Lunch Money Page 5

  Chapter 8

  TWO DOWN

  When Greg got to Mr. Z’s room after school on Thursday, no one else was there. He sat at a desk in the front row and looked over at the clock. It was already 3:05. Greg thought, Six minutes. If he’s not here in six minutes, I’m going to soccer.

  A minute later Maura burst into the room. “Sorry, I know I’m late, but I—” Then she saw only Greg was there. She stopped and then walked to the front of the room. “I thought I was late.”

  “You are late,” said Greg. He jerked a thumb toward Mr. Z’s desk. “Just not as late as he is.”

  Maura sat down a few seats away and turned to look out the windows.

  A minute went by. The empty school felt too quiet to Greg. He said, “Um . . . so what’s he want to say to us anyway?”

  Without turning her head, Maura said, “Three guesses.”

  “Right,” said Greg.

  Then he remembered what Maura had said about his comic book: . . . it was okay, but—

  Greg wanted Maura to finish that sentence. Then he thought, What do I care what she thinks?

  But after another minute of silence, his curiosity won out. Still, he didn’t want Maura to think he actually cared what she thought.

  Then he hit on a way to bring up the subject. Greg said, “I read your unicorn book. It was good . . . for what it is.”

  Maura turned to face him, arching one of her pale eyebrows. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing,” said Greg. “It’s not really my kind of story, that’s all—you know, princesses and unicorns. I like comic books. And your book isn’t a comic.”

  “So why did you read it?”

  Greg shrugged. “It was the only reading material I had in the nurse’s office. I was bored. How come you read my story?”

  Maura tossed her head. “Same reason.

  There wasn’t anything better to do in math.”

  “But you bought a copy of mine—and you said it was good, right?”

  “Yeah,” Maura admitted, “but . . .”

  That’s what Greg had been waiting for. “‘But’ what? What didn’t you like about it?”

  Maura was quiet a moment, and when she spoke, Greg saw she was choosing her words carefully. “Well, it’s sort of like what you said about my book, about it not being your kind of story? See, I know you want to try to sell a lot of copies—”

  Greg interrupted, “Because you think I’m a greedy little money-grubber, right?”

  Maura’s eyes flashed. “Can you just listen?”

  Greg nodded, and Maura continued. “I liked the story, and I liked the artwork, too. But I don’t think many other girls would. And since half the kids at school are girls, if you write boy stories, you’re only going to sell half as many books as you could.”

  Greg pretended to look shocked, and then shook a finger at Maura. “‘Boy stories’? I’m going to tell Mrs. Sanborn what you said.” Mrs. Sanborn was their social studies teacher, and she talked a lot about equal rights for women—and girls. She got furious whenever someone suggested that men and women or boys and girls should be treated differently.

  Maura said, “Don’t be dumb. I’m not talking about equal rights. I’m talking about what girls like. And boys. And no matter what Mrs. Sanborn says, most boys don’t pick stories about princesses, and most girls don’t pick stories about cavemen with spears.”

  As Maura finished that sentence, Mr. Z walked in. “Cavemen with spears? Are you two calling each other names again?”

  Maura and Greg shook their heads, and Mr. Z said, “Good. I was delayed in the office. I was afraid I’d get here and find you two wrestling on the floor or throwing chairs at each other. But you’re not name-calling and not fighting. Looks like progress.” He pulled a front-row desk forward a few feet, turned it around, and sat down midway between them.

  Mr. Z had been planning what he would say to Greg and Maura all afternoon. He already knew exactly where he wanted this meeting to end up, but he was prepared to take his time getting there. In his mind it was like a math problem: He would add right ideas, subtract wrong ones, divide fuzzy thinking by pure logic, and then he and the children would nod and smile at one another as peace and understanding multiplied itself.

  Looking first into Maura’s face and then into Greg’s, Mr. Z said, “Now, tell me precisely what started that mess during sixth period. Greg, you first.”

  Greg took a deep breath and then let it out slowly. “Well, it really started at the end of lunch period. That’s when I found out Maura was selling little books like mine, ripping me off.”

  “I did not rip you off!”

  “Maura—” Mr. Z raised a warning finger. “Quiet. Your turn’s coming.”

