The Lemonade War Page 7

  Grumpminster Fink was a man who was cranky and mean and made everybody miserable. But deep down, he wanted people to love him. It's just that every time he tried to do something nice, it turned out all wrong. Evan had made up a lot of stories about Mr. Fink in that tree. But after Dad left, there just weren't any more stories to tell.

  No one in the whole world, besides Jessie and Evan, knew about Grumpminster Fink. And Evan hadn't thought about him in years.

  "Hey!" he said sharply. He heard Jessie stop at the top of the stairs, but she didn't come down.

  "Do you want to call this whole thing off?" he asked.

  "What?" she shouted.

  "This ... this ... Lemonade War," he said.

  "Call it off?"

  "Yeah," he said. "Just say nobody wins and nobody loses."

  Jessie walked down the stairs and stood with her arms crossed.

  Evan looked at her.

  He missed her.

  He had spent the whole day—the third to last day before school started—by himself. It stunk. It totally stunk. If Jessie had been around—and they hadn't been fighting with each other—they could have played air hockey or made pretzels or built a marble track with twice as many gizmos that launched the marble into the bull's-eye cup every time. Jessie was very precise. She was good at getting the marble to go into the cup.

  "Whaddya say?" he asked.

  Jessie looked puzzled. "I don't know..." she said, frowning. "You see, Megan kinda, well, she..."

  Evan felt his face go hot. Megan Moriarty. Every time he thought of her his throat got all squeezed and scratchy. It was like the allergic reaction he had if he accidentally ate a shrimp.

  "You told Megan Moriarty about—everything?" he asked, feeling itchy all over.

  "No. Well ... what 'everything'?" asked Jessie. Evan thought she looked like a fish caught in a net.

  "You did." And suddenly Evan knew exactly why Jessie had been smiling when she walked in the door. And why she didn't want to call off the war. She had done it. Again. She had figured out some way to show the world just how stupid he was. Like the time he'd come home with 100 percent on his weekly spelling quiz—the only time he'd ever gotten every word right—to find that Jessie had won a statewide poetry-writing contest. He'd thrown his paper into the trash without even telling his mom. What was the point?

  Evan didn't know how, but somehow Jessie'd found a way to earn more than one hundred and three dollars. She was going to beat him. And Megan Moriarty knew all about it. And she would tell everyone else. All the girls would know. Paul would know. And Ryan. And Adam and Jack.

  Scott Spencer would know. Can you believe it? He lost to his little sister. The one who's going to be in our class. What a loser!

  "You know what?" he said, pushing past her. "Forget it! Just forget I said anything. The war is on. O-N. Prepare to die."

  Chapter 10

  Malicious Mischief

  malicious mischief () n. The act of purposely destroying the property of someone else's business.

  Jessie was all in knots. Evan was madder than ever at her, and she couldn't figure out why. He had said, "Do you want to call off the war?" and she had said, "Sure, let's call off the war." Or something like that. That's what she'd meant to say. That's what she'd wanted to say.

  But what had she really said? She'd mentioned Megan. Oh! She'd almost spilled the beans about Megan giving her the $104. But she hadn't! She'd kept her mouth shut, just in time.

  Jessie smiled, remembering that.

  So why had Evan acted like that? What was the matter with him?

  Jessie lay down on her bed. The world was a confusing place, and she needed Evan to help her figure it out. If this is what fourth grade was going to be like, she might as well just give up now.

  And there was something else that was tying her up in knots. That two hundred and eight dollars—it wasn't really hers. Megan had given it to her to make a donation. She hadn't given it to Jessie the way Evan's friends had given their money to him. (That still made her so mad when she thought about it. Oh, she wanted to get even with him for saying she didn't have friends!) So even though it looked like she had two hundred and eight dollars in her lock box, only half of that was money she could honestly call her own.

  Still ... if push came to shove and she needed it all to win—

  Sure, she'd use it all! This was a war!

  But if she pretended that all the money was hers—

  Hey, what if Evan has even more than that?

  So if she lost, even with Megan's money—

  Gulp!

