Lunch Money by Andrew Clements

book. It was good . . . for what it is.”
    Maura turned to face him, arching one of her pale eyebrows. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    â€œNothing,” said Greg. “It’s not really my kind of story, that’s all—you know, princesses and unicorns. I like comic books. And your book isn’t a comic.”
    â€œSo why did you read it?”
    Greg shrugged. “It was the only reading material I had in the nurse’s office. I was bored. How come you read my story?”
    Maura tossed her head. “Same reason.
    There wasn’t anything better to do in math.”
    â€œBut you bought a copy of mine— and you said it was good, right?”
    â€œYeah,” Maura admitted, “but . . .”
    That’s what Greg had been waiting for. “‘But’ what? What didn’t you like about it?”
    Maura was quiet a moment, and when she spoke, Greg saw she was choosing her words carefully. “Well, it’s sort of like what you said about my book, about it not being your kind of story? See, I know you want to try to sell a lot of copies—”
    Greg interrupted, “Because you think I’m a greedy little money-grubber, right?”
    Maura’s eyes flashed. “Can you just listen?”
    Greg nodded, and Maura continued. “ I liked the story, and I liked the artwork, too. But I don’t think many other girls would. And since half the kids at school are girls, if you write boy stories, you’re only going to sell half as many books as you could.”
    Greg pretended to look shocked, and then shook a finger at Maura. “‘Boy stories’? I’m going to tell Mrs. Sanborn what you said.” Mrs. Sanborn was their social studies teacher, and she talked a lot about equal rights forwomen—and girls. She got furious whenever someone suggested that men and women or boys and girls should be treated differently.
    Maura said, “Don’t be dumb. I’m not talking about equal rights. I’m talking about what girls like. And boys. And no matter what Mrs. Sanborn says, most boys don’t pick stories about princesses, and most girls don’t pick stories about cavemen with spears.”
    As Maura finished that sentence, Mr. Z walked in. “Cavemen with spears? Are you two calling each other names again?”
    Maura and Greg shook their heads, and Mr. Z said, “Good. I was delayed in the office. I was afraid I’d get here and find you two wrestling on the floor or throwing chairs at each other. But you’re not name-calling and not fighting. Looks like progress.” He pulled a front-row desk forward a few feet, turned it around, and sat down midway between them.
    Mr. Z had been planning what he would say to Greg and Maura all afternoon. He already knew exactly where he wanted this meeting to end up, but he was prepared to take his time getting there. In his mind it was like a math problem: He would add right ideas, subtractwrong ones, divide fuzzy thinking by pure logic, and then he and the children would nod and smile at one another as peace and understanding multiplied itself.

    Looking first into Maura’s face and then into Greg’s, Mr. Z said, “Now, tell me precisely what started that mess during sixth period. Greg, you first.”
    Greg took a deep breath and then let it out slowly. “Well, it really started at the end of lunch period. That’s when I found out Maura was selling little books like mine, ripping me off.”
    â€œI did not rip you off!”
    â€œMaura—” Mr. Z raised a warning finger. “Quiet. Your turn’s coming.”
    Maura nodded, but kept on talking. “He just said a minute ago that my story is nothing like his!”
    â€œYeah,” said Greg, his voice rising, “but it’s still a minibook, right? Admit it—you ripped me off!”
    â€œQUIET! Both of you!” Mr. Z was not used to raising his voice.