Maura had turned two picture-book pages into ten panels—comic-book panels.
Greg was speechless, blown away. The sizing of the panels, the sequence of the pictures—Maura got it. She understood how a comic worked. These were just pencil sketches, and the scale wasn’t always perfect, but the drawings were still so strong, so powerful. With a little work, and if they were inked and shaded just right, they would be fabulous, they would be . . . dangerous.
Maura was watching his face. “What d’you think? Are they any good?”
Greg tried to keep his face blank as his mind raced ahead.
If he told her how great these were, it would be like unchaining a monster that was going to turn around and eat him alive. Because if Maura could make drawings like these, she could make fantastic comic books. And selling her comics? That would be easy—too easy. She’d get rich in no time. Maura was plenty smart. It wouldn’t take her long to figure out how to make copies, and how to fold and trim the pages. And here she was, standing in front of him, and she wanted him to approve, maybe even help her, give her some advice.
Greg kept his eyes on the paper. Knowing that Maura was looking at his face, watching for clues, he frowned. Then he slowly shook his head, and got ready to tell a lie. He looked up from the drawings. He was going to tell her these drawings were pretty bad, tell her she’d better stick with her little picture books, maybe tell her to give up drawing completely—and that she should definitely forget about the comics business.
All this took only a second to spin through Greg’s mind. He looked Maura in the eye, gave her a sad, understanding smile, and he said—But he didn’t. Because Brittany Paxton and Eileen Ripley rushed up next to Maura, and Brittany said, “Oooh, this is so sweet! First Maura and Greg have a big quarrel yesterday in math, then Maura throws Greg a little note in social studies, and now Greg and Maura are all lovey-dovey out in the hall.” Turning to Eileen, she said, “What sounds better, ‘Greg and Maura’ or ‘Maura and Greg’? I think ‘Maura and Greg.’ It’s perfect, don’t you think?”
And then came a flood of giggles.
A more experienced guy would have simply turned away and gone on about his business. But Greg panicked. No one, not even his notorious big brothers, had ever suggested he liked a girl, or that a girl might like him.
Except for the area around his left eye, Greg’s whole face turned deep pink. “Don’t be stupid!” he snarled. “I can’t help it if somebody throws paper at my desk, and I can’t help it if she sticks some dopey pictures in my face either. Here—take this junk.” He shoved the sketches and the book into Maura’s hands and said, “Get away from me!”
Eileen said, “Oooh—so tough—we better call him Big Greg . . . Big Greg and Maura.”
More giggles.
But by then Big Greg was gone, hurrying to his next class, trying to put some distance between himself and that whole scene.
And he succeeded. The gym was all the way at the other end of the school, and the second Greg got there he grabbed a basketball and challenged John Elders to a quick game of one-on-one. In two minutes he was breathing hard and sweating. He was losing, too, but that didn’t matter.
What mattered was that he had gotten away from those girls—all of them. Away from what Eileen and Brittany said, and away from their laughter.
But what Greg could not get away from was the wounded look on Maura’s face as he had shoved those pictures into her hands.
As he charged in for a layup, he thought, I didn’t ask her to show that stuff to me. If she likes her pictures, she can go ahead and try to do something with them. It’s got nothing to do with me. Like she said, it’s a free country. And as he spun around and scrambled for his own rebound, he thought, I don’t owe her one thing. What’s she ever done for me? . . . except steal my ideas and bother me every chance she gets.
But after saying all this to himself, Greg could still see that look on Maura’s face.
Chapter 13
LOCKOUT
By the middle of third period Greg had put the whole incident with Maura and Eileen and Brittany out of his mind. Gym class had helped. They’d had a great soccer game out on the big field, and he’d been the left forward—good for two goals. Plus he’d sold seven more copies of his comic book. And now the whole language arts class was having a big argument about which was better—Holes, the book, or Holes, the movie. Life was back to normal.
Then the intercom speaker next to the clock on the wall crackled to life. It was Mrs. Ogden, the school secretary. “Mrs. Lindahl?”
The teacher held up her hand for quiet. “Yes?” All eyes swung to the speaker, as if there was something to see.
“Pardon the interruption. Will you please send Gregory Kenton to the office?”
Mrs. Lindahl nodded at the speaker and said, “He’ll be right there.” Then she nodded at Greg.
When the secretary said his name, Greg had felt his stomach tighten, felt a tingle in his mouth and across the top of his scalp. But he pushed back the fear, stood up, and walked out the door into the hallway.
The hall was empty, quiet. His cross-trainers squeaked on the tiles as he walked. Greg told himself, Could be a message from my mom. Like maybe a dentist appointment after school. So I don’t take the bus home.
But Greg knew he was kidding himself. This had to be about something else. And when he turned the last corner and looked through the office windows, he knew. Maura was sitting on the little wooden bench on one side of the principal’s door. And Mr. Z sat in the chair on the other side. So this was going to be about what had happened yesterday, about arguing and yelling in math class, about getting whacked in the nose. Because fighting of any kind was absolutely forbidden at Ashworth Intermediate, a huge no-no, right up there with vandalism and stealing. And Mrs. Davenport came down hard on fighting. Always.