  Maura nodded, but kept on talking. “He just said a minute ago that my story is nothing like his!”

  “Yeah,” said Greg, his voice rising, “but it’s still a minibook, right? Admit it—you ripped me off!”

  “QUIET! Both of you!” Mr. Z was not used to raising his voice. “I am not going to put up with this. If you two can’t talk this out with me, then I’ll turn the whole matter over to Mrs. Davenport. And your parents.” He looked from Maura to Greg and then back again. “Is that clear? Now I asked Greg to speak first. Maura, not another word.”

  Turning to Greg, he said, “So you found out Maura had these booklets for sale, and you got mad. Anything else?”

  “Well,” said Greg, “just that it didn’t seem fair. It was my idea. So, yeah, I got mad. And I came to class that way, and . . . you saw the rest. And that’s all.”

  Mr. Z nodded and said to Greg, “Okay. Now it’s your turn to listen—not one word.” Turning to Maura, he said, “Let’s hear your side.”

  Maura shrugged. “There’s not much to tell. I mean, what did I do? I was sitting here in class, and he comes blasting in and starts shouting and throwing stuff in my face. And me hitting him? That was an accident—he said so himself, to the nurse. So I didn’t do anything.”

  “Pfffhh!” Greg pushed a puff of air between his lips—not a word, but close enough to draw a glare from the math teacher.

  Mr. Z turned back to Maura. “Show me your little book. Do you have one?”

  Maura zipped open a pocket on the front of her backpack, pulled out a copy of The Lost Unicorn, and handed it to Mr. Z. He quickly turned the pages, scanning the text and looking at the pictures.

  Then turning to Greg, he asked, “And how about yours?” Greg took a copy from his pencil case and handed it over. Again Mr. Z did a skim.

  Looking up from Creon’s face to Greg’s, he said, “So even though these are clearly very different items, you’re still mad that Maura did something similar, right? Used the same idea?”

  Greg nodded. “Right. My idea.”

  Looking Greg in the eye, Mr. Z said, “So you agree with me that a little book with pictures is an idea?”

  “Yeah,” said Greg, “of course. Like I said. It was my idea.”

  Mr. Z shook his head. “That’s not what I said. I said, a little book with pictures is an idea—not that it is your idea.” Then, holding up both minibooks between his thumb and index finger, he said, “These two different things are still just one idea. Right?”

  Greg nodded. “Right, and the idea was mine. First.”

  Mr. Z leaned forward. “But the thing about a true idea is that no one can really own it—even the person who uses it first. In mathematics the Sumerians were the first to use the idea of place value—over five thousand years ago. But they do not own that idea. And when you sit here in my room adding large numbers, and you carry tens or hundreds over into the next place column, does a Sumerian come running into the room and say, ‘Hey—quit it! That’s my idea!’”

  Greg didn’t answer. He lowered his eyes and stared at a smear of green gum on the floor.

  Mr. Z went on. “Now, if Maura had used your character, this Creon guy, or if she had made her drawings look just like yours, then I think you’d have more re
ason to be upset. But she didn’t do that. She used an old idea—a small book—in her own way. And yes, she might have seen you do it first. But that’s the way ideas work. They spread. So I don’t think you should be mad at Maura. If anything, you should feel flattered. Someone thought the way you used an old idea was so new and interesting, that she wanted to try it out for herself.”

  Mr. Z paused.

  Greg was looking down at his feet, studying his sneakers. He’d decided to just let Mr. Frizzyhead talk himself out. Why argue? The sooner this guy finished yakking, the sooner he could leave for soccer practice.

  “Look at me, Greg.”

  Greg tipped his head back. He flicked his eyes to the teacher’s face and then back to the floor. The math teacher said, “Is any of this making sense to you?”

  Greg shrugged. “Sure. I guess so.”

  “Then I think all this adds up to one thing.” Mr. Z paused, waiting for Greg to look him in the face. It didn’t happen, so he said. “Greg, you need to apologize to Maura.”

  Greg’s head jerked up. “Apologize? Me? No. No way.”

  Maura knew how stubborn Greg was, and she’d liked the talk they’d been having before the teacher had arrived. She quickly said, “It’s okay, Mr. Z. He doesn’t have to apologize.”

