Mr. Z did not want to discuss his personal life. He just laughed a little and said, “My older brother’s a doctor, and he’s not rich.”
“Really?” Greg was surprised. “How come?”
“Because he lives in a part of Idaho where they needed a good doctor but there wasn’t a lot of money to pay for one.”
Greg said, “So how come your brother doesn’t move to Chicago, or Florida, or someplace like that?”
Mr. Z shrugged. “We haven’t talked about it much, but I know he likes where he lives, and he likes his work there. He’s not rich, but he certainly has enough. And for him, enough is enough.”
Greg said, “Well, I guess that’s okay for some people, but I want to be really, really rich. I’m going to make millions and millions.”
“Hmm,” said Mr. Z. “And what’s all this money going to be used for?” he asked.
“Money?” Greg looked at Mr. Z as if he was an alien. “What’s all the money for? To buy stuff. To go places and get whatever I want. And to do anything I want to. That’s what the money’s for.”
Mr. Z said, “So if you had all the money you wanted, what would you do?”
Greg shrugged. “Anything I wanted to. I could do . . . anything.”
Mr Z nodded. “Right, but give me an example.”
“Okay,” said Greg. “Like the house we live in now, my parents’ house? It’s not very big. Four bedrooms, two bathrooms, a basement playroom, a family room—just a regular house. So if I had enough money, I’d buy a house with something like ten bedrooms. And fifteen bathrooms. And two swimming pools, and this huge entertainment center with a home theater and surround sound and bass boosters. And a pool table. And air hockey too. Stuff like that.”
Mr. Z raised his eyebrows. “Hmm. Interesting.”
It was the way Mr. Z said Interesting, something in the tone and the timing. Greg felt a hint of disapproval from the math teacher, and that annoyed him.
Greg said, “So you’re saying that teachers get paid enough, and that you don’t want more money, right? And you’re saying that you don’t want a bigger house with fun stuff all over the place, and more bedrooms and bathrooms? Is that what you’re saying?”
Mr. Z smiled. “I’m not saying anything. But I will tell you something that I call the Zenotopoulous Toilet Theory: Most people can only use one bathroom at a time.”
After they both laughed a little, the room was quiet for a minute or so.
Then Mr. Z said, “What I was saying earlier, how you should be flattered that Maura tried to copy you? I wasn’t kidding. Ever hear the old saying Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery? I think that Maura thinks that you are . . . interesting.”
Greg made a face. “No way.”
“You know how teachers can tell which boys the sixth-grade girls like?”
Greg shook his head, and he wished Mr. Z would stop talking. He wanted to put his hands over his ears and sing “Yankee Doodle.” These were things he did not want to know.
Mr. Z went on. “Girls like the boys that they’re always mad at, or shoving, or turning their heads away from, or sticking their tongues out at. Never fails.”
From down the hall, Mrs. Davenport called, “Greg? Mrs. Shaw’s here. Need any help?”
Greg called back, “No, I’m okay.” He jumped up. He wanted to leave before Mr. Z found something else embarrassing to say. Holding the tissues and the cold pack in one hand, Greg got his things together.
Mr. Z said, “Could you leave me a copy of your comic book? I’d like to take a better look at it.”
Greg said, “Sure. It’s still there on the desk. With Maura’s. You can have it. Free.” He hurried to the doorway, but then paused and turned back. “Listen, Mr. Z, I’m really sorry about making a mess in your room. Both times.”
And Mr. Z said, “Aha—a second apology. Also accepted. That’s two for me. One more apology for Maura, and you’ll be all caught up.”
Greg didn’t smile. In his mind he said, Don’t count on it. Out loud he said, “Well . . . see you tomorrow.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Z, “and if I’m still on the floor here when you come to class in twenty-two hours, then Mrs. Davenport should call an ambulance.”
As Greg headed for the front doors, it was Mr. Z who was chuckling.
Chapter 10
SOMETHING FISHY
Greg was quiet in the car on the way home, and so was Maura, but it wasn’t awkward. Maura’s mom was perfectly happy to do all the talking.
