The Lemonade War Read online

  Evan couldn't believe his eyes. How did this happen? Did they crawl in somehow? They couldn't have. He had screwed the lid on tightly. He was sure of it. And anyway ... one or two bugs crawling in—maybe. But fifty dead fruit flies and two inchworms and a caterpillar? It just wasn't possible.

  Evan was burning with embarrassment as everyone looked at him and his buggy lemonade. Frantically, he reached into the cooler and started to scoop out the dead bugs with his hands.

  "Uh, sweetheart," said the mother, "you can't sell that lemonade."

  "I'll get them all," said Evan. "I'll get every last one out."

  "No, dear. You really can't. You need to dump it out," she said.

  Evan looked at her like she was crazy. Dump it out? Dump it out? He'd spent forty dollars of his hard-earned money on that lemonade and another dollar for the cups. He wasn't going to dump it out.

  "I'll do it at home," he said.

  "No. You should do it here, I think. I need to be sure it's all disposed of properly."

  Evan looked at her. He didn't know her, but he knew her type. Boy, did he know her type. She was the kind of mother who thought she was the mother of the whole world. If you were on a playground and she thought you were playing too rough, she'd tell you. If you were chewing gum in line at the 7-Eleven, she'd say, "I sure hope that's sugarless." Mothers like that never minded just their own business. Or just their kids' business. They thought they had to take care of every kid in the kingdom.

  "It's too heavy for me to dump," he said. "I'll take it home and my mom can help."

  "I'll help," said the busybody mother of the world. "All we need to do is tip it a little." She grabbed one handle of the big cooler. Evan had no choice but to grab the other handle. Together they tipped and the lemonade poured out of the top of the cooler.

  They poured and poured and poured. The lemonade sparkled in the sunlight, like a bejeweled waterfall, and then disappeared without a trace, soaking into the parched September grass. As the last sluice of lemonade slipped out of the cooler, a slick of mud poured out.

  "Oh my goodness," said the mother.

  Evan couldn't believe it. He couldn't believe how quickly his victory had turned to defeat. It was just like the lemonade. It had disappeared into the grass, leaving nothing behind. A total loss.

  The mother smiled sympathetically as Evan returned her two dollars. The skateboard dude had already skated off with his refund. There was nothing to do but go home.

  Evan walked slowly, dragging the wagon with the empty cooler rattling inside.

  With every step he took, the wagon handle poked him in the rear end. Step. Poke. Step. Poke. He felt like someone was nudging him forward.

  "Evan, Mom wants to see you in her office. Right away!"

  That had been weird. His mom had had no idea what he meant. "I didn't call you. I didn't call anyone," she had said. "I've been on the computer."

  "Evan, Mom wants to see you."

  He had been coming up the stairs. Jessie had been in the garage. She had looked anxious. "Right away!" she had said.

  Evan stopped walking. He stared at the empty cooler. Then he started to run. The wagon bounced crazily along the uneven sidewalk. Twice it tipped over. What did it matter? thought Evan angrily. There's no lemonade to spill.

  By the time he got home, he had it all figured out. He looked in the kitchen trash and found the three Ziploc bags, inside out and sticky with lemonade. He shook the fruit bowl and noticed how few fruit flies took to the air. If he'd had the right materials, he would have dusted the cooler for fingerprints. But there was really no need for that. He knew what he would have found: Jessie was all over this one.

  "That RAT! That lousy rotten stinking RAT of a sister!" he shouted. He went back to the garage and kicked the wagon. He knocked the cooler to the floor. He tore up his Lemonade-on-Wheels sign into a dozen pieces.

  He was going to lose. She had a hundred dollars (he was sure of it) and he had just sixty-two left. Tonight, before the fireworks, when they counted their money, she would be the winner and he would be the loser.

  Winner takes all.

  Loser gets nothing.

  It was so unfair.

  Evan stomped upstairs to his room. He slammed the door so hard, it bounced open again. When he went to close it, he was staring across the hallway, straight into Jessie's room. He could see her neatly made bed covered in Koosh pillows, the poster of Bar Harbor from their trip to Maine this summer, and her night table with Charlotte's Web at the ready. Evan crossed the hall, then paused at Jessie's door. There was the rule about not entering. Well, she'd broken the rules first. (Even though there wasn't really a rule about fruit flies and lemonade, it was clearly a dirty trick.) Evan walked in and went straight to Jessie's desk drawer.

