Lunch Money (11 page)

Maura said, “Mr. Z told everybody to pay
special attention to the decimal points. And he said he might give a quiz. Which means he probably will.”

“Good,” said Greg. “I mean, that's good to know. Yeah . . . good. This is good.”

Already this was the longest phone conversation Greg had ever had with a female who was not his relative, or at least thirty years old, or both. Plus, Greg couldn't help remembering what Mr. Z had said, that he thought Maura found him
interesting.
Even with a topic as safe as a math assignment, Greg felt the strain. He was ready to sign off.

Then Maura said, “I read your comic book again. It makes my unicorn story look just
awful.
I know you said mine isn't a comic book, but I don't really get what that means. Prob'ly because I haven't looked at comic books much. Tommy has some, but I never got into reading them. So I don't really know what makes them so different.”

Greg knew what the difference was. It was simple. Because a good comic book is almost like a movie. The words of a comic book are like the script. Every panel is a little scene that moves the story ahead, and time can be speeded
up or slowed down, just like in a movie.

And because he understood comics, Greg almost started to explain.

Then he remembered. This was Maura on the phone. Maura the copycat. Maura the idea thief. Maura the enemy.

So Greg said, “Yeah . . . well, listen, I've gotta finish my social studies reading.” And since he didn't want to be completely rude, Greg said, “Thanks. For the math assignment.”

“You're welcome,” Maura said. “Well, see ya round.”

Not if I see you first,
Greg thought. But he said, “Yup. Bye.” And he pushed the phone's Off button.

Sitting there at the desk in his room, Greg knew the
real
reason Maura had called him. It wasn't to try to help him out with his math grade. She had called to fish around for new ideas. She was trying to beat him at his own game. She was trying to get ahead, trying to figure out how to make her dumb little books better so she could make some cash.

And Greg thought,
Nice try, weasel brain. If you think I'm gonna help you make money, think again. You're on your own.

 

 

 

How come they call it a black eye?
Greg stared at his face in the boys' room mirror. It was Friday morning, three minutes before first period, and his black eye was spectacular—just as the nurse had predicted. The deep semicircle was mostly a rich red and purple plum color, rimmed with brownish yellow highlights that arched all the way up to his eyebrow. But there was no black at all.

After the teasing from his big brothers the night before, Greg had gotten on the bus with a good idea of what to expect from the guys at school. But nothing much had happened. Each time the bus stopped, he had moved around, scouting for comic-book customers, and kids had said things like “Nice shiner!” or “Rough night, huh?” Several had asked “How'd
that
happen?”
And that was about all. It was a nice surprise.

But as he left the washroom and made his way to Mrs. Sanborn's class, he had to work up some nerve. He had only two classes today with Maura—math was one, and first-period social studies was the other. He wouldn't get teased in math class—Mr. Z would see to that. But if word had gotten around that Maura had socked him, social studies could be a different story.

Class began, and he could tell some kids were whispering about him. But as Mrs. Sanborn took attendance, Greg was determined not to give it another thought. And anyway, he couldn't afford to. In social studies, daydreaming was dangerous. The day after each reading assignment, Mrs. Sanborn conducted a rapid-fire question-and-answer session, and class participation counted as one fourth of everyone's grade.

With her teacher's edition of
World Cultures
cradled in her arms, Mrs. Sanborn began pacing around the classroom, her words firing twice as fast as her footsteps.

“Mesopotamia is a Greek word that means what—Eileen?”

“Between the rivers.”

“Correct. Name one of the rivers—Daniel?”

“The Tigris River.”

“Correct. And the other one—Brittany?”

“The Euphrates River.”

“Correct. A larger region in the area that includes Mesopotamia—Salina?”

“The Fertile . . . Triangle.”

“Half right. The complete correct name of this region—Dennis?”

“The Fertile Crescent.”

“Correct. Another river that's in the Fertile Crescent but
not
in Mesopotamia—Greg?”

“The Nile River.”

“Correct.”

“One of the great ancient cultures associated with the Fertile Crescent—Carl?”

Greg was glad to get called on so early in the Q&A session. He could relax a little now, because there would probably be at least another ten questions before Mrs. Sanborn called on him again.

Like everyone else, Greg had his notebook open on his desk. They were all supposed to be taking notes. But Greg began sketching a picture of Creon riding an animal that looked like the Sphinx. And the face on the Sphinx looked a little like Mrs. Sanborn.

A folded slip of paper dropped onto Greg's desk from behind him. He quickly put his hand over it, but didn't dare turn to see who had thrown it. Mrs. Sanborn had just made a turn and was headed back in his direction.

“The name of the modern nation that includes the largest part of what was called Mesopotamia—Ted?

“Iran.”

“Incorrect. Susan—same question.”

“Iraq?”

“Correct. In ancient Mesopotamia, what material was most often used for building—Ennis?”

The teacher went past him, and Greg quickly unfolded the paper and held it flat on his notebook. It was a note. Holding his pencil and pretending to write, he read the message.

Greg read it again.

He'd seen kids passing notes before. But no one had ever slipped one to him. Sure, it was only from Maura. But she had underlined the word
love
five times. Of course, she was talking about comics. Even so, it was a lot to take in all at once.

“. . . was the most important use of clay—Greg?”

“Um . . . uhh . . . writing.”

“More specific?”

“Cuneiform writing . . . on clay tablets.”

“Correct. The rivers in Mesopotamia led to the invention of what important farming practice—Henry?”

It was a near miss. Had Mrs. Sanborn seen the note? Because if she captured it and read it out loud . . .

Greg crumpled the slip of paper in his left hand, stuffed it in his pocket, and began taking detailed notes about ancient civilization. But over 80 percent of his mind was worried about current events.

He thought,
Is Maura trying to be, like . . . my friend?

The answer to that seemed a lot like yes.

But why? . . . because she loves comic books?

That seemed odd. And sudden.

And if she
does
want to be . . . friends?

There was no clear answer to that one. Greg felt much more comfortable thinking of Maura as a nuisance, or a competitor—or even an enemy.

Mrs. Sanborn's strolling quiz finally ended. During the class discussion that followed, it would have been easy for Greg to turn around and catch Maura's eye, look her in the face, and try to see what she was thinking. But he kept taking careful notes.

And when Mrs. Sanborn let them begin their reading assignment, he could have turned and pretended to borrow something from Maura. Instead he opened his textbook. He pumped paragraph after paragraph of dusty history into his mind, trying to dry up his curiosity.

Greg's concentration slipped, and he remembered again what Mr. Z had said about Maura. He tried to forget all that, tried to remember his great publishing plans, tried to think about his sales figures for the week, about how he wanted to sell a hundred units, about how he had to make his goal.

But the end of first period was coming, tick
by tock. And then he'd have to walk out into the wide-open hallway. Maura had already warned him:
I
have
to show you something.
She was going to track him down, and there was nothing he could do about it.

So as Mrs. Sanborn dismissed the class, Greg decided all he could do was just walk out the door, head for gym class, and let the future come. And try not to get another black eye.

 

 

 

Maura cornered him before he got ten feet from Mrs. Sanborn's door.

“Greg! Look what I got last night. After we talked. From the library.”

Greg was relieved. It was just a big book. Maura had it out of her backpack, and she pushed it into his hands. She was excited. “It's called
Understanding Comics,
and it's great, and I read the whole thing last night, and I think I get it. Comics, I mean. How they work. And look at this.” She handed him two pieces of paper.