“Oh, you poor dear. Let me look at—ooh, such a bruise! And my Maura did this? But it was just an accident . . . and you know that, don’t you? That it was an accident? Not like that time in first grade when you bumped Maura off the end of the sliding board. Or that time you threw the snowball into her face. But still . . . you poor dear! It must hurt like crazy. Is that compress still cold? . . . Good. Now you just lean back, because we don’t want your nose to start bleeding again—not here in the car. Mr. Shaw would give us all black eyes if that happened—I’m only kidding. But lean back . . . farther . . . that’s a good boy. Remember, Maura, when our Tommy got hit with that lacrosse ball? . . . Snapped his nose like a carrot stick, and the blood—oh! You would not believe it! And when I got down to that field . . .”
It was only a five or six-minute drive, but by the time he got home, Greg had heard a detailed description of every major blood-producing event endured by the Shaw family over the past fifteen years.
His own mom was not impressed with his condition. She gave him a quick once-over and said, “Go put that shirt in cold water in the laundry room, then take a shower. Since I’m home a little early, I think I’m going to make lasagna for dinner. How’s that sound?” And that was it—from his mom.
By dinnertime the bruise had spread under his left eye, and his big brothers wanted details.
“What do you mean, ‘an accident,’” said Ross. “Did you fall off the climbing wall? Or get hit by a baseball? What?”
Greg shook his head. “It was somebody’s hand.”
Edward said, “Some kid hit you?”
“No,” said Greg. “It was just a bump, and she didn’t mean to.”
“‘She’?” said Ross. “A girl did this? That’s lousy. I mean, if a guy whacks you, you can whack him back, but if it’s a girl—”
“Boys.” Their dad’s tone of voice froze the chatter. “Nobody in this family ‘whacks’ anybody. It was an accident. So just drop it, all right?”
Ross and Edward let it go—at least until after dinner.
Greg was sitting at his desk doing a tally of the day’s sales when both his brothers came bursting into his room. They each had painted on a black eye, and Ross, panting like he’d been running, said, “Hide us, hide us! Me and Edward, we were outside just now, and, and this whole gang of tiny little girls came up and started pounding us! It was terrible! They’re everywhere, they’re everywhere!” And then they both fell on the floor, howling with laughter.
Greg wanted to laugh too, but he didn’t dare. Ross was a high school sophomore and Edward was a freshman. The slightest encouragement of their madness could prove fatal. As coldly as possible, Greg said, “Very funny,” and went back to his numbers. He always did the accounting before he started his homework.
About twenty minutes later Greg was almost done with his social studies reading when his mom called up the stairs, “Greg . . . telephone.” He trotted out and grabbed the portable phone off the table in the hall.
It was the last person he wanted to hear from.
“Greg, it’s me . . . Maura. There was an assignment in math. And you weren’t there. So I thought you’d want to know.”
Greg said, “Uh, yeah . . . sure. I mean, I was going to call and get it from Ted.” And he thought, What, does she think I’m so stupid that I’d miss a math assignment? But in a fairly pleasant tone of voice he said, “So, what’s the assignment?”
“You have a pencil?”
“Uh-huh.” Greg had alread
y hurried back to his room for fear that his brothers might guess he was talking to a girl.
“On page seventeen, it’s exercise B,” said Maura, “all the even-numbered problems. And I could help, if you don’t understand it or something . . . because you weren’t there.”
“No, that’s okay,” said Greg. “I can do it. This stuff is still review. So this is good. Yeah . . . this is good.”
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.
Chapter 11
NOTES
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 m
ind, 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.
Chapter 12
A LOOK
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.
There were drawings on the sheets. Right away Greg knew what he was seeing. It was the rescue scene from Maura’s mini–picture book, The Lost Unicorn. First there was a close-up of the unicorn’s head, with its teeth showing and nostrils snorting, and a reflection of the ogre’s tower in its large, dark eye. Then there was a wide view of the creature with its head lowered as it charged the tree next to the tower, and then another close-up as its horn bit into the rough wood—complete with a spiky sound balloon. Maura had drawn the face of the princess in the tower window as the unicorn struck the tree; the tree falling against the tower; the branches cracking, leaves flying; the slippered foot of the princess on a branch of the tree; the princess pressing her face against the neck of the unicorn; and then the princess on the back of the rearing animal, with a final close-up of her hand twined into the hair of the unicorn’s mane.