  There was the fake pack of gum. Inside, the key. Did she really think he didn't know where she hid it? He'd seen her slip the key inside the box when he was passing by on his way to the bathroom. Jessie was smart, but she wasn't very smooth. He'd known for months where the key was hidden. He just hadn't bothered to use it.

  Until now.

  It took him a while to find the lock box. He checked the bureau drawers first and then under Jessie's bed. But finally he found it hidden in her closet. Again, not very smooth.

  Evan carried the key and the lock box back to his room and sat on the bed. He put the key in the lock and opened the top. Then—the moment of truth—he lifted out the plastic change tray.

  There were a whole bunch of scraps of paper on top, and there was a folded index card, too. Evan moved these aside and found a ten-dollar bill paper-clipped to a birthday card. Under that was an envelope labeled "Pre-War Earnings" with four dollars and forty-two cents inside it. That was the money Jessie had had before the Lemonade War began. She'd kept it separate, just like she promised. Next to it was a fat envelope labeled "Lemonade Earnings." Evan opened the envelope.

  Inside, the bills were arranged by ones, fives, and tens. All the bills were facing the same way, so that the eyes of George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, and Alexander Hamilton were all looking at Evan as he counted out the cash.

  Two hundred and eight dollars.

  There it was. The winning wad.

  Evan thought of how hard he'd worked that week, in the blazing sun, in the scorching heat. He thought about the coolerful of lemonade pouring into the grass. He thought about handing over his sixty-two dollars and eleven cents to Jessie and how she'd smile and laugh and tell. Tell everyone that she had won the Lemonade War. The guys would all shake their heads. What a loser. Megan would turn away. What a stupid jerk.

  Evan slammed the lid of the lock box shut. He stuffed the envelope in his shorts pocket. He was not going to let it happen!

  He wasn't planning to keep the money. Not for good. But he wasn't going to let her have it tonight. When it came time to show their earnings, he'd have sixty-two dollars and eleven cents and she'd have nothing. He'd give her the money back tomorrow or maybe the day after that, but not to night.

  He suddenly felt a desperate need to get out of the house as fast as he could. He shoved the lock box back into Jessie's closet and the key back into the fake pack of gum.

  "Hey, Mom," he shouted, not even waiting for her to answer back. "I'm going to the school to see if there's a game. 'Kay?"

  Chapter 12

  Waiting Period

  waiting period () n. A specified delay, required by law, between taking an action and seeing the results of that action.

  Jessie wanted to have fun. She really did. But it seemed like the more she tried, the less she had.

  First, the drive to the beach took two and a half hours because of traffic. Jessie felt the car lurching. Forward, stop. Forward, stop.

  "Memo to myself," said Mr. Moriarty. "Never go to the beach on the Sunday of Labor Day weekend. Especially when there's been a heat wave for more than a week."

  In the back seat, Jessie and Megan played license plate tag and magnetic bingo and twenty questions, b
ut by the end of the car ride, Jessie was cramped and bored.

  Then the beach parking lot was full, so they had to park half a mile away and walk. Then the beach was so crowded that they could hardly find a spot for their blanket. Then Megan said the water was too cold and she just wanted to go in up to her ankles. She kept squealing and running backwards every time a gentle ripple of a wave came her way.

  What fun was that? Sure, the water was cold! It was the North Shore. It was supposed to be cold. That's why it felt so good on a hot day like this. When Jessie and Evan went to the beach, they would boogie board and bodysurf and skimboard and throw a Screaming Scrunch Ball back and forth the whole time. They loved to stay in the water until their lips turned blue and they couldn't stop shaking. Then they'd roast themselves like weenies on their towels until they were hot and sweating again, and then they'd go right back in. Now that was fun at the beach.

  Megan liked to build sandcastles and collect shells and play sand tennis and read magazines. That's all fine, thought Jessie. But not going in the water? That's crazy.

