Lunch Money by Andrew Clements Page B

floor. The math teacher said, “Is any of this making sense to you?”
    Greg shrugged. “Sure. I guess so.”
    â€œThen I think all this adds up to one thing.” Mr. Z paused, waiting for Greg to look him in the face. It didn’t happen, so he said. “Greg, you need to apologize to Maura.”
    Greg’s head jerked up. “Apologize? Me? No. No way.”
    Maura knew how stubborn Greg was, and she’d liked the talk they’d been having before the teacher had arrived. She quickly said, “It’s okay, Mr. Z. He doesn’t have to apologize.”
    Mr. Z said, “Yes, he does. First he has to apologize to you, and then he has to apologize to me for making a huge disturbance in myroom and wasting precious class time. And all because of a comic book.”
    Greg felt the fury rising in his chest. He wanted to tip his head back and howl like Creon. He wanted to get up close to this man’s huge nose and shout, “ I’m the guy with the black eye here. I’m the one who’s had his idea ripped off. Apologize? That is so stupid —no, actually, you’re stupid!” Greg felt his face getting red, felt his heart pounding.
    And then, for the second time in one day, Greg felt his nose begin to bleed. Only this time it was a real gusher. Blood streamed out his left nostril, over his lips, and dripped off his chin, spattering his shirt and the desk.
    Mr. Z put one hand over his mouth and with the other, he pointed a shaky finger, his eyes wide. “Oh . . . oh. Your nose. It’s . . . it’s . . .” But he couldn’t say the b word.
    Mr. Z’s face went pale as paper. Sweat stood out on his forehead, and behind the hand still covering his mouth, his breath came in gasps.
    Earlier, Greg hadn’t noticed Mr. Z’s reaction to blood. This time he couldn’t miss it. And he decided to enjoy it.
    Greg leaned forward and nodded at Mr. Z,making no effort to stop the flow. “Yes, my nose is bloody, very bloody. It’s bleeding, and blood is getting all over the place—bloody, bloody, blood.”
    Mr. Z turned away, almost throwing up.
    â€œGreg!” Maura snapped. “ Stop it! That’s mean. ” She’d already grabbed the tissues from the teacher’s desk. “Here.” And she pushed the box into Greg’s hands.
    Turning to Mr. Z, she said, “Can I get you something . . . some water?”
    Mr. Z shook his head. “I . . . just need to . . . lie down.” And with Maura to steady him, he eased out of the desk and onto the floor, flat on his back, eyes closed.
    â€œNow you,” Maura said to Greg. “Sit on the floor and lean forward. And squeeze your nose. Hard.” Greg followed orders, but then decided he’d be more comfortable lying down.
    Maura said, “I’ll get the nurse. And a cold pack—two cold packs.”
    And she left Greg and Mr. Z littering the floor of room 27.

 
Chapter 9

APOLOGIES
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    Greg lay on his back, completely still. Even with one nostril plugged, he picked up the oily scent left over from last night’s dust mopping. He watched the second hand on the big wall clock and listened to Mr. Z’s deep breaths. His math teacher was also stretched out on the floor, about ten feet away.
    And Greg thought, Now I’m completely sunk. This guy is gonna ruin me. And then another, deeper voice said, Yeah, and I deserve it. And Greg knew that second voice was telling the truth.
    He said, “Mr. Z?”
    In a voice so weak it was hard to hear, Mr. Z said, “Yes?”
    â€œI’m sorry, about the blood stuff—after I saw it made you sick. Maura’s right . . . it was mean. So I’m sorry.”
    Mr. Z was quiet, and then he said, “I knowit’s irrational, my reaction to . . . that. It’s only a liquid . . . and only a word. But seeing it, and hearing that word, and thinking about it—it gets me, every