Maura nodded and stood up stiffly. “Two more pages.” She walked over and laid them on the Ping-Pong table.
Greg stood up and pulled Maura’s new penciled pages closer. And he reached over and spread out his finished inking work in front of Maura. Then both of them leaned over the table, each inspecting the other’s work. They were both impressed with what they saw, but there wasn’t any gushing.
“Yeah, those are okay,” Greg said.
Maura nodded. “Yours too.”
The phone rang, and Maura said, “Bet you anything that’s my mom.”
It was, and Maura had to leave.
“Here,” Greg said. “Take these home and do the lettering. You can borrow my pen.”
Maura nodded, and Greg sat down and went back to work.
She said, “I’m going to bring over more pictures tomorrow.”
Greg shrugged. “Whatever.” Then he thought a second and said, “But don’t come until about two.” He had promised to wash both of the Jansens’ cars before noon, and he had Saturday chores around home, too. Plus, both his brothers might be gone by two in the afternoon. They were always worth avoiding.
Maura gathered her things together and left. Greg didn’t walk up to the front door with her, didn’t even say good-bye. He was too busy.
Greg stayed at the Ping-Pong table almost another hour, and before he went up to say good night to his mom and dad, he had finished inking two more pages.
As he lay in bed looking at the patterns that the streetlight and tree branches made on his ceiling, Greg thought about the evening. Inking Maura’s drawings had been so different from working on his own pictures. He felt like he’d had to be more careful with hers—careful not to put too many of his own ideas into them, careful not to change her drawing style. And he had to admit it: The results were good.
But as he drifted toward the edge of sleep, there was something else he would not admit. Admitting this other thing would have been too dangerous. Because what Greg wouldn’t admit was that he was almost sort of a little bit maybe halfway glad about Maura. Coming back. To work on her comic again. On Saturday. At two.
Chapter 16
ART AND MONEY
Greg started watching for Maura a little before two on Saturday, and when she arrived ten minutes later, he opened the front door before she could ring the bell. Edward was gone for the afternoon, but Ross was upstairs. He had done his morning chores and gone back to bed. It was always best to let sleeping big brothers stay that way. There’d be a lot less chance of getting teased about having a girl visit. Not that there was anything to tease about. Maura had only come over to work.
She had already finished the lettering on the cover and the two pages Greg had inked before she left Friday night. And she had also done the pencil sketches for all but three pages of the rest of the comic.
Maura followed Greg down the steps to the playroom. They went and sat in their places. Greg dipped his brush, Maura sharpened her pencils, and they both got right to work. It was all business. There was no chat, barely a word between them for almost two hours.
The inking work went well, and by four thirty Greg had five more pages ready to letter. Maura had finished her last three drawings, and then she’d started in on more lettering. Greg was amazed at how much faster the work went when he didn’t have to do every step by himself. The playroom was like a little comic-book factory.
Maura left a little after five because she had to go out to dinner with her family, but she took all the inked pages with her, and promised to bring them back Sunday afternoon with the lettering done.
It wasn’t much fun to sit alone at the Ping-Pong table and grind out the pages, but Greg went to the basement again after dinner. He stayed on the job until he’d finished another three pages, and then he gave himself the rest of the night off to watch some TV.
Maura came over after lunch on Sunday, and she was pleased with herself. “See? I finished lettering all the pages you inked yesterday.”
“Except for these three I finished last night,” Greg said. “So get back to work, you slacker.”
“Very funny.” Maura sat down, and so did Greg. Unscrewing the cap of the lettering pen, she said, “I bet I’ll be done with my job before you’re done with yours.”
Greg snorted. “Bet you won’t.”
“How much?” said Maura.
“One ice-cream sandwich.”
Maura grinned. “You’re on!” And they both bent over their work.
But two minutes later Maura looked up suddenly and said, “Hey! No fair—I can’t finish first. I can’t letter until after you ink!”
Greg nodded and smiled. “And you figured that out all by yourself? Good work. Just be glad I didn’t bet you twenty dollars.”
It was almost three o’clock when Greg handed Maura the last inked page for lettering. It was the back cover of the comic, which was designed like a picture frame with information in the middle. Fifteen minutes later the words were all in place.
“Okay, now we trim each drawing to the exact size of the pages of the finished comic book.” Greg pulled two pairs of scissors out of his materials bin and handed one to Maura. “Trim along the pencil lines. And be careful.”
Ten minutes later there were sixteen small pages laid out in order on the Ping-Pong table, front cover to back cover.
“Now we’ve got to paste every piece of art into its right place on two master copy sheets—eight pages per sheet. I just use a glue stick. And the pages that look upside down and out of order, that all changes when you fold the printed sheet at the end.”
Maura nodded, her eyes bright as she took in each step of the process.
When both master copy sheets were pasted up, Greg said, “Time for the copier—and bring your scissors.” Maura followed him upstairs.
Once again Greg had hoped that both Ross and Edward would be absent. Only half his wish had come true. Ross was sprawled on the family-room couch, half asleep in front of a Clint Eastwood movie. A can of ginger ale and an empty bag of pretzels sat on the table in front of him. He opened one eye and saw Maura, then looked at Greg and winked. “Hey, little buddy . . . I see your ladyfriend is here.”