  Jessie hadn't thought of that. If she lost, even with two hundred and eight dollars. If she lost. Oh my gosh. Winner takes all. She would lose all of Megan's money to Evan. How could Jessie explain that to her friend? You see, I took all the money you earned to help rescue animals and I lost it to my brother, who's going to buy an iPod. Megan would hate her. All the girls who were friends with Megan would hate her. And Evan already hated her. So that was that. Goodbye, fourth grade.

  She couldn't use Megan's money to try to win the bet. It was too risky. But did she have enough to win on her own?

  Jessie felt desperation rise in her throat. How much money did Evan have? She had to find out.

  Jessie tiptoed upstairs to the attic office. She listened at the closed door. Her mother was on the phone. Then Jessie snuck downstairs. Evan was watching TV in the family room. Like a whisper, she crept back upstairs. And into Evan's room.

  There was a strict rule in the Treski house: No one was allowed in anyone else's room without an express invitation. That was the term. It meant that Jessie had to say, "Evan, can I come into your room?" and Evan had to say, "Yes," before she put even one toe over the line.

  So even though Evan's door was wide open, just crossing the threshold was a direct violation that carried a fine of one dollar. But that was the least of Jessie's concerns.

  She snuck over to Evan's bookshelf and picked up a carved cedar box—Evan's chosen souvenir from the family summer vacation. The orange-red wood of the box had a scene etched into the top: a sailboat sailing past a lighthouse while gulls flew overhead. The words "Bar Harbor, Maine" were painted in the sky. The box had brass hinges and a clever latch. What it didn't have was a lock.

  Jessie flipped open the lid, immediately smelling the spicy, sharp scent of the wood. She couldn't believe her eyes.

  Her hands started pawing through the bills. Dozens of them. There was a ten and a bunch of fives and more ones than she could count. She sat on Evan's bed and quickly sorted out the money.

  Evan had one hundred and three dollars and eleven cents.

  Eighty-nine cents less than she had.

  Eighty-nine cents. He could sell one lousy cup of lemonade tomorrow and beat her. And there was nothing she could do about it because she'd be at the beach.

  I can't let him win, she thought. I can't. She had gotten to the point where she couldn't even remember what had started the whole war. She couldn't remember why it had been so important to win in the first place. Now she just had to win.

  She messed up the money and stuffed it back into the box.

  That night in bed, she lay awake trying to think of some way to stop Evan from selling even a single glass.

  Sometimes in the dark, dark thoughts come.

  Jessie had a very dark thought.

  The next morning was Sunday, and the rule in the Treski house was that everyone could sleep in as late as he or she wanted. But Jessie awoke to the sound of the electric garage door opening. She sat up in bed and checked the clock: 8:00 a.m. Then she looked out her window just in time to see Evan pedaling away on his bike, his backpack on his back. She quickly dressed and hurried down to the kitchen.

  Her mom was making scrambled eggs and toast. "Hi, Jess. Want some?" she asked, pointing with her spatula at the pan of sizzling eggs.

  "No, thanks," said Jessie.

  "I washed your blue bathing suit last night. It's hanging in the basement. W
hat time are the Moriartys picking you up?"

  "Nine o'clock," said Jessie. "Mom, where did Evan go?"

  "He went to the store to buy some lemonade mix." Jessie's mom scooped the eggs onto a plate and put the pan in the sink. When she turned on the faucet, the pan hissed like an angry snake. A great cloud of steam puffed into the air and then disappeared. "What's going on, Jess? What's with all the lemonade stands and you and Evan fighting?"

  Jessie opened the pantry cupboard and pulled out a box of Kix. "Nothing," she said. She watched the cereal very carefully as she poured. She didn't want to look at her mother right then.

  Mrs. Treski got the milk out of the refrigerator and put it on the counter next to Jessie's bowl. "It doesn't seem like nothing. It seems like there's a lot of bad feeling between the two of you."

  Jessie poured her milk slowly. "Evan's mad at me." And he's going to be a whole lot madder after today, she added in her head.

  "What's he mad about?" asked Mrs. Treski.

