The Lemonade War

by Jacqueline Davies

  Five minutes later she was awake for real, remembering why she was so tired. Yesterday's lemonade stand had been the hardest work of her life. Face painting, hair braiding, nail polishing—it had sounded like such a good idea. Jessie had been sure that every kid in the neighborhood would line up to buy a cup of lemonade.

  But that was the problem. Every kid had lined up for lemonade—and then wanted face painting and hair braiding and fingernail polishing and toenail polishing. One boy had asked for face paintings on both cheeks, both arms, and his stomach. One girl begged for lots of little braids with ribbons woven in. And the nail polishing! They all wanted different colors and decals, and it was impossible to get them to sit still long enough for the polish to dry.

  "We're going to run out of lemonade," Megan had said to Jessie at noon, as the line stretched all the way to the street.

  "Pour half-cups instead of full ones," whispered Jessie. "It has to last."

  Jessie and Megan had each made twenty-four dollars on lemonade, but they'd worked eight hours to do it. At the end of the day, they'd agreed: A good idea, but not worth it!

  After breakfast, Jessie pulled out her lock box and sat on her bed. She kept the box hidden in her closet on a shelf under some sweaters. She kept the key in a plastic box in her desk drawer. The plastic box was disguised to look exactly like a pack of gum. You would never know it was hollow and had a secret sliding panel on its side.

  Jessie unlocked the box and opened the lid. First she took out the three torn slips of paper. There was one for value-added and one for goodwill. There was also a new one that Jessie had added last night:

  Jessie lined up all three scraps of paper on the bed beside her. She wasn't sure why she was saving these words, but she felt like they belonged in her lock box.

  Next, she took out her lemonade earnings. Every day, Megan had squealed over how much money they'd made. But every day, Jessie had known: It's not enough. It's not going to be enough to win.

  Jessie counted the money. So far, she had earned forty dollars. It was a lot of money. But it wasn't nearly enough. She still needed to earn sixty more dollars. And today was Saturday. Only two more selling days before she and Evan counted their earnings on Sunday night. How was she going to sell enough lemonade to earn sixty dollars in two days?

  She couldn't. That was the problem. No kid could earn a hundred dollars in just five days by selling lemonade. The profit margin was too small. She knew because she'd used her calculator to figure it out last night.

  The numbers said it all. There was no way two girls in one neighborhood could sell 375 cups of lemonade. Nobody wanted that much lemonade, no matter how hot the day was.

  Jessie looked at the money in her lock box and the page of calculations on her desk. Any other kid would have quit. But Jessie wasn't a quitter. (On good days, Jessie's mom called her persistent. On bad days, she told her she just didn't know when enough was enough.)

  Jessie reached for Ten Bright Ideas to Light Up Your Sales. It was on her bedside table, right next to Charlotte's Web. Jessie's hand hovered. She looked longingly at Wilbur and Fern watching Charlotte hanging by a thread.

  But this was war, and she couldn't stop to read for fun.

  She grabbed the booklet and opened it to Bright Idea #6.

  An hour later, she had a new scrap of paper stashed in her lock box and a whole new page of calculations on her desk. It might work. It could work. But she and Megan would have to risk everything—everything they'd earned over the past three days. And Jessie would have to be braver than she had ever been in her whole life.

  Jessie carried her lock box and calculations downstairs. She went into the kitchen and pulled down the school directory, scanning the names of all the third-grade girls from last year. She knew them all—from Evan, from recess, from the lunchroom. Knew who they were. Knew their faces. Which ones were nice. Which ones were not so nice. But she didn't really know any of them. Not enough to call them up. Not enough to say, "Want to do something today?" Not enough to ask, "Would you like to have a lemonade stand with me?"

  These girls were going to be her classmates. Jessie felt her face grow hot and her upper lip start to sweat. What was it going to feel like to walk into that classroom on the first day of school with all those eyes looking at her? Would they stare? Would they tease? Would they ignore her, even if she said hi?

  Jessie looked at the names, then slammed the directory shut. She couldn't do it. She just wasn't brave enough.