Greg felt the urge to lash out, like he’d done with Eileen and Brittany at school on Friday morning. But this time he didn’t take the bait. He said, “We’re just copying some artwork. For a project we’re doing. And it’s gonna make noise. We have to.”
Ross heaved himself up off the couch, shut off the TV, burped, mumbled, “’Scuse me” in Maura’s general direction, and went looking for a quieter place to waste another hour or two.
Greg said, “I got this paper that’s good and bright, but it’s not as thick as regular copy paper. Makes it easier to fold.”
After placing the first master sheet face down on the glass, he pushed Print, and then held up the copy for Maura to see. Pointing at a gray area, he said, “See that? I can change the settings and make that part darker. It ought to be solid black. Except for that, it’s a good copy.” The machine beeped as Greg made the change, and then he pushed the Print button.
Again he held up the copy. “Look okay to you?”
Maura nodded.
“Good,” said Greg. “Then let’s print another fourteen.” The machine began whirring away. He said, “This’ll take a few minutes. Want something to eat? Or drink?”
Maura shook her head, watching the pages come out of the printer, one by one.
When the copies were done, Greg said, “This next part is tricky. We have to take the first master copy off the copier, and put on the second one . . . like this. And make sure it’s facing the right way. I had a lot of trouble getting this the first time.”
Greg picked up all fifteen copies of the first master, turned them over so the blank side was up, and put them back into the paper tray of the copier. “Now we print the second master copy onto the flip side of those fifteen sheets.” Pushing the Print button, he said, “First you try a single to make sure it?
??s all good,” and he waited until the sheet came out. Maura looked over his shoulder at it.
“Everything seem dark enough?” he asked.
Maura said, “Yeah. Looks good.”
“Then watch this.”
Greg folded the paper in half lengthwise, then end to end, and then end to end once more, making all the creases sharp and clean. He took the stapler and punched it twice along the center fold of the pages. Maura looked like a kid watching a magician’s best trick.
Greg said, “Scissors, please,” and Maura handed them to him. He couldn’t resist waving the blades around like a magic wand. “Now, the last step.”
With a skill and speed that came from having done it hundreds of times before, Greg trimmed off the top, front, and bottom edges.
Then, holding it out to her, he said, “Here . . . the first copy of your first comic book.”
Maura took it from him as if it was a rare gem. She sat on the front edge of the desk chair. She stared at the cover, then opened the book and slowly read the first page. Completely absorbed, she looked at every image, drinking in the story, the pictures, everything.
Greg might as well have been ten miles away. And he was fine with that. He pushed the button and the copier began to print the remaining fourteen sheets. And while the machine hummed and stuttered, Greg leaned against the back of the couch and watched Maura read.
He couldn’t remember any other time like this. He knew he had never just sat and looked at somebody else’s face before—not for a full minute, then two minutes.
And as he watched Maura’s face, seeing what this meant to her, Greg tried to find a word for the feeling he was getting. Because he was definitely getting something.
It was fun, but he knew fun wasn’t the right word. It was more than that. Because this experience Maura was having, that he was watching? The fun part was knowing that he’d had a lot to do with it. After she’d snapped at him in the lunchroom on Friday, he could have just walked away—let her flop around with her pictures and her story, let her try to make something on her own. But he hadn’t done that. What was happening to Maura at this very moment, it was like a gift—something he’d given to her. On purpose.
Maura finished and looked up into Greg’s face. She gave a little laugh and said, “Sorry—guess I zoned out. But it’s . . . it’s really something, don’t you think?” Then she smiled.
And at that second, Greg felt like Maura’s smile had to be worth at least a million dollars.
Embarrassed by his thoughts, Greg nodded and said, “Yeah . . . really something.”
He quickly folded, stapled, and trimmed a second copy of The Lost Unicorn. It was his turn to look through it.
It truly was a great little comic. And Greg couldn’t help saying, “I’ve got to figure out how to sell this. I could make a ton of money!”
Maura narrowed her eyes. “Correction,” she said. “You mean, ‘We could make a ton of money.’ We.”
Greg was annoyed by Maura’s tone of voice. But honestly, he was only half annoyed. He grinned and nodded. “Sorry. Bad habit. We.”
Maura smiled and said, “That’s better.”
As she continued looking through her comic book, Maura said, “But, really, I don’t care that much about the money.”
Greg looked at Maura like her brain had just plopped out onto the floor. “You don’t care? About the money? Oh, sure. Like I almost believe that.”
“Well, it’s true.” Maura lifted her chin and said, “But you probably wouldn’t understand. I’m mostly an artist. I just want to make a great comic book.”
“And sell it,” said Greg. “And make money.”
Maura sniffed. “The money comes way, way second. Because if my art and my writing isn’t good, people won’t want the comic, and of course, no one would pay for it. So, to me, the most important thing is that it’s good.”
Greg nodded. “Right. So it’ll make money.”