  "I dunno. He called me a baby and said I ruin everything. And..." Jessie felt it coming. She tried to hold it back, but she knew it was coming. Her shoulders tightened up, her chest caved in, and her mouth opened in a howl. "He said he hates me!" Tears poured out of her eyes and dropped into her cereal bowl. Her nose started to run and her lips quivered. With every sob, she let out a sound like tires squealing on a wet road.

  For the whole time Jessie cried, her mother wrapped her in a hug. And then, like a faucet turned off, Jessie stopped.

  She had told the truth; she really didn't understand why Evan was so angry. Even before the Lemonade War he had been mad, and Jessie still didn't know why.

  "Better?" asked Mrs. Treski.

  "Not much," said Jessie. She wiped her nose with her paper napkin and started eating her cereal. It was soggy, but thankfully not salty.

  "Don't you think it would be a good idea to find out what he's mad about?" asked Jessie's mom. "You're never going to stop being mad at each other until you both understand what the other person is feeling."

  "I guess so," said Jessie.

  "It can be hard. Sometimes it's even hard to know what you're feeling yourself. I mean, how do you feel about him?" asked Mrs. Treski.

  Jessie didn't have to think long. All the insults and anger, the confusion and fighting, seemed to converge in a single flash of white-hot feeling. "I hate him! I hate him for saying all those mean things. And for not letting me play. I hate him just as much as he hates me. More!"

  Mrs. Treski looked sad. "Can we have a sit-down about this tonight? After you get back from the beach?"

  "No," said Jessie, remembering the spit vow. Evan would be mad if he knew that she had worried Mom with their fighting. And then he'd spill the beans about the terrible thing she was about to do. Jessie didn't want her mom knowing anything about that. "We'll work it out ourselves, Mom. I promise. Evan and I will talk tonight."

  "I'm sorry I've been working so hard," said Mrs. Treski. "I know it's a lousy end to the summer."

  "It's okay, Mom. You gotta work, right?"

  "Yes. No. I don't know. I promise I'll be finished by dinnertime tonight. That way we can all go to the fireworks together." Jessie's mom looked out the window. "I hope they don't get canceled because of weather. They're saying scattered thunderstorms this evening."

  Jessie and her mom finished breakfast without saying much else.

  "I'll clean up," said Jessie. She liked to do dishes, and she wanted to do something nice for her mom.

  While she cleaned, she thought about the terrible plan she had come up with last night. It was mean. It was really mean. It was the meanest thing she had ever imagined doing.

  I'm not going to do it, she decided. I hate him, but I don't hate him that much.

  She was putting the last glass in the dishwasher when Evan walked in. His backpack was bulging.

  "I thought you were going to the beach for the whole day," he said.

  "Megan's picking me up in half an hour." She thought she saw Evan stiffen up. Good. "What's in the backpack?"

  "Not much," he said, dumping out the contents onto the kitchen table. Cans of lemonade mix rolled all over. Jessie tried to count, but there were too many. Fifteen? Twenty?

  "Holy macaroni! How many cans did you buy?"

  "Thirty-two." Evan started to stack the cans in a pyramid.

  "But, but, you don't need that much. Even to win, you don't need that much. That's, that's—" She did the calculations in her head. "That's two hundred and fifty-six cups of lemonade. If you sell them at fifty cents apiece—"

  "A dollar. I'm going to charge a dollar apiece."

  Jessie felt like her head was going to explode. "You'll never sell it all," she said. "There isn't a neighborhood in town that will buy two hundred and fifty-six cups in one day." Too much lemonade. Not enough thirsty people, she thought.

  "I'm going to roll! Like the ice cream truck! I'm going to mix it all up in the big cooler and wagon it from street to street. The high today is going to be ninety-four degrees. It might take me all day, but I'll sell every last drop. Two hundred and fifty-six smackers! And then tonight, Juicy, we count our earnings. Don't forget: Winner takes all!"

  "But you don't need two hundred and fifty-six dollars to win!" she shouted.

  Evan stood tall and said in that gravelly voice that all the boys imitated, "I don't play to win. I play to pul-ver-ize."