  Evan walked into the kitchen and grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl. A cloud of fruit flies rose up in the air and settled again. Evan inspected the apple and then bit into it, without washing it first. Jessie wanted to say something but held her tongue. She looked at him and thought, It is never going to feel normal, not talking to Evan.

  "Hey," she said.

  Evan raised his apple to her, his mouth too stuffed to talk.

  "So, is Paul coming over today?" she asked.

  Evan shook his head, munching noisily.

  "Well, is anyone coming over?" Jessie was curious to see what the enemy was up to today. Yesterday, Evan's smile had told her plenty: He had sold a lot of lemonade. A lot. But what was he going to do today?

  Evan shrugged his shoulders. He swallowed so hard it looked like he was choking down an ocean liner.

  "But you are setting up a stand, right?" asked Jessie.

  "Nah. I'm good," said Evan, looking closely at his apple. "I'm just gonna take it easy today." He took another enormous bite and walked out of the kitchen and down the basement stairs.

  Take it easy? How could he take it easy? You didn't take it easy when you were in the middle of a war.

  Unless.

  Unless he had already won the war.

  Could that be possible?

  It was impossible!

  There was no way Evan had earned a hundred dollars in just three days of selling lemonade. No way.

  Jessie's mind skittered like one of those long-legged birds on the beach. Had he? Could he? Were her calculations wrong? Was there some other way? Had she overlooked some detail? Some trick? Was she missing something?

  Jessie flipped open the school directory. Maybe he had a hundred dollars. Maybe he didn't. She couldn't take a chance. She started putting pencil check marks next to the names of girls she thought might work out.

  She'd gone over the list twice when the doorbell rang. It was Megan.

  "I've got a new idea," said Jessie.

  "Awww, not more lemonade," said Megan, sinking onto the couch in the family room. "I'm tired of selling lemonade. And it's just too hot. I practically had sunstroke yesterday painting all those faces."

  "We're done with that," said Jessie. "No more extra services. Doesn't pay off. But here's an idea—"

  "Forget lemonade! Let's go to the 7-Eleven," said Megan. "Is Evan home? We could all go."

  "No. He's not home," said Jessie, eyeing the door to the basement. She needed Megan to be on board with her plan. She needed Megan to make the phone calls. "Look. This is great. And we don't need to sell the lemonade."

  Jessie laid out all the details. She showed Megan the new scrap of paper.

  Then she showed Megan her page of calculations. At first Megan buried her head under a pillow, but then she poked her head out like a turtle and started to listen for real.

  "That sounds like a pretty good plan," she said. "But is it really going to work?"

  Jessie looked at her calculations. She'd done them twice. "It should," she said. "I really think it should." She frowned, suddenly not so sure of herself. "It's a big up-front investment. And a lot of work organizing everybody. But once they're set up, we should just be able to sit back and watch the money roll in. The key is spreading everybody out so there'll be plenty of customers. We'll need at least ten girls. Fifteen would be better."

  "That's the whole fourth-grade class," said Megan, looking doubtful. "How are we gonna get them to do this?"

  "Well, you could phone them all up,"
said Jessie. She handed Megan the school directory, open to the third-grade page.

  "Me?" said Megan. "Why me?"

  "Because they know you," said Jessie. "They know you, too."

  "Yeah, but they like you."

  Megan shook her head. "Not all these girls are my friends."

  "Even the ones that aren't your friends, they still like you. Everybody likes you, Megan."

  Megan looked embarrassed. "Oh, everybody likes you, too," she said.

  "No, they don't," said Jessie. "They really don't." There was an uncomfortable silence between the two girls. Then Jessie shrugged her shoulders and said, "I don't know why those girls in my class last year didn't like me. I'm hoping this year will be better."

  Megan tapped her fingers on her knees. "You're nervous, huh? About fourth grade?" she asked.

  Jessie thought hard. "I'm worried that I won't make any new friends," she said. "You know, that all the kids will think I'm just some puny second-grader and that"—she took a deep breath—"I don't belong."

  Megan looked up at the ceiling for a minute. "Do you have an index card?" she asked.

  "Huh?"