When Greg entered the office, Mrs. Ogden looked up and then pointed to the bench. Greg sat down.
Without turning her head, Maura whispered, “This is your fault. I have never been called to the principal’s office before.”
Greg snorted and whispered back, “Well, boohoo. We didn’t even fight. It was an accident. We can prove it. So relax. We’re just gonna get yelled at a little.”
“Or suspended, ” Maura said.
The principal’s door opened. “Mr. Zenotopoulous, Maura, Greg—please come in. Sit down.”
She pointed, and Greg and Maura took the chairs in front of her desk, and Mr. Z sat off to the right a few feet.
Mrs. Davenport sat down. “I’ve talked now with Mr. Z and also with the school nurse about what happened yesterday. I understand that Greg’s knock on the nose was an accident, and I’m ready to let it go at that. But I want both of you to know how serious I am about fighting. I will have none of that in this school—and I’m not going to have angry shouting or arguments either, because that’s almost the same thing. You two have a bad habit of not getting along. You both need to grow out of that, but until that happens, my advice—no, my direction—is that you simply keep away from each other. And to help this happen, Greg, starting Monday, you will have Mr. Scully for first-period social studies, and Maura, at sixth period on Monday you will report to Mrs. Toroni’s level-four math class. Any questions?”
Maura shook her head. Her face was pale. She wasn’t going to say a thing. She felt lucky not to be suspended. Or expelled. After all, she was the one who had thrown that wicked right hook.
Greg also shook his head. The new schedule was fine with him. In fact, it was great. The less he saw of Maura, the better.
Mrs. Davenport looked from face to face, and said, “All right, then. That’s that.”
Greg put his hands on the arms of his chair, all set to stand up and leave.
“Now about this situation,” the principal said, and she opened a folder. She held up a copy of Return of the Hunter in one hand, and a copy of The Lost Unicorn in the other. “I saw these in Mr. Z’s room yesterday afternoon, and he tells me that you two
have been selling these little books around the school. Is that correct? I’ve been seeing them all over, especially this one.” She shook the Creon comic.
Talking fast, Maura pointed at the unicorn book and said, “I only made five of mine, and I mostly gave them to my friends. I just sold one.”
Mrs. Davenport said, “Greg, what about you?”
He nodded at her other hand. “I’ve been selling that one since Monday. And everybody really likes it. So I’m working on a whole series. Did you read it?”
Mrs. Davenport seemed surprised, both by Greg’s chatty reply, and by his question. She gave a halting nod, and Greg said, “Did you like the story?”
The principal put a stern look on her face and said, “We’re not discussing the quality of your writing today. Do you remember the talk we had right here in my office last June? I told you I did not want you selling things at school. Do you remember that?”
Greg had an answer to her question. But he didn’t just speak up. Instead he raised his hand. He was about to tell the principal she was wrong, so it seemed like a good idea to wait politely for her permission to speak.
When she nodded at him, Greg said, “Last June I was selling little toys. And you told me that I wasn’t allowed to sell them at school. So I stopped right away, just like you said. And I’m not selling toys. I’m selling books.”
A student telling a principal she’s mistaken—that doesn’t happen very often. And there’s a good reason for that.
Mrs. Davenport’s eyes flashed, and with clipped words she said, “I know perfectly well what you are selling. This is a comic book, and in my view, comic books are practically toys, and bad toys at that. This is hardly what I would call a book. When I saw the first one of these on Monday, and I saw your name on it, I should have called you in here that instant and put a stop to it. Because look what’s happening now.”
Mrs. Davenport opened the folder again and picked up four or five other little handmade comic books. She fanned them out like playing cards and held them up for all to see. Greg could only see parts of the covers, but what he saw didn’t look good. The artwork was crude and poorly drawn. One cover showed an evil-looking muscleman holding a big knife, and the title was Just in Time to Die. Another one was titled Crundoon, and it showed a huge slobbering monster biting off the top of a girl’s head.
After a pause to let the pictures sink in, the principal said, “Because of your example, everybody now seems to think that they can make nasty, violent stuff like this, and then bring it to school, and sell it.”
Greg put his hand up again, and this time he started speaking before the principal nodded at him. “But my comic’s not like that. I mean, there’s action in the story, and things get sort of rough, but I wasn’t trying to make it violent. It’s history. I based it on real Stone Age people—I got books from the library.”
Mrs. Davenport waved her hand. “I’m not going to have a discussion about which comic book is worse than another. I am going to say what I said to you last June, and this time let me be even clearer. Do not sell things at school. Do not sell anything. School is a place for learning and thinking. It is not a place for buying and selling. Mr. Zenotopoulous, do you have anything to add?”
The question caught Mr. Z off guard. “Um . . . well, I was just going to say that . . . that I think it’s important—what you’ve said to Greg and Maura. And . . . and that’s all.”
Mrs. Davenport stood up, and as if there were strings connecting everyone, the other three people popped up too. “Very well then,” the principal said. “We all understand one another. And I’ll be making an all-school announcement during sixth-grade lunch today so that everyone else understands too. Now, let’s all get back to work—our real work. This is a school day.”
