Lunch Money (20 page)

Greg looked over the audience and quickly counted twenty-nine hands. Among the small cluster of principals, only two did not raise their hands. And Mrs. Davenport was one of them.

Mr. Z made a note on a small pad of paper. Then he said, “Hands down, please. That was seventy-one percent of the grown-ups in the room. Now, how many of us read cartoon books when we were children or young teens—cartoons like Peanuts, or Garfield, or maybe Disney characters?” All but six hands went up.

Mr. Z made a note, a quick scribble, and said, “That's eighty-five percent of us.”

Then Mr. Z said, “And how many of us regularly looked at comics or cartoons in newspapers or magazines when we were between the ages of eight and twelve?” One hundred
percent of the hands in the room went up, even Mrs. Davenport's.

Mr. Z turned and smiled at the committee. “There's my proof. Apparently comic books and cartoons do not have the power to keep children from growing up to become responsible citizens like us—the kind of people who run schools and school districts, and decide how to spend millions of tax dollars every year. And I believe that the kids at our school will not be harmed by this Chunky Comics Club. If anything, I think they'll be inspired and engaged in a lot of constructive ways. So I rest my case, and as Maura said, I'm happy to be one of the teachers who makes sure that every item presented by this club is appropriate.”

Mr. Z nodded at the committee members, said, “Thank you,” then stood up and walked back to his seat.

The chairperson put a hand over her microphone and leaned first left and then right to whisper to the other members of the committee. Then she said, “Thank you, Mr. Zenotopoulous, and thank you, Greg and Maura, for your interesting presentation. The committee would like to take some time to
consider this request before voting. It's getting late, so if there is no other discussion, we can move on to the last item under New Business, the contract with the food-service company for the high school.”

Greg watched the chairperson as she looked out across the room. And Greg saw her eyes stop, saw her face change, saw that she was about to call on someone. Because someone wanted more discussion about the Chunky Comics Club.

Without even looking, Greg knew who it was. And he was right.

It was Mrs. Davenport.

 

 

 

Mrs. Davenport stood up and walked to the front table. Greg couldn't believe how small she looked. Seeing her walking around in a room full of other grown-ups, she only looked about half as big as she did at school.

But when she began to talk, Mrs. Davenport seemed larger than life, just like always. She nodded toward Greg and Maura and said, “It was good to hear students from my school speak so clearly and intelligently. And it was good to hear my colleague Mr. Zenotopoulous speak as well. He and I have worked together for over twelve years now, and I have great respect for his talent and his love of the teaching profession. But I feel I must add something to what he's said.

“I did not read comic
books when I was a child, and neither did any of my brothers or sisters. Comic books were forbidden at our home. We had plenty of things to read, but always books—real picture books and chapter books and novels. My mother felt that comic books were ‘cheap and trashy'—those are her exact words. On long car trips she read aloud to us—books like
Tom Sawyer
and
Charlotte's Web
and
The Swiss Family Robinson
—lots and lots of great books.

“We were not allowed to watch Saturday morning cartoons at my home either. Back then, I thought all of this was unfair. But by the time I reached college, I felt certain that a childhood without comic books and TV cartoons had been better and richer, not poorer. And as an elementary- and intermediate-school principal for the past eighteen years, I have tried to uphold the highest standards of literacy in our libraries and classrooms.

“But before I go on, I have to make a confession. When I arrived home from school late yesterday afternoon, there was a package waiting for me. I don't know who sent it, because there was no mailing label, no return address. When I opened the box, first I discovered this
note: ‘Please take a good look.' And under the note this is what I found.”

Mrs. Davenport walked back to her chair, leaned over, reached into a box, and then held up a small stack of comic books.

Standing in the aisle and facing the audience, she said, “There were twenty or thirty of these in the box. My husband was thrilled, because he remembered some of these from when he was a boy. And with some encouragement from him, I sat at home last night and I read comic books for the first time in my life. And here is my confession: I enjoyed myself.

“Please don't misunderstand me. Nothing will ever convince me that
Three Supermen from Krypton
or
Donald Duck in Volcano Valley
can be called great children's literature. But I am ready to agree that a good comic book can be fun—and basically harmless, as Mr. Zenotopoulous said.”

Greg was almost floating up out of his chair. He nudged Maura and whispered, “This is great!”

But the principal wasn't done.