  "I need an index card," said Megan. "Do you have one?"

  Jessie went to the kitchen desk and got an index card. She handed it to Megan. Megan started to write something on the card.

  "What are you doing?" asked Jessie.

  "I'm writing a comment card," said Megan. "That's something you're going to miss from third grade. We did it every Friday. We each got assigned a person, and you had to write something positive about that person on an index card. Then it got read out loud." She folded up the card and handed it to Jessie.

  Jessie unfolded the card and read what Megan had written.

  Jessie stared at the index card. She kept reading the words over and over. "Thanks," she whispered.

  "You can keep it," said Megan. "That's what I did. I've got all my comment cards in a basket on my desk. And whenever I'm feeling sad or kind of down on myself, I read through them. They really help me feel better."

  Jessie folded the index card and put it in her lock box. She was going to save it forever. It was like having a magic charm.

  "So, how about I make half the phone calls and you make the other half?" said Jessie.

  "Okay," said Megan, jumping up from the couch.

  It was surprising how many almost–fourth-grade girls had absolutely nothing to do three days before school started. In less than an hour, Jessie and Megan had thirteen lemonade "franchises" signed up for the day.

  The rest of the day was work, but it was fun. Jessie and Megan attached the old baby carrier to Megan's bike, then rode to the grocery store and spent every penny of their earnings on lemonade mix—fifty-two cans. They actually bought out the store. The four bags of cans filled the carrier like a boxy baby. They also bought five packages of paper cups. When they got back to Megan's house, Jessie tucked the receipt in her lock box, right next to her comment card. Jessie liked receipts: They were precise and complete. A receipt always told the whole story, right down to the very last penny.

  Then they tossed construction paper and art supplies into the carrier and started making the rounds.

  First stop, Salley Knight's house. She was ready for them with a table, chair, and empty pitcher all set up. Jessie mixed the lemonade, Megan quickly made a "Lemonade for sale—750 a cup" sign, and they left Salley to her business. The deal was that Salley got to keep one-third of the profits and Jessie and Megan got to keep the rest.

  After they'd set up all thirteen lemonade stands, each with enough mix to make four pitchers of lemonade, Jessie and Megan hung out at Megan's house, baking brownies and watching TV Then they hopped on their bikes again and made the rounds.

  Jessie and Megan stopped in front of Salley's house first. The lemonade stand was nowhere to be seen.

  "Whaddya think is going on?" asked Megan. Jessie had a bad feeling in her stomach. Something must have gone wrong.

  They rang the doorbell. Salley came to the door.

  "Hurry," she said, grabbing their arms and pulling them inside. "My mom goes totally mental when the AC is on and the door is open."

  "Where's your stand?" asked Jessie nervously, feeling goose bumps ripple up her arms because of the suddenly cool air.

  Salley waved her hand. "Done," she said. "I sold out in, like, half an hour. It's so darn hot. We made twenty-four dollars, besides tips. Do I get to keep the tips?"

  "Sure," said Jessie. Tips! She'd forgotten about those on her calculations page. Salley handed Jessie some crumpled bills and an avalanche of coins: eight dollars for Jessie and Megan, each.

  "You wanna stay and have some ice cream?" Salley asked.

  "Okay," said Megan. "And we brought you a thank-you brownie. You know, for being part of our team." That had been Bright Idea #9.

  After a bowl of The Moose Is Loose ice cream, Jessie and Megan headed out. The story was the same at every girl's house: The lemonade had sold out quickly and the money just kept rolling in.

  "I can't believe we made—how much did we make?" squealed Megan once they got back to her house.

  "One hundred and four dollars each. Each!" shouted Jessie. She couldn't stop hopping from one foot to the other.

  "I've never seen so much money in my life!"

  Jessie was already running numbers in her head. Subtracting the eighty dollars that she and Megan had spent on lemonade and cups, each girl had made a profit of sixty-four dollars. If they increased the number of franchises from thirteen to twenty-six, they could each make one hundred and twenty-eight dollars in one day. If they ran the twenty-six franchises every day for one week, they could each make eight hundred and ninety-six dollars! Jessie pulled out a piece of paper and scribbled a graph.

