Davenport was still smiling faintly. “You offered to help? Even though you knew my opinion about all this?”
Mr. Z said, “I didn't exactly volunteer. But when they told me what they wanted to do, I guess I decided to stay involved. To try to represent the best interests of the school.”
Mrs. Davenport's eyebrows went up. “âRepresent the best interests of the school'? You didn't think I was already doing that?”
Mr. Z said, “Well, not exactly.”
The principal's eyebrows went up a notch higher. Mr. Z had been dreading this moment, but he knew what he had to say. He gulped and went on. “I don't think there's anything wrong with comic booksâwith the good ones, that is. And the ones these kids are making aren't bad. And they're definitely creative.
And maybe other kids should get a chance to read them.”
Mrs. Davenport nodded. “Ah . . . I didn't know that you'd become a reading expert.”
There was a long, awkward pause. Mr. Z practically held his breath, afraid to guess what was coming. When it came, he was completely surprised.
Because Mrs. Davenport slowly shook her head from side to side, and then began to chuckle. “A reading expert.” Then she smiled broadly.
Mr. Z began to breathe again.
She said, “Well, Mr. Zenotopoulous, I thank you for your pioneering work as a reading specialist, and also for keeping watch over our young tycoons. And I'll be there tomorrow night to hear the presentation. And who knows? I just might have an agenda of my ownâto represent the best interests of the school.”
And with that she turned and left, chuckling all the way back to her office.
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Thursday afternoon was scraping along like a glacier. Greg looked at the clock again. Not even four minutes had passed. It was still almost the beginning of fifth period. Mrs. Chalmers was teaching them a new piece of music, and she was working with the sopranos first. Then came the altos. And then finally, the tenors would get a turn. At this rate the school day was going to drag on for another month, maybe two.
Tonight was the night of the School Committee meeting, and Greg couldn't wait. He was eager to stand up and talk to the grownups, a whole crowd of them. He was going to state his case. He might even have an argument. That part was exciting to him. Greg was dying to see what everyone would think about the comic-book club.
But more than that, Greg wanted the whole
thing to be over, finished, settled one way or the other. He wanted it to be over so he could think about something else. Because for a solid week now, he'd been thinking about nothing but money. And during that week, money had become much more complicated.
Until his big blowup with Maura, and then his run-ins with Mr. Z and Mrs. Davenport, the question of money had been simple for Greg. In fact, it hadn't even been a question. Money was money, and money was great. It was good to make it, good to have it, good to save it, and it was always good to want more and more and more of it. Money? Simple.
Also, Greg's attitude about money used to be private. Until he had started trying to sell Chunky Comics, how he made his money and what he chose to do with it was nobody's business but his.
And tonight he was going to have to stand up in public and try to tell all these people why he ought to be allowed to sell his comics and make some money at school.
It helped that Maura was in on the deal, and Mr. Z, too. But Greg knew they didn't think about money the way he did. They thought
he
was a nutcase, a money maniacâa moneyac. And tonight what if everybody else thought so too? And worse than that, what if it was actually true?
Greg thought,
Maybe I really
am
a greedy little money-grubber. Maybe I really
don't
care about anybody but myself. “Ladies and gentlemen, meet Greg Kenton, the greediest, most selfish kid on earth.”
Greg looked at Mrs. Chalmers. She was going over and over the same sixteen notes with the sopranos, smiling, nodding, playing the piano, and singing along. It looked like hard work.
And I know she doesn't make a lot of money,
he thought.
None of my teachers do.