Lunch Money by Andrew Clements Page A

“I am not going to put up with this. If you two can’t talk this out withme, then I’ll turn the whole matter over to Mrs. Davenport. And your parents.” He looked from Maura to Greg and then back again. “Is that clear? Now I asked Greg to speak first. Maura, not another word.”
    Turning to Greg, he said, “So you found out Maura had these booklets for sale, and you got mad. Anything else?”
    â€œWell,” said Greg, “just that it didn’t seem fair. It was my idea. So, yeah, I got mad. And I came to class that way, and . . . you saw the rest. And that’s all.”
    Mr. Z nodded and said to Greg, “Okay. Now it’s your turn to listen—not one word.” Turning to Maura, he said, “Let’s hear your side.”
    Maura shrugged. “There’s not much to tell. I mean, what did I do? I was sitting here in class, and he comes blasting in and starts shouting and throwing stuff in my face. And me hitting him? That was an accident—he said so himself, to the nurse. So I didn’t do anything.”
    â€œPfffhh!” Greg pushed a puff of air between his lips—not a word, but close enough to draw a glare from the math teacher.
    Mr. Z turned back to Maura. “Show me your little book. Do you have one?”
    Maura zipped open a pocket on the front of her backpack, pulled out a copy of The Lost Unicorn, and handed it to Mr. Z. He quickly turned the pages, scanning the text and looking at the pictures.
    Then turning to Greg, he asked, “And how about yours?” Greg took a copy from his pencil case and handed it over. Again Mr. Z did a skim.
    Looking up from Creon’s face to Greg’s, he said, “So even though these are clearly very different items, you’re still mad that Maura did something similar, right? Used the same idea?”
    Greg nodded. “Right. My idea.”
    Looking Greg in the eye, Mr. Z said, “So you agree with me that a little book with pictures is an idea?”
    â€œYeah,” said Greg, “of course. Like I said. It was my idea.”
    Mr. Z shook his head. “That’s not what I said. I said, a little book with pictures is an idea—not that it is your idea.” Then, holding up both minibooks between his thumb and index finger, he said, “These two different things are still just one idea. Right?”
    Greg nodded. “Right, and the idea was mine. First.”
    Mr. Z leaned forward. “But the thing about a true idea is that no one can really own it—even the person who uses it first. In mathematics the Sumerians were the first to use the idea of place value—over five thousand years ago. But they do not own that idea. And when you sit here in my room adding large numbers, and you carry tens or hundreds over into the next place column, does a Sumerian come running into the room and say, ‘Hey—quit it! That’s my idea!’”
    Greg didn’t answer. He lowered his eyes and stared at a smear of green gum on the floor.
    Mr. Z went on. “Now, if Maura had used your character, this Creon guy, or if she had made her drawings look just like yours, then I think you’d have more reason to be upset. But she didn’t do that. She used an old idea—a small book—in her own way. And yes, she might have seen you do it first. But that’s the way ideas work. They spread. So I don’t think you should be mad at Maura. If anything, you should feel flattered. Someone thought the way you used an old idea was so new and interesting,that she wanted to try it out for herself.”
    Mr. Z paused.
    Greg was looking down at his feet, studying his sneakers. He’d decided to just let Mr. Frizzyhead talk himself out. Why argue? The sooner this guy finished yakking, the sooner he could leave for soccer practice.
    â€œLook at me, Greg.”
    Greg tipped his head back. He flicked his eyes to the teacher’s face and then back to the