  The sky was the limit!

  Megan pretended to faint when Jessie showed her the graph. "What are you going to do with your money?" she asked from the floor.

  Win the war! thought Jessie. Oops. She couldn't say that to Megan. Megan didn't even know about the Lemonade War. After all, Megan liked Evan.

  Jessie suddenly wondered, If Megan knew about the war, whose side would she be on?

  All at once, Jessie felt as if Evan were a hawk, circling above, waiting to swoop down and snatch Megan away. Oh, she was so mad at him! He deserved to lose everything.

  Is one hundred and four dollars enough to win? wondered Jessie. Surely Evan couldn't have earned more than that. Still ... better safe than sorry. She would work all day tomorrow, Sunday, selling lemonade.

  "So?" said Megan. "What are you gonna do with the money?" She was kicking off her sneakers and fanning herself with a magazine.

  Jessie said, "I'm going to donate all my money to the Animal Rescue League."

  Megan stopped waving the magazine. "Oh, that is so nice of you. I want to donate my money, too." She dropped the magazine and started shoving her money toward Jessie. "Here. Give mine to the Animal Rescue League, too. On the card, just put both our names."

  The money came at her so fast, Jessie didn't know what to say. There it was. Two hundred and eight dollars. Two hundred and eight dollars! All in her hands.

  She had won. She had really and truly won the Lemonade War.

  "Just promise me one thing," said Megan. "No lemonade stand tomorrow! Okay?"

  "O-kay," said Jessie. She didn't need a lemonade stand on Sunday if she had two hundred and eight dollars today!

  "My dad said tomorrow's the last day before the heat breaks," said Megan. "So we're going to the beach for the whole day. Wanna come?"

  "Sure!" said Jessie.

  "Maybe Evan wants to come, too?" said Megan.

  Jessie shook her head. "No. Evan's busy all day tomorrow. He told me he's got plans."

  Megan shrugged. "Too bad for him."

  "Yep," said Jessie, thinking of all that money. "Too bad for him."

  Chapter 9

  Negotiation

  negotiation () n. A method of bargaining so that you can reach a
n agreement.

  Evan looked up from the marble track he was building when Jessie walked in the front door. She looked hot. She looked sweaty. She looked ... happy. Really happy. Like she'd just gotten an A+. Or like ... like she'd just won a war.

  "What are you smiling for?" asked Evan, holding a marble at the top of the track.

  "No reason." Jessie put her hands on her hips and stared at Evan. She looked like one of those goofy yellow smiley faces—all mouth.

  "Well, quit looking at me, would ya? It's creepifying. You look like you're going to explode or something." Evan dropped the marble into the funnel. It raced through the track, picking up speed around the curves. It passed the flywheel, sending the flags spinning, then fell into the final drop. When it reached the end of the track it went sailing through the air like a beautiful silver bird.

  And fell short.

  The marble landed on the ground, instead of in the bull's-eye cup.

  Evan muttered under his breath and adjusted the position of the cup.

  "Raise the end of the track," said Jessie. "You'll get more loft."

  Evan looked at her angrily. The marble had fallen into the cup the last ten times he'd done it. Why did it have to fall short the one time she was watching? "Don't tell me what to do," he said. Why was she smiling like that?

  "I didn't tell you what to do," she said. "I just made a suggestion. Take it or leave it." She turned to walk up the stairs. "Grumpminster Fink," she tossed over her shoulder.

  Evan threw a marble at her disappearing back but missed by a mile. Well, he hadn't really been aiming anyway; he just wanted that feeling of throwing something. He'd been feeling the need to throw something these past four days.

  Grumpminster Fink. That was the name of a character he'd made up when he was six and Jessie was five. That was back when Mom and Dad were fighting a lot and Evan and Jessie just had to get out of the house. They'd scramble up the Climbing Tree—Evan had his branch, Jessie had hers—and wait it out. Sometimes they had to wait a long time. And once, when Jessie was thirsty and impatient and cranky, Evan had said, "Be quiet and I'll tell you a story about Grumpminster Fink."