  Oh! What an idiot! Jessie couldn't believe her brother could be such a jerk. She watched as Evan put together his rolling lemonade stand in the garage. The big cooler was something Mrs. Treski had bought a few years back when she was in charge of refreshments for the school Spring Fling. It looked like a giant bongo drum with a screw-off top and a spigot at the bottom. Evan loaded it into the wagon, then poured in the mix from all thirty-two cans. He used the garden hose to fill the cooler to the top, then dumped in four trays of ice cubes. With a plastic beach shovel, he stirred the lemonade. The ice cubes made a weird rattling noise as they swirled around in the big drum. Using the shovel like a big spoon, he scooped out a tiny bit and tasted it. "Perfect!" he announced, screwing the top on tightly. Then he went into the basement to make his Lemonade-on-Wheels sign.

  Without a moment's hesitation, Jessie sprang into action.

  First she got out a large Ziploc bag from the kitchen drawer, the kind that you could freeze a whole gallon of strawberries in if you wanted to. Then she held it, upside down and wide open, over the fruit bowl. She gave the bowl a solid knock. Jessie was surprised how easy it was to catch the fruit flies that floated up from the bowl. It was like they wanted to die!

  She filled that bag and two more with flies, then hurried to the garage. She unscrewed the top of the big cooler. Holding the first bag upside down, she unzipped it, expecting the flies to fall down into the lemonade. They didn't. They stayed safe and dry in the bag. It was like they wanted to live!

  "Too bad for you, you stupid flies," said Jessie as she plunged the bag into the lemonade. Under the surface, she turned the bag inside out, swishing it back and forth so that all the flies were washed off into the lemonade. She emptied all three bags of flies into the big cooler, then hunted around until she found two green inchworms and a fuzzy gypsy moth caterpillar. She tossed them into the cooler. Then she threw in a fistful of dirt, for good measure. She was just about to screw the top back on when she heard Evan coming up the basement stairs. There wasn't time to get the top back on! He would see the bugs and the whole plan would be ruined!

  Jessie ran to the steps and shouted, "Evan, Mom wants to see you in her office. Right away!"

  "Aw, man," muttered Evan as he started to climb the second set of stairs.

  Jessie quickly screwed on the cap, grabbed her blue bathing suit from the basement, then went upstairs to her room. On the way, she passed Evan coming down.

  "Mom did not want to see me," he said, annoyed.

  Jessie looked surprised. "That's what it sounded like. She yelled something down the stairs. I th
ought it was 'Get Evan.'" Jessie shrugged. "So I got you."

  From her bedroom window, she watched Evan rolling down the street with his Lemonade-on-Wheels stand. He was like one of those old-time peddlers, calling out, "Lemonade! Git yer ice-cold lemonade here!" as he walked. For one lightning-brief second, Jessie felt a stab of regret. She could see how hard he was straining to pull the heavy cooler. She knew what it was like to stand in the hot sun selling lemonade. But the feeling was snuffed out by the hurricane of anger she felt when she remembered Evan's gravelly voice: "pul-ver-ize."

  Jessie switched into her bathing suit, packed up her beach bag, and said a quick goodbye to her mother as the Moriartys pulled into the driveway.

  "What a great day for the beach," said her mother. "Have fun. And be home in time for the fireworks, okay?"

  The fireworks. Yep. Jessie imagined there would be some fireworks tonight.

  Chapter 11

  A Total Loss

  total loss () n. Goods so damaged that there's no point in repairing them (or they can't be repaired at all).

  The first cup was an easy sell.

  The second cup, too.

  It was on the third cup that a little girl, about six years old, said, "Ew, there's a bug in my drink."

  Then her brother said, "There's one in mine, too."

  "Gross," said an older boy on a skateboard. "There are, like, three in mine. I want my money back, man," he said, dumping his lemonade on the ground.

  The mother of the little girl and boy looked into their cups carefully. "I think you need to check your lemonade, honey," she said to Evan.

  Evan unscrewed the cap and everyone looked in. The surface was swimming with dead bugs: fruit flies, worms, and a soggy brown caterpillar.

  "Oh my goodness," said the mother.

  The boy started spitting on the ground like he was going to die. The girl started wailing. "Mommy! I drank bugs. I have bugs in my tummy!"