  The ride home was itchy and hot. Jessie had sand in all the places where her skin rubbed together: between her toes, behind her ears, and between the cheeks of her bottom. And somehow she'd gotten sunburned on her back, even though Mrs. Moriarty had smeared her all over with thick, goopy sunscreen twice. Jessie didn't even have the patience for ten questions, let alone twenty.

  But Megan didn't get that Jessie didn't feel like talking. She kept trying to get her to take a quiz in a teen magazine. If Evan had been there, he would have kept quiet. Or maybe hummed a little. Jessie liked it when Evan hummed.

  As they turned onto Damon Road, Megan asked, "Are you feeling sick?"

  In fact, she was. For the past half-hour, Jessie had been imagining walking in the door and facing Evan. And she'd been feeling sicker and sicker with every mile that brought her closer to home.

  Chapter 13

  Crisis Management

  crisis management () n. Special or extraordinary methods and procedures used when a business is in danger of failing.

  "Sucker!"

  "Oh, man. You were schooled!"

  "Pre-school, baby!"

  For the third time that afternoon, Scott Spencer had gotten the drop on Evan, dribbling around him and then hitting the easy lay-up. So the guys were giving him the business, even the ones on his own team. It was Evan, Paul, and Ryan against Kevin Toomey, Malik Lewis, and Scott. Evan wished that Scott hadn't shown up, but he had, and they needed the sixth guy for three-on-three since Jack had gone home to ask his mom if they could all swim at his house. So what was Evan supposed to say?

  Anyway, Evan was three times the ball handler that Scott was and everyone knew it. So it was all in fun.

  But it didn't feel like much fun to Evan.

  "What's up, man?" Paul asked.

  Evan dribbled the ball back and forth, left hand, right hand, and then through his legs. "Hey, it's hot," he said.

  "Yeah, it's hot for all of us," said Paul. "Get your game on, dude."

  But Evan couldn't get his moves right. He was a half-step behind himself. And every time he moved, the envelope slapped against his thigh like a reprimand.

  "Speaking of hot," said Ryan. Everyone turned to look. Jack was coming up the path, running at a dead-dog pace.

  "Oh, please, God," said Paul. "Let her say yes."

  As soon as he was in range, Jack shouted, "She said yes!"

  "What's up?" asked Scott.

  "Jack asked his mom if we could all go swimming in his pool," Kevin said.

  "Hey, Jack," shouted Scott. "Can I come, too?"

  "Yeah, sure," said Jack, who'd stopped running toward them and was waiting for them to join him on the path.

  Oh, great, thought Evan. But he wasn't about to turn down a dunk in a pool just because Scott Spencer would be there.

  Nobody wanted to go home for suits and towels. Kevin, Malik, and Ryan were wearing basketball shorts anyway, so they could swim in those. "We've got enough suits at the house," said Jack. "My mom saves all our old ones."

  At the house, Evan changed into one of Jack's suits. He wrapped up his underwear and shirt inside his shorts and put the bundle of clothes on the end of Jack's bed next to all the other guys' piled-up clothes. It felt good to drop the heavy shorts with the envelope stuffed in the pocket. Then, just to be sure, he put his shoes on top of his pile of clothes. He didn't want anything happening to that money.

  They played pool basketball all afternoon, even though the teams were uneven. Mrs. Bagdasarian brought out drinks and cookies and chips and sliced-up watermelon. Every time one of them went into the house to use the bathroom, she shouted, "Dry off before you come in!" but she did it in a nice way.

  Then, just when Evan thought the afternoon couldn't get any better, it did. Scott had gone into the house to go to the bathroom. A few minutes later he came out dressed, his hair still dripping down his back.

  "I gotta go," he said, jamming his foot into his sneaker.

  "Did your mom call?" asked Ryan. "Nope, I just gotta go," he said. "See ya." He ran out the gate.

  "Great," shouted Evan. "Now the teams are even." And they went back to playing pool hoops. Evan didn't think about Scott Spencer for the rest of the afternoon.

  He didn't think about Scott Spencer until he went into Jack's bedroom to change back into his clothes and noticed that his shoes were on the floor and his shorts weren't folded up.

