Lunch Money (6 page)

Less than an hour later the trouble began. Because there was Maura Shaw, right across the street, setting up her own lemonade stand under a bright beach umbrella with a big sign:

All afternoon Greg had watched helplessly. About half of
his
customers stopped and bought lemonade from Maura.

Two days later on a Saturday it got hot again, and by noon, there was Maura, sitting under her umbrella, selling bargain lemonade.

However, Greg had been thinking. He loaded an ice bucket and two jugs of lemonade onto a red wagon. Then he began pulling the wagon around the neighborhood, delivering cold cups of lemonade right into the sweaty hands of the people who were outside mowing and trimming and working in their gardens.
Direct delivery was a great idea, and some people bought two or three refills. Greg was making good money.

But twenty minutes later, there was Maura on the other side of the street pulling a wagon, selling her lemonade exactly the same way.

Greg had gotten furious. He looked both ways and then he'd marched across Maple Avenue and planted himself in front of Maura on the sidewalk.

She'd pushed a few strands of damp yellow hair up off her forehead. She looked Greg right in the eye and said, “You're in my way.”

Greg shook his head. “No, you're in
my
way.
You're
the one who's stealing my customers—and my ideas.”

Maura didn't blink. “I can sell lemonade if I want to. Anybody can. Like my mom. She sold lemonade when she was little. She told me so. And I can pull my wagon around anywhere I want to.”

Then Maura had taken a step closer and put her freckled nose about three inches from Greg's, her eyes big and blue and absolutely fearless. “So get out of the way.”

Maura probably outweighed him by fifteen
pounds back then, and Greg hadn't wanted to have a shoving match. So he'd moved off the sidewalk. But as her wagon went by, he had kicked the back wheel and said, “Why don't you try coming up with an idea of your own?”

Maura said, “Maybe I will,” and she stuck out her tongue.

“Yeah,” said Greg, “except you don't even have a brain.”

“I do too.”

“So prove it,” said Greg.

“Maybe I will,” Maura said again.

And Greg said, “I doubt it . . . brainless!”

For about a week after that, Maura didn't show up on the lemonade trail, and Greg had thought,
I guess I told
her
!
The weather stayed hot, and Greg had been making two, sometimes three or four dollars a day.

Then one afternoon he'd spotted Maura going from door to door around the neighborhood. She was wearing a yellow dress and white socks and little black shoes. And she was carrying something in a wooden picnic basket. Greg couldn't tell what Maura was selling, but he could see that money was changing hands. He had watched for about ten minutes, dying
to know what she was up to. Finally he couldn't stand it.

Greg slipped out his side door, ran across the backyard, trotted down the alley, tiptoed between two houses, and hid in the bushes next to the Jansens' front porch. He'd had to wait almost ten minutes, crouched in the scratchy hemlock branches, swatting at mosquitoes. Then Maura had crossed the street and walked up the Jansens' front steps. Her feet on the wooden porch sounded like a bass drum. Greg heard the bell, then little footsteps came running, and someone bumped into the storm door.

Maura said, “Hi, Timmy. Is your mommy home?”

Timmy Jansen was about three. After a long pause he said, “She's
my
mommy.”

Maura said, “Uh-huh . . . can you call your mommy for me?”

Another pause.

Timmy said, “She's
my
mommy.”

Maura laughed and said, “I know, so just turn around and shout, ‘Mommy—someone's at the door.' You can do that, right? So call her. . . . Go on, call her. Your mommy
is
at home, isn't she?”

Another long pause.

“She's
my
mommy.”

Maura gave up, and she called through the screen, “Mrs. Jansen . . . Mrs. Jansen? It's me, Maura Shaw. Is anybody home?”

Greg had heard bigger footsteps, and then, “Oh, hello, Maura. Don't you look pretty today! It's not Girl Scout cookie time, is it?”

“No, I'm selling pot holders. I made them myself.”

Over in the bushes, Greg had almost burst out laughing.
Pot holders? That is so
dumb
!

Mrs. Jansen thought otherwise. “These are
beautiful,
Maura—so colorful. And you say you made them all by yourself?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, I want these two for myself . . . and these blue-and-pink ones will go perfectly in my sister's kitchen. How much are you charging?”

“Two dollars each.”

“Oooh—a bargain. I'm going to buy an
extra
pair for myself.”

Greg heard Mrs. Jansen walk away, come back, and open the storm door. And
then Greg heard his favorite sound in all the world—the whisper of crisp bills as the money was counted out. Except the bills were being counted into Maura's open hand.

“Here's a five, and six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven . . . Would you mind taking four quarters?”

“Not at all.”

Greg heard the coins, then Mrs. Jansen had said, “And that makes twelve dollars.”

