Lunch Money Page 8

  Greg said, “You’re welcome,” and then he dumped his tray too.

  With his hands empty, Greg felt suddenly awkward. He missed having his red pencil case to hang on to. He stuffed his hands into his pockets. He said, “So . . . don’t you want to know what I was thinking this morning? About your drawings? Before . . . all that?”

  Maura said, “Yeah . . . but only if you were going to say something good.” And she turned and walked toward the crowd of kids at the dessert table.

  Greg followed her, glad that the noise and talking in the cafeteria seemed to be getting a little louder. The sound was like camouflage. He edged up next to Maura and said, “If you only want to know what was good, your drawing won’t ever get better.”

  She turned her head. “So some of it was good? Really?”

  Greg looked into her face to see if she was kidding. Her eyes didn’t lie. Maura actually had no idea how brilliant her pictures were. And it struck him that this might be the first time he had ever looked into Maura’s face when they hadn’t been yelling at each other.

  He turned his face forward, and took a step closer to the dessert table. Choosing his words carefully, he said, “I don’t want you to get all conceited or anything, because your pictures . . . well, they’re good. Maybe it’s just beginner’s luck or something. But I don’t think so. Because . . . you got it—the whole idea of how pictures work in a comic. The timing of the panels in that scene? You just . . . nailed it.”

  Greg sneaked a sideways look at Maura. Her cheek, usually pale next to her blond hair, was flushed with color. She was smiling slightly—trying not to, but smiling.

  He said, “There’s more. Ready?”

  Maura angled her head his way, but wouldn’t look him in the face. She nodded.

  He said, “Okay. Some problems. You know what scale is? In a drawing?”

  Maura nodded, and Greg said, “So tell me.”

  She said, “It’s when you make sure things look like they’re the right size compared to other things. Like, if a unicorn looks like it’s actually bigger than a tree, then the scale is messed up.”

  Greg said, “Right. So, in a couple of your panels, the scale was wrong. But only in a few. The truth is, they’re amazing. Just . . . incredible.”

  With something in her voice that sounded like fear, Maura said, “You’re not . . . just saying this, right?”

  Greg shook his head and said, “No.” Then he said, “I mean, I’m not some big expert or anything. But I’ve seen a lot of comics, and I think your pictures are really good. Really.”

  Without even looking Maura in the face, he could tell how much those few words meant to her. And it seemed like she actually cared about his opinion. It was scary to feel how much power that gave him. And suddenly Greg felt kind of responsible—like he wanted to help her. It was an entirely new feeling.

  But Greg didn’t let himself get carried away. His business mind kicked in, and in a flash he saw a way to be sort of helpful, and also to possibly make a little money.

  “So,” he said, “how’d you like to make your whole unicorn story over into a comic book? And then print some copies? And then try to sell them—not at school, but there are other places. If you want, I could help. And your comic could be one of the Chunky Comics. And if any of them sell, then you could even make some money, share in the profits. And if you come up with more story ideas, you could make more. And try to sell them. What d’you think?”

  It seemed like a decent idea to Greg. And a very generous offer.

  Without missing a beat, Maura said, “How much money would I get?”

  “Forty percent of the profits on every copy sold—just on your comics, not mine,” Greg added, again feeling generous.

  Maura shook her head. “Seventy-five percent. For my own comics. And you don’t get to tell me what my stories should be about or anything.”

  They both took a step closer to the dessert table.

  “Fifty percent,” said Greg. And he thought, She is the bossiest, most annoying, most—

  “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.”

&nb
sp; 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.

  Chapter 15

  LESSONS

  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!”

  “Well, what am I supposed to do?” she asked.

  “Do whatever you want. Watch TV. Go home. But don’t shake the table. Here, take this paper. And a ruler. And there are pencils and erasers in the bin. Make some more drawings. You can sit over there.”

  Maura set up a little work space on the low table in front of the TV. She sat on the floor with her back against the couch, facing Greg. She shuffled through her envelope of papers. She got out her story script and found the next page she wanted to work on. She used the ruler to draw the boundaries for the page. Then she made a few marks on the paper. She looked at them, and then erased them all. She made another start, but then stopped and rubbed it all out again. She couldn’t get into it. And she knew why: Sitting on the floor in Greg Kenton’s playroom was just too weird.

  Maura got up quietly and tiptoed over next to the Ping-Pong table. She stood at Greg’s elbow, watching him add tiny lines with a crow-quill pen. When it looked like a good moment to speak, she said, “I forgot to tell you. I really want to do all the lettering myself.”

  Greg looked up at her and made a face. “Well . . . it can’t be in cursive, like you used before. It’s too hard to read, especially when it’s small. How’s your printing?”

  “Are you kidding?” said Maura. “Mrs. Layton, in third grade? She had to force me to use cursive. I was so good at printing.”

  Greg reached for a lettering pen, the kind with a point that’s almost like a needle. He unscrewed the cap and slid a piece of lined paper toward Maura. “Here. This is the kind of pen you have to use. Don’t push hard, or you’ll wreck it. Try writing something.”

  Maura made a few marks to get the feel of the pen point, and then she wrote,

  This pen is different, but I like it.

  Greg looked at the sentence and nodded. “Pretty good.”

  It was actually neater and clearer than his own lettering, and he’d been working on his for two years. He said, “But you’ll have to practice and get it a little smaller, and you have to keep watching how many words you use—the fewer the better.”

  “I know that,” said Maura.

  “Oh, so now y
ou’re an expert, right?”

  “No,” snapped Maura, “but I’m not dumb. I really do get it, how the pictures have to tell most of the story. So don’t talk to me like I’m an idiot.”

  Greg bit back a perfect insult. He pointed at the other table and said, “So go be a genius over there, okay? I’m trying to get something done here.”

  For the next thirty minutes there was no talking—only the soft scratching sounds of pens or pencils on paper.

  Greg’s mom came to ask if they wanted something to eat, but she stopped halfway down the stairs, and then crept back up. She didn’t want to interrupt. Because what she saw reminded her of two kindergartners at the art tables, each child bent over some work, each completely unaware of the other.

  Which wasn’t quite true.

  Yes, Maura was working on a new minipage, and she was in that quiet, creative zone in her mind. But in the back of her thinking, she wished she could just walk over and stand behind Greg, watch him lay down those clear brush strokes and impossibly thin lines of ink. The kid was creative. Smart, too. And almost nice sometimes, like when he’d apologized in the lunchroom earlier in the day. And even when he was acting all tough and mean, he was still funny, like when he’d made her buy that ice-cream sandwich as part of the deal. Maura had to admit it: Sometimes Greg was actually sort of cute.

  And Greg hadn’t forgotten that Maura was sitting ten feet away. He glanced up at her every few minutes, just a flick of his eyes, as if to make sure she was still there. Her talent was amazing, and she seemed willing to try anything. Of course, any minute now, she would probably go nuts again, and do something that would make him want to strangle her. But when she wasn’t trying to rule the world, like when she kept her big mouth shut and just sat there wrinkling her nose at a drawing, Maura wasn’t that bad to have around. And think of it—a girl who loved comics. How cool was that?

  Almost an hour later Greg broke the silence. “There. Two pages and the cover, all inked. You get anything done?”