And with that, the meeting ended.
In the hall outside the office, Maura turned right and hurried toward the science rooms. Since his language arts class was in room 25, Greg turned left and walked alongside Mr. Z. Neither of them spoke.
About halfway down the long hall, Greg wanted to ask Mr. Z a question. He held back, because the question seemed improper, too bold. But . . . hadn’t they both been knocked flat on their backs together, down onto the bloody math-room floor? And hadn’t they discussed money and careers and the Zenotopoulous Toilet Theory? Didn’t sharing that experience mean they were sort of related now—not exactly blood brothers, but . . . something, right?
And so, relying on this odd feeling of kinship, and hoping that Mr. Z wouldn’t get offended, Greg worked up the nerve to ask his question. “Mr. Z? I was wondering . . . do you really agree with Mrs. Davenport, with everything she said?”
Mr. Z hesitated half a second, and then nodding his head, he said, “Mrs. Davenport is very logical. Kids can’t be scrounging around all day trying to make money at school. It’s not the right place for that.”
“But what she said about comic books?” Greg asked. “And my comic book? Do you think my comic book is ‘nasty’? And ‘violent’?”
It took six steps along the hallway before Mr. Z had an answer to that one, almost to the door of room 25. “Personally, I have nothing against comic books. And as a comic book, I didn’t mind yours at all. It’s actually quite good. But as something to sell at school, no. Mrs. Davenport’s right about that part.”
Greg went back to his desk in language arts class feeling a little better. At least Mr. Z wasn’t lumping Creon in with those other comics. But the facts were still pretty discouraging. He wasn’t going to be able to sell his comics at school. Sure, he could still write stories, still do his drawings, and still make all the comics he wanted to. And he could even try to sell them to kids some other way. But it would be so much harder. There didn’t seem much point to it. School was where the kids were, and the kids were his readers, his customers.
And it had to happen just when things were going so well, too. Fourteen more units, and he would have made his goal for the first week—one hundred comics sold.
It felt like another punch in the nose.
Chapter 14
SEVENTY-FIVE PERCENT OF NOTHING
No lunch recess. It was the only thing Greg really hated about sixth grade. After the kids finished eating, they had to dump their trays, sit back down, and wait for the bell. No walking around, no loud talking, and Mr. Percy, the custodian, was always there, leaning on his mop handle, watching.
It reminded Greg of mealtime in an old prison movie. Mr. Percy was like the guard, always edgy until the prisoners were locked up in their cells again. Except the convicts got to go out into the exercise yard every afternoon, and the sixth graders didn’t.
Greg had done some thinking since third period, and he’d decided he ought to say something to Maura about her drawings. He hadn’t actually lied to her in the hallway after social studies, but he had come close. And he remembered that hurt look she gave him as he’d shoved her pictures back in her face.
Yes, Maura was annoying, and she was a copycat, and he was glad Mrs. Davenport had fixed it so he was going to see even less of her every day. Still, she had gone out of her way to ask his opinion about her drawings, and her excitement about comic books seemed real. So why not tell her the truth about her artwork? It was the least he could do. And besides, it wouldn’t cost him anything now that he couldn’t sell comics at school.
Greg knew that if he went over and tried to talk to Maura at her table, he’d be surrounded by girls. No way could he say what he wanted to with an audience like that. Plus, with Mrs. Davenport’s orders to keep away from Maura, he didn’t dare just walk up to her.
So he ate fast and watched carefully. And when Maura got up to take her tray to the drop-off window, Greg made his move. His timing had to be perfect. It was, but Maura saw him coming.
As Greg slipped into the short line behind her, he saw her shoulders stiffen. So he talked fast, his voice low. “That thing in the office went okay, don’t you think? I mean, it stinks not being able to sell comics anymore. But
at least we didn’t get in trouble. Not even a detention. Pretty good, huh?”
Maura didn’t turn, didn’t nod, didn’t react. Nothing.
So Greg took a deep breath and said, “Listen, I didn’t mean what I said. After social studies. When Eileen and Brittany came up. But you heard what they said. And it just—”
“Just what?” Maura hissed, still keeping her back to him. “Did the big, mean girls scare you? You could’ve said something like, ‘We’re just talking,’ you know. Because you only made everything look worse, which is just what they wanted. Besides, who’s stupid enough to even care what those two think? Oh . . . I forgot—you are!”
If Maura wanted to trade insults, she was messing with the wrong guy. “Oh yeah?” Greg said. “Well, you’re—”
“I’m what?” Maura whipped around so fast that the empty milk carton flew off her tray.
Greg had the words. He could have hit her hard. But that wasn’t what he wanted. He took a breath.
Again Maura demanded, “I’m what?”
“You’re . . . you’re right,” Greg said. “What I did was stupid. And what I said was stupid. So . . . I’m sorry.”
Then he bent down, picked up her milk carton, and tossed it into the recycling barrel along with his own.
“Oh . . . ,” Maura said. She was surprised he’d apologized, and also that he’d picked up her trash. She said, “Um . . . thanks,” and then slid her tray onto the conveyor belt.