  Mr. Z said, “Yes, he does. First he has to apologize to you, and then he has to apologize to me for making a huge disturbance in my room and wasting precious class time. And all because of a comic book.”

  Greg felt the fury rising in his chest. He wanted to tip his head back and howl like Creon. He wanted to get up close to this man’s huge nose and shout, “I’m the guy with the black eye here. I’m the one who’s had his idea ripped off. Apologize? That is so stupid—no, actually, you’re stupid!” Greg felt his face getting red, felt his heart pounding.

  And then, for the second time in one day, Greg felt his nose begin to bleed. Only this time it was a real gusher. Blood streamed out his left nostril, over his lips, and dripped off his chin, spattering his shirt and the desk.

  Mr. Z put one hand over his mouth and with the other, he pointed a shaky finger, his eyes wide. “Oh . . . oh. Your nose. It’s . . . it’s . . .” But he couldn’t say the b word.

  Mr. Z’s face went pale as paper. Sweat stood out on his forehead, and behind the hand still covering his mouth, his breath came in gasps.

  Earlier, Greg hadn’t noticed Mr. Z’s reaction to blood. This time he couldn’t miss it. And he decided to enjoy it.

  Greg leaned forward and nodded at Mr. Z, making no effort to stop the flow. “Yes, my nose is bloody, very bloody. It’s bleeding, and blood is getting all over the place—bloody, bloody, blood.”

  Mr. Z turned away, almost throwing up.

  “Greg!” Maura snapped. “Stop it! That’s mean.” She’d already grabbed the tissues from the teacher’s desk. “Here.” And she pushed the box into Greg’s hands.

  Turning to Mr. Z, she said, “Can I get you something . . . some water?”

  Mr. Z shook his head. “I . . . just need to . . . lie down.” And with Maura to steady him, he eased out of the desk and onto the floor, flat on his back, eyes closed.

  “Now you,” Maura said to Greg. “Sit on the floor and lean forward. And squeeze your nose. Hard.” Greg followed orders, but then decided he’d be more comfortable lying down.

  Maura said, “I’ll get the nurse. And a cold pack—two cold packs.”

  And she left Greg and Mr. Z littering the floor of room 27.

  Chapter 9

  APOLOGIES

  Greg lay on his back, completely still. Even with one nostril plugged, he picked up the oily scent left over from last night’s dust mopping. He watched the second hand on the big wall clock and listened to Mr. Z’s deep breaths. His math teacher was also stretched out on the floor, about ten feet away.

  And Greg thought, Now I’m completely sunk. This guy is gonna ruin me. And then another, deeper voice said, Yeah, and I deserve it. And Greg knew that second voice was telling the truth.

  He said, “Mr. Z?”

  In a voice so weak it was hard to hear, Mr. Z said, “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry, about the blood stuff—after I saw it made you sick. Maura’s right . . . it was mean. So I’m sorry.”

  Mr. Z was quiet, and then he said, “I know it’s irrational, my reaction to . . . that. It’s only a liquid . . . and only a word. But seeing it, and hearing that word, and thinking about it—it gets me, every time.”

  Greg thought a moment. He said, “With me, it’s snakes.” And lying there on the floor, Greg shivered. “I don’t even like pictures of them.”

  Mr. Z said, “Ah, yes—pictures. When I was in junior high, I thought I wanted to be a doctor. I went to the public library and found a medical textbook. It had pictures. That was the end of my medical career.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Irrational. Anyway, apology accepted.”

  After a moment Mr. Z said, “What about the other matter, losing your temper over the little books? Any apologies for that?”

  Greg didn’t say anything.

  Mr. Z said, “Earlier, when I told you I was delayed in the office? I was looking through your student file. And Maura’s. You two have quite a history of conflict. And I thought I was going to be the big problem solver. I thought getting you to apologize would be a help. For both of you.”

  Greg turned his head to look at Mr. Z, moving a little so the legs of the desks didn’t block his view. The teacher had his eyes shut, and his face still looked pale. “But you don’t understand,” Greg said. “About my comic books, I mean. I worked all summer. It’s like this whole business I’m trying to start, and it’ll make tons of money. And at the start of math class I was thinking Maura would mess it all up.”

