Lunch Money Read online

  Greg glanced down and saw a minicomic. Then he noticed the expression on Ted’s face. “What?” he asked. “Something wrong with this one?”

  Ted nodded and said, “Take a look.”

  Greg turned the little book over. Ted was right. Something was very wrong with this one. Because what Greg held in his hand was not one of his Chunky Comics.

  A tiny banner on the front cover announced that this was “An Eentsy Beentsy Book.” The title was The Lost Unicorn, and the cutesy cover picture had been brightened up with colored pencil.

  A deep scowl formed on Greg’s face as he realized what he was holding. It was obvious: Some other kid was trying to cash in on his idea. And who was the person responsible for this . . . this sneak attack, this giant rip-off?

  Greg didn’t even have to look. He knew. Only one person would have dared to copy his idea like this. But Greg turned to the first page of the little book and looked anyway.

  And there was the proof, in tiny, perfect cursive, just below the title: “Written and Illustrated by Maura Shaw.”

  Chapter 5

  THE GIRL ACROSS THE STREET

  Greg Kenton had always lived on Maple Avenue. As a very young boy, Greg had sometimes noticed the girl across the street who helped her dad rake leaves, and sometimes he had seen her riding a tricycle around and around on her driveway. She looked like she was about his age, but she didn’t go to his nursery school or his Sunday school. So Greg didn’t know who she was—and he didn’t care.

  Greg’s world was small back then, and that little blond girl wasn’t part of it. Greg noticed the girl the way he noticed the neighborhood dogs, or the colors of the flowers growing next to the front walk, or the blinking yellow light at the corner. Even when they both started kindergarten at the same school, Greg went in the morning, and the girl went afternoons. It was like they lived on different continents. The concrete ocean between them was only thirty-five feet wide, but young children never crossed it alone.

  For his fifth birthday Greg got a Big Wheel, all blue and red and yellow with fat black tires. The hard plastic wheels made a huge rumbling sound, as loud as the trucks on Maple Avenue.

  The first day he had it, Greg rode his Big Wheel for at least two hours. Over and over he rocketed down his driveway, yanked the handlebars to the right, and then roared along the sidewalk, his curly hair swept back from his high forehead. And when he noticed the girl across the street sitting on her front steps watching him, Greg poured on an extra burst of speed, and he smiled and waved as he went grinding by. The girl waved back, but she didn’t smile.

  Then late one afternoon about a week later, the little girl wasn’t sitting on her steps when Greg went outside to ride. She was thundering around and around her driveway on a Big Wheel of her own—except hers was pink and green and white. And when Greg went speeding out of his driveway and zipped along the sidewalk, she did the same thing, a mirror image. And when Greg stopped at the corner of Tenth Street and headed back toward his driveway, so did the girl across the street. When he sped up, so did she. When he jammed his feet to the ground and slammed to a stop, she did too.

  Greg was annoyed, but he pretended to ignore her. He turned and slowly pedaled up toward the corner at Tenth Street again. He didn’t look, but he could tell by the sounds that the girl was doing the same thing over on her own sidewalk.

  Greg turned his Big Wheel around and put his feet on the pedals. Then he looked across the street. The girl had turned her Big Wheel around too, and she looked back at him, smiling. And when Greg nodded, they both took off.

  In seconds Greg was zooming along at top speed, legs pumping, hands tight around the plastic grips. The sidewalk sloped slightly downhill, and as he neared his house, Greg started to ease up. He had never gone down the block past his driveway before. But he glanced over and he could see that the girl wasn’t slowing down. So Greg kept going, flying toward the corner where the tall blue mailbox stood. In the places where tree roots had lifted the sidewalk, Greg bounced up off his seat, barely able to keep control. At this speed, if he tried to turn the corner at Ninth Street, he’d flip over for sure. So at the last possible second, Greg dug his sneakers into the sidewalk and skidded to a full stop, his front wheel inches from the curb.

  Looking quickly to the other side of Maple Avenue, Greg saw that the girl was stopped too, and also at the edge of the curb. And still smiling.

  Greg shouted across the street, “It’s a tie.”

  The girl shook her head and shouted back, “Almost a tie.”

  Greg frowned. “Want to race again?”

  “Maybe tomorrow.”

  “Because you’re scared, “ Greg shouted.

  The girl didn’t answer him. She just kept smiling, turned her Big Wheel around, and started pedaling slowly up the street toward her driveway.

  That was the first of many Big Wheel races, with each of them ending as a tie—or almost a tie.

  And soon Greg had learned the name of the girl across the street: Maura Shaw.

  Chapter 6

  SOUR BUSINESS

  Sometimes a disagreement between two kids stays that way—just between the kids themselves. But the clash between Greg and Maura had always been right out in the open, and it had deep historical roots. Their wrangling had been noticed by their parents, by their neighbors, by all their friends, and especially by every teacher who had ever had them in the same classroom.

  “Greg and Maura squabble like cats and dogs all day long, always trying to outdo each other. My classroom’s not big enough with those two around.” That’s how their first-grade teacher Mrs. Gibson had described the situation.

  “Maura and Greg are both so headstrong. They have a definite personality conflict.” That’s what their fourth-grade teacher Mrs. Haversock had said about it.

  “They’re like positive and negative numbers, always trying to cancel each other out.” That’s how Mr. Zenotopoulous tried to explain it. Now that Greg and Maura were both in sixth grade, he was their math teacher.

  And as Greg himself stood there outside the music room on Thursday afternoon, holding “An Eensty Beentsy Book,” his long, thin face drawn into a fierce scowl, how did he describe his problem with Maura?

  “I hate her guts!”

  Strong words. It was an expression Greg had picked up from watching old gangster movies. And it was also a stupid expression. Because if Maura Shaw’s guts had come walking down the hall, Greg wouldn’t have recognized them. The truth is, all guts are pretty much alike.

  But Greg was not thinking logically at that moment. And saying that he hated Maura’s guts did not feel like too strong a statement. If anything, it wasn’t strong enough. Because as far as Greg was concerned, Maura was no better than a common thief. She had always been a copycat, which would have been bad enough. But Greg couldn’t stand it when she tried to weasel in on his moneymaking ideas. Maura had been a bother for years. And now, this.

  Greg stuffed Maura’s book into his pocket just as the bell rang. He ducked into the music room and sat down. Mrs. Chalmers immediately began playing scales on the piano, and the class began singing warm-up exercises.

  Greg had his mouth open, and his voice went “Oh-ee-oh-ee-oh-ee-oh-ee-ohhh” along with the others. But Greg’s mind was elsewhere.

  He had big plans for Chunky Comics—huge plans. And Maura was going to try to sell her stupid Eentsy Beentsy Books at school and try to steal his customers. Maura was going to eat into his profits, maybe even mess up everything. Something had to change—Maura, to be exact. And she had to change right away, like today.

  But as Greg sifted through his past experiences with Maura, one particular incident jumped to mind, and it did not give him much reason to hope. . . .

  ***

  Greg’s first business outside his own home was a lemonade stand. He had sold his first cup of lemonade at the end of June during the summer after second grade, and he stuck with it every hot, sunny day all during July and August. The next summer he sold
lemonade again, and his customers came back. The second summer he started using the honor system. People served themselves, and just dropped quarters through a slot in the lid of a glass jar. That left Greg free to make money doing something like mowing a lawn at the same time.

  The first really hot day during the summer after fourth grade he set up shop once more. His new sign announced:

  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.”

  Gr
eg 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.