Lemonade in Winter by Emily Jenkins

An empty street.
    Outside, a mean wind blows.
    Icicles hang from the windowsills.

    Inside, Pauline presses her nose to the frosted glass.
    “I know!” she says.
    “Let’s have a lemonade stand.”

    Mom shakes her head.
    “Nobody will be on the street,” she says. “Don’t you see it’s freezing?”
    “We could still have a lemonade stand,” cries Pauline, skipping with her idea.
    “Lemonade and limeade—and also lemon-limeade!”

    Dad wrinkles his brow.
    “Nobody will want cold drinks,” he says. “Don’t you hear the wind?”
    But Pauline is jumping with her idea now.
    “Lemonade and limeade—and also lemon-limeade! Doesn’t it sound yum?”

    John-John jumps, too.
    “Yum YUM!” he cries. “Can I help? Please?”

    Pauline and John-John collect quarters.
    They empty piggy banks and search pockets.
    “Each time you get four quarters, that’s a dollar,” says Pauline.
    “Four quarters, that’s money!” says John-John.

    Pauline and John-John at the corner store in hats and mittens.
    Four lemons cost a dollar.
    Four limes cost a dollar, too.
    Two dollars for sugar.
    Two dollars for cups.
    “We have twenty-four quarters, and that’s six dollars,” Pauline tells John-John as she counts out the money.

    They run through the bitter air with a large paper bag.

    Mom says, “Nobody will be on the street.”
    Dad says, “Nobody will want cold drinks.”
    Pauline and John-John are too busy to hear.

    Squeezing lemons.
    Squeezing limes.
    Measuring sugar.
    Pouring water.

    Lemonade and limeade—and also lemon-limeade!

    Outside, that mean wind blows.
    Icicles hang from the windowsills.
    “Maybe nobody
is
on the street,” says Pauline, after a bit. “Maybe nobody
will
want cold drinks.”
    “I’m on the street,” says John-John. “I want them.” He grabs a cup of limeade.
    “Don’t drink too much,” Pauline warns. “It’s fifty cents a cup.”

    And still, an empty street.
    Pauline thinks.
    “Maybe we should advertise.”
    Shouting wildly, both together:

    Harvey walks down the block with Milou, Mischa and Mungo.
    “Cold drinks on a day like today?” he laughs. “Love it.”
    He pays, drinks a lemonade and takes a limeade back home.
    “Fifty cents, that’s two quarters,” Pauline tells John-John. “Two drinks is four quarters—and that’s a dollar.”
    She puts the money in a green plastic box.

    But after that, an empty street.
    Pauline thinks.
    “Maybe we need entertainment.”
    “I can cartwheel!” John-John leaps up.
    “Good idea,” she tells him. “I’ll drum.”

    Ms. Gordon stops on her way into the building, holding Devon and Derek by the hands. “Let’s see that cartwheel again, you,” she says, a smile in her voice.
    John-John cartwheels while Ms. Gordon buys three lemon-limeades.

    Devon makes a sour face, but Derek drinks all of his.
    “Remember, fifty cents, that’s two quarters,” Pauline tells John-John. “So three drinks is six quarters, and that’s a dollar fifty.” The money goes in the green plastic box.

    But after that, the empty street.
    Pauline thinks.
    “Maybe we need to have a sale.”

    Aidan strolls up, arm in arm with Heather.
    “Can I buy you a lemonade, gorgeous?” he asks her.
    “Limeade,” she says. “And yes, you can.”
    Aidan pays.
    Heather kisses him.
    “Twenty-five cents a cup now,” Pauline tells John-John.
    The money goes in the green plastic box.

    But after that, the empty street.

    Pauline thinks.

    “Maybe we need decorations.”

    Rosa from the nail salon peeks out the door. Then she calls her friends.
    Five manicurists cross the street in puffy coats.

    “Two limeades, two lemon, one lemon-lime, please,” says Rosa.
    “Five cups is five quarters, and that’s a dollar twenty-five,” Pauline tells John-John.
    The money goes in the green plastic box.
    Rosa calls over her shoulder as she heads back to her shop. “You kids are crazy. You know that, right?”

    At last, empty pitchers.
    Pauline tips the green