  “What—you don’t think that anymore?” asked Mr. Z.

  “Not really,” said Greg. “I got a better look at her minibook. She’s drawing all her pictures by hand, making her books one at a time.”

  “And you’re not.”

  “No,” said Greg. “I make one original, and then print the rest using a copier.”

  “Ah—,” said Mr. Z. “Mass production, economies of scale, increased profits, and market dominance, right?”

  Greg only understood about half of that, but he said, “Right. I can make forty or fifty copies in an hour, and the materials cost around two cents per copy. Then I sell each one for a quarter. And I’ve got about twenty more comics all planned out.”

  Mr. Z opened his eyes and turned his head to look at Greg. “You see that? Talking was good. Helped me understand. So why didn’t you just talk to Maura?”

  Greg shrugged. “Because she’s so . . . annoying.”

  Mr. Z’s eyes drifted to the blood on Greg’s shirt, and he quickly turned his eyes to the ceiling. He said, “I’ve got a theory about why you two keep fighting. You’re both very much alike. And you’re each too stubborn to take a step toward being friends.”

  Greg wasn’t sure what to say to that, and while he was thinking, Maura came back into the room with the principal right behind her.

  Mrs. Davenport said, “My goodness! Looks like an emergency room in here! A bleeder and a fainter come face-to-face—what are the odds of that? If we can patch up the math teacher, he can run the numbers and figure that out.” She chuckled. “Mrs. Emmet’s gone, so I’m your nurse, like it or not.”

  She went to Greg first and handed him a cold pack. “Maura tells me you already know what to do with this.”

  Greg nodded and pressed the blue plastic bag against his nose.

  The principal gave a towel and a cold pack to Mr. Z, then she pulled a desk closer and lifted his feet onto the seat. “Get the feet above the head—that’s first aid for big, strong swooning victims.” Mrs. Davenport chuckled again. Mr. Z did not.

  The principal said, “Greg, I’ve already called your mother, and she’ll meet you at home. Maura’s mother is coming in about five minutes, and she’s driving you both.”

 
Then she turned to Maura and said, “Would you go to the girls’ room across the hall for me? Wet paper towels. We’ve got to get Greg cleaned up so that Mr. Zenotopoulous can get up off the floor. Or . . . we could just wait until it gets dark and all the b-l-o-o-d becomes invisible.” She chuckled, and then said, “Sorry about the jokes. I’m just relieved this isn’t more serious.” Then turning back to Mr. Z, she said, “And I know all the other teachers will also be relieved when I tell them all about it tomorrow.” More chuckles.

  Greg had never heard Mrs. Davenport make a joke before, had not known such a thing was possible. And lying there on the floor, Greg thought, Mr. Z’s gonna get teased by the teachers tomorrow because blood makes him faint. And I’m gonna get teased by the kids because I got a black eye from a girl.

  Mrs. Davenport used the wet paper towels to clean up Greg’s face, and then the desk and floor. It was a big mess, and before she was done, Maura had to go back for more supplies.

  “All right, Greg, up you get . . . slowly . . . and keep your head steady.” Mrs. Davenport helped Greg to his feet and then into a desk. “Stay put while Maura waits for her mother out front. I’ve got to get back to the office. Mr. Zenotopoulous, will you be all right for another few minutes—or shall I call for an ambulance?”

  Greg could hear her chuckling as she walked away. He looked down at Mr. Z and said, “Does she always joke around like that with teachers? ’Cause she’s not like that with kids.”

  Mr. Z smiled weakly. It didn’t seem proper to talk about Mrs. Davenport with a student, so he said, “Most teachers have a sense of humor—and that includes principals.”

  Greg stared down at his blue-and-white soccer shirt, now streaked with blood. Greg thought, Red, white, and blue—very patriotic. He moved the desk so Mr. Z wouldn’t be able to see his front. And then he thought of a question.

  “So, Mr. Z, do you wish sometimes that you could have been a doctor? Like you said? Or maybe some other job like that? I mean instead of just being a teacher. Because if you’d been a doctor, you’d probably be really rich by now. Doctors make so much money. You know Ed McNamara? His dad’s a doctor, and they’re super rich.”