“No,” insisted Maura, “so it’ll be good. Because even if I never made any money, my comic book would still be good. And that’s what I really care about.”
Greg thought a second and then said, “So you’re saying that back when you made all those pot holders, you weren’t trying to make money?”
Maura tossed her head. “That was different.”
Greg smiled. “Ohhh, I see. Sometimes you want to make money, and sometimes you just want to make pot holders because they’re so beautiful.”
Maura glared at him and said, “If you have to know, I made those pot holders because you called me brainless, and I wanted to shut you up. And I knew that I could make as much money as you could any day—even more. But even so, those pot holders were beautiful. And I did make a lot of money. Only it didn’t really shut you up. Which is the only bad part.”
Greg kept pushing. “Well, what about in the cafeteria the other day, when I said we could make your comic books, and sell them. You argued—you did. You argued until I gave you seventy-five percent of the profits. So admit it—you were fighting for more money. For yourself.”
“No,” Maura said, “I just didn’t want you to think you could get away with anything. Because you can’t, not with me. And if my comics do make money, then I’m going to get my fair share. But that doesn’t mean I’m all crazy about money. Like some people.”
Greg said, “Well, I don’t care what you think. Or what Mr. Z thinks, because he’s just like you are. Everybody keeps acting like I shouldn’t want to make money. Too bad. I’m gonna make money, lots and lots of it. The more the better. And if you and everybody else want to pretend money’s not important, that’s fine, because that’ll mean more for me.”
For the next three minutes the two of them folded, trimmed, and stapled in silence. Then Greg reached over and picked up the small stack of comics Maura had finished. He flipped through them one at a time. “This one’s okay. And this one’s okay. Uh-oh . . . Look: crooked cutting on this one. And bad stapling on this one. And bad folding. Three out of five rejected. You need another lesson?”
Maura snapped, “Give me those.” She looked at the comics Greg had challenged. She said, “What are you talking about? These two are okay. And I could pull out those staples and put some others in straight. Kids would still buy them—I’m sure they would.”
Greg shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. They’re too sloppy. Chunky Comics have to be perfect—or at least a lot better than these three are.”
Maura nodded contritely, and then she grinned and chortled, “Ha-ha—gotcha!”
“What?” said Greg.
“You do care about whether your comics are good. It doesn’t matter if kids would buy them anyway, they have to be good—that’s what you just said.”
“Yeah? So what?” said Greg.
“So you agree with me, that’s what. It’s not only about the money. Is it?” And then Maura smiled and fluttered her eyelids at him.
“That’s it,” Greg said. “No more talking. Just finish that stack, all right? And be careful. And then you can leave.”
“Aye-aye, sir,” Maura said. She held her fingers up in the Girl Scout salute. “And I promise to make every Chunky Comic as good as it can possibly be.”
“Very funny,” Greg said, and he kept his face as hard as iron. Which wasn’t easy. And when he turned to pick up the last sheets off the copier, he grinned at the wall. But then he got serious again right away, because one of the printed pages wasn’t quite dark enough.
And as he adjusted the copier to reprint another page, he had to admit that Maura was right. It wasn’t only about the money. Not always. Just most of the time.
Chapter 17
SELLING
Maura took eight copies of her new comic book home from Greg’s on Sunday night. She gave one to her mom, one to her dad, and one to her big brother, Tommy. Everyone was impressed.
“Maura!” her mother said. “This is amazing! Of course, I always knew you had art talent, but this is a wonderful little book. Like a fairy t
ale. And I love unicorns, don’t you? I mean, of course you do, because here’s the book, and who made it? You did! My Maura is an author! This is . . . amazing!”
Maura thought so too. And that’s why she autographed one copy and tucked it into the zippered pocket of her backpack. And on Monday morning when she went to meet her friend Allyson on the way to the bus stop, she gave it to her. Allyson sat right down on her front steps and read it. And when Allyson was done reading, she said, “This is so good!”
Maura beamed and said, “Thanks.” As the bus came around the corner, Maura said, “You better leave that at home—just stick it in your mailbox or something.”
But Allyson said, “It’s okay. I won’t show it to anybody. Promise.” She slipped it inside the front cover of her social studies book, and then they both ran and got on the bus.
Maura had watched Allyson’s face as she’d read the story and looked at the pictures. And sitting on the bus, she started counting kids. There were forty-seven students on the bus by the time they got to school. And Maura found herself thinking a little like Greg. Because she felt sure that she could have sold every single boy and girl on the bus a copy of her new comic book. She could have been well on her way toward being a recognized artist. And author. Except it wasn’t allowed.
***
As usual Mrs. Davenport had been very efficient. She had prepared a written version of the all-school announcement she had made on Friday. She had made it shorter, more to the point, and it was printed up in large type. And by Monday morning a copy was hanging on every bulletin board in every hallway and every classroom at Ashworth Intermediate School.
ANNOUNCEMENT
Some of our students have been making small comic books and then bringing them to school and selling them to their friends. This is not permitted. Our town School Committee has a strict policy about what may and may not be sold at school.