  Chapter 14

  Reconciliation

  reconciliation () n. The act of bringing together after a difference, as in to reconcile numbers on a balance sheet; resolution.

  "Come on, you two," Mrs. Treski called up the stairs. "If we don't go now, there won't be any room on the grass."

  "We're coming," shouted Evan, sticking his head out of his room. Jessie was sitting on his bed, and he was trying to get her to go to the fireworks. She had her lock box on her lap and a mulish look on her face.

  "Just say it's a tie," said Evan. "C'mon, Jess. This whole thing is stupid and you know it."

  "It's not a tie unless it's a tie," said Jessie, knowing she sounded like a brat but not able to stop herself. "How much have you got?"

  "Mom's waiting," said Evan. "Put your dumb box away and let's go to the fireworks."

  "How much have you got?"

  Evan tensed up his fingers as if he were strangling an invisible ghost. "Nothing! Okay? I've got nothing. Look." He turned the pockets of his shorts inside out.

  Jessie looked skeptical. "You can't have nothing. You must have made something."

  "Well, I had expenses. So I ended up with nothing. Okay? Are you happy? You win." Evan sat on the edge of the bed, looking at the floor.

  Jessie felt her heart sink. "You spent all your money on mix for your Lemonade-on-Wheels stand?" Jessie asked. "All of it?"

  Evan nodded. Jessie felt like crawling under the bed and never coming out. "It didn't pay off so good?" she whispered.

  "There were a few bugs in the system," said Evan. That's a joke Jessie would have loved, he thought. Before the war. Now it was all just money and numbers and bad feelings. There was no room for laughing.

  "Oh," said Jessie, her voice the size of an ant. She stared down at the box in her lap. "I've got—"

  She opened the lid of the lock box, took out the change tray, and pushed aside all the scraps of paper she had collected and the comment card from Megan. She stared. "Wait a minute. This isn't my money." She picked up a handful of wrinkled, bunched-up bills. Evan lay down on the bed and covered his head with his pillow. Jessie counted the money quickly. "Sixty-two dollars and eleven cents? Where'd this come from?"

  "Imamummy," said Evan from underneath the pillow.

  "What?" said Jessie. "Take that dumb pillow away. I can't understand what you're saying." She hit the side of his leg for emphasis.

  "It's my money!" he shouted, still through the pillow. "It was a hundred and three dollars, but then I spent forty-one dollars for th
e Lemonade-on-Wheels stand. So now it's just sixty-two."

  "Your money? But where's my money?"

  Evan pulled the pillow away from his face. His eyes were closed. His nose pointed at the ceiling. He folded his arms across his chest like a dead man. "I took it."

  "Well, give it back," said Jessie. This time she hit the side of his leg for real.

  "I can't. It's gone." He lay as still as a three-day-old corpse.

  "Gone? Gone where?" Jessie was shrieking now. Never in her life had she worked so hard to earn money. Never in her life had she had more than one hundred dollars in her hand. Never in her life had she had a friend who trusted her like Megan had.

  "I don't know. It was in my shorts pocket. And then I played basketball with the guys. And then we went to Jack's house to swim. And I took off my shorts and borrowed a suit. And when I went back to change, the money was gone." He sat up and faced his sister. "I'm really sorry."

  In a real war you fight. You fight with your hands and with weapons. You fight with anything you've got because it's a matter of life and death. Jessie felt the loss of her hard-earned money like a death, and she ripped into Evan with all the power in her body. She punched him. She kicked him. She threw her lock box at him. She wanted to tear him up into little pieces.

  Evan didn't try to pin her, though it would have been easy to do. Part of him just wanted to lie on the bed and take it. Take it all. For being the one who started the whole thing by saying, "I hate you." For making Jessie feel so rotten about herself just because Evan felt so rotten about himself. For taking Jessie's money and losing it to Scott. Just for being so stupid.

  But Jessie was really going at it, and if he didn't protect himself at least a little, he was going to end up in the emergency room and that would upset his mom. So he kept his hands up in front of his face, just enough to keep Jessie from gouging out his eyes. But he never once tried to hit her back. He was done fighting.