Mrs. Davenport went back to the microphone and paused to look into the faces of the
committee members. “However, I believe we have to think carefully about this question of what gets sold to children at our schools. And especially what children sell to one another. What if a student decides next week that she wants to set up a stand to sell her homemade dolls out by the buses before and after school? Will you give her permission? Or what if a boy decides to bring his baseball-card collection to school so he can wheel and deal between classes? Try to imagine all the different things that children could dream up to sell to each other. Do we want our school to turn into a huge flea market? How can we give permission to this plan, and then not accept others? As a principal, it is up to me to make sure that my school continues to be a place for learning, not a place for buying and selling.”

Greg looked around. A lot of people agreed with what Mrs. Davenport had just said.

Mr. Z raised his hand. The chairperson nodded at him, and he stood up and said, “I agree with everything Mrs. Davenport is saying. School shouldn't become a place that's
all
about buying and selling. But it's
partly
about buying and selling, and we can't pretend it's
not. Schools are supposed to prepare kids for a happy, successful life. And one important goal of our school system is to turn out graduates who have something of value they can offer to the world—skills and talents and abilities that others will eventually pay them for. A math teacher gets paid money for teaching math, a principal gets paid money for running a school, and we all hope our students will one day be paid for their work too. So there's certainly nothing wrong with having kids learn about money and economics and profits and percentages. In fact, it would be wrong if we
didn't
teach them these things. Which is why we teach units on the economy and consumer education.

“What Greg and Maura have to offer should help other kids enjoy reading, just like the book clubs do. And their comics even go a step further, because these minicomics will encourage student writing and student artwork. The regular book club companies provide a wholesome service that supports education, and that's why they're allowed to sell books at school and make a profit. And everyone agrees that it's right to get paid for work that's done well.
These kids are asking for the same privilege, plus they've volunteered to donate a percentage of all their profits to the school library—which no book club has offered to do.”

Mrs. Davenport shook her head. “I still have trouble with the idea of actually selling things right at school.”

“But that's already happening,” Mr. Z said. He turned to Greg and Maura. “How many different companies did we find that are advertising or selling things directly to kids at Ashworth School?”

Greg said, “A lot.”

Maura nodded and started counting them off on her fingers. “There's the Domino's Pizza Day banner in the cafeteria, the Veryfine juice machine, the Frito-Lay snack machine, the POWERade machine by the gym door, the Coca-Cola scoreboard on the playing field, the Nike book covers on all our social studies books, the Mars candy fund-raiser posters in the gym, the Wilson and Spalding and Adidas names on all the sports equipment, and the big IBM letters on every clock in every room in the school.”

Greg said, “And there are tons of ads in all
the magazines for kids in the school library, plus all the sports biography books that are like ads for pro sports teams or NASCAR. And sometimes there are morning PA announcements about after-school bake sales or Saturday car washes at the high school. And there's the blue sweatshirt with the Champion logo that Mr. Kellet wears during every gym class. And the Apple logo on almost every computer. And then there's the stuff sold at the school store. Plus the book clubs.”

Mr. Z turned to the committee members and said, “I don't like the way children are treated as sales targets, and I know none of you do either. But we have to face it: Selling to children is big business, and we have to help kids understand this so they can make good decisions. I did some research, and do you know how much of their own money American kids in grades kindergarten through six spend every year? Thirteen
billion
dollars—that's billion, with a
b
—thirteen
billion
dollars of their own money. And that number grows every year.”

Greg was stunned.
Thirteen billion dollars!

A week ago Greg would have enjoyed that number. He'd have let that number slowly
absorb his entire mind. He would have let himself dream of grabbing huge hunks of that thirteen billion dollars for himself. But tonight the number struck him differently.

Greg suddenly saw that his giant plan for Chunky Comics was no more than a tiny speck, an almost invisible atom on the edge of a huge, whirling universe of money and products, of buying and selling.

Kids spent thirteen
billion
dollars last year. And part of that was spent by
me.
Greg kept careful records. He knew that during the past twelve months he had spent over four hundred dollars of his own money—the biggest chunk for a new iPod.
Because I'm a sales target, me and every other kid in America—Mr. Z just said so.

And sitting there at the front of the meeting room, Greg realized that he'd been thinking of the kids at school that same way, as targets. He was the hunter, and they were the prey. And what did he want from the School Committee tonight? A hunting license. He wanted permission to aim his comic books at every kid in the school.

And why? Was it to help kids become better readers? Or to help them get interested in writing and drawing? Not really. Greedy Greg
wanted to sell Chunky Comics so he could make money.