Maura said, “Thank you.”

“And thank
you,
Maura. We'll think of you every time we use these pot holders in the kitchen, won't we, Timmy?”

And Timmy said, “She's
my
mommy.”

Greg had heard enough. He slipped out of the bushes, scooted between the houses, and ran home.

It was hot, so he'd gone to the refrigerator and poured himself a glass of his leftover lemonade. It tasted sour.

Greg remembered grabbing a pencil and a memo pad so he could do some calculating. If Maura had gone all around the neighborhood, and if every mom who was home had bought a couple of pot holders, then . . . she might have
made as much as
fifty dollars
—in
one
afternoon! Fifty dollars was serious money.

Then the doorbell had rung, and his mom had called from the basement, “Greg? Would you see who's at the door?”

It was Maura.

She had smiled at Greg and said, “Hello, little boy. Is your mommy at home?”

Greg glared at her. Then he'd grinned and said, “She's
my
mommy.”

Maura's blue eyes had gotten wide, and then narrowed. She pointed an accusing finger and said, “You were
spying
on me, over at the Jansens'! Weren't you?”

Greg's grin got bigger, and again he'd said, “She's
my
mommy.”

Then—
whomp!
—he'd slammed the door in Maura's face. It felt so good.

The bell rang again, and as he opened the door for the second time, Greg called over his shoulder, “Mom, there's . . .
something
at the door. It's for you.”

Greg's mom had bustled into the front hallway. “Maura—I was hoping you'd be coming. Mrs. Altman called and said you were walking around selling the
prettiest
pot
holders. I hope you have some nice ones left for me.”

Greg had gone up about four steps on the front-hall stairs and leaned against the banister so he could look over his mom's shoulder. There was a yellow cloth covering the bottom of the basket, and the pot holders were arranged so they looked like diamonds instead of squares.

“These are
lovely,
Maura. How much do they cost?”

Maura had hesitated half a second, and then she said, “Three dollars.”

“Three?”
Greg said. “I thought they were
two
dollars each.”

But Maura had held her ground. “I've only got four left, and these are my best ones. These are three dollars each.”

Greg had known exactly what Maura was doing. She was raising her prices, trying to discover the most a customer would actually pay. It was a smart thing to do—something Greg would have done himself.

And sure enough, his mom had said, “Only three dollars for a beautiful handmade pot holder? I'll take all four of them.” And she'd gone to get her purse.

Maura had known she'd just won a battle. She'd looked up at Greg, given him a big smile, and said, “Still think I don't have a brain? I just made twelve dollars—
another
twelve dollars—right here at your house. Say . . . I'm thirsty.” She'd pulled a quarter from the pocket of her dress and held it out to him. “Could you get me a cup of lemonade?”

Greg curled up his lip and said, “I wouldn't give you—” But just then his mom came back. He hadn't finished that sentence. He'd turned around, stomped up the stairs, then down the hall to his bedroom, and slammed the door.

***

Sitting there in the music room more than a year after the lemonade battles, Greg still remembered clearly what had happened next. He had walked over to his bedroom window and watched Maura walk across Maple Avenue to her front door, swinging her empty picnic basket as she pushed another twelve dollars into her dress pocket.

And he remembered thinking that making those pot holders and selling them to moms had been a smart idea. And getting dressed up,
and putting that nice cloth in the bottom of the basket? Also smart.

And Greg remembered that he'd had to admit that the girl he had called “brainless” was actually a good thinker. Maura
did
have a brain. And not backing down when he had caught her charging three dollars per pot holder instead of two? That had taken some guts.

And remembering that Maura had guts reminded Greg how much he hated them.

Maura was a tough competitor. And in another thirty-five minutes, he'd see her, because they were both in level-four math.

It was time for a showdown.

 

 

 

Ashworth Intermediate School was a big outfit, and when you put four hundred and fifty kids, mostly between the ages of nine and twelve, under one roof, a certain amount of hubbub and clutter is normal. And therefore, room 27 was not normal.

Room 27 at Ashworth School was never messy, never loud. Room 27 was always like a peaceful island, an oasis of order and calm. That's because the small kingdom known as room 27 was controlled by Mr. Anthony Zenotopoulous, who, for obvious reasons, was known simply as Mr. Z.

Mr. Z was a man of average size, except perhaps for his head, which seemed a bit too large for his body. But that might have been an optical illusion caused by the burst of black and gray hair spiraling out one or two inches in all directions. Apart from his unruly
hair, Mr. Z dressed neatly, but not formally. He wore a coat and tie only for the end-of-year assembly. The rest of the time he wore khakis or corduroys and loose-fitting collared shirts, carefully ironed. He had piercing dark eyes and a bright smile, which made it harder to notice the large nose that lived between them.