Kid Power

by Susan Beth Pfeffer

  “If you eat all those leftover cookies you’ll be a lot bigger,” Carol said and giggled. I giggled too. It was a good feeling sitting on the porch getting ready to expand.

  “Do you want to keep your slogan?” she asked, nibbling on a slightly burnt cookie. I think she burned a few of them deliberately. “No job too big or small?”

  I thought about the Great Dane and Mrs. Townsend’s garden and horrible Harriet. “Make that ‘Few jobs too big or small,’” I said. “And underneath I want a listing of our specialties.”

  “Your specialties?” Carol asked. “What? Neurosurgery? Corporation Law?”

  “Babysitting,” I said. “Animal Care. Gardens.”

  “Some list,” she said.

  “Errand Running,” I continued. “Yard Sales. And Oatmeal Cookies.”

  “How about Satisfaction Guaranteed?” she asked. “That always looks good on a sign.”

  “Fine,” I said. “Three signs. One big, two little. The little ones don’t have to list our specialties. But make sure our phone number is in big print.”

  “Will do, Chief,” Carol said. I left her on the porch, taking her pencil and sketching in all the information. I was glad I was able to push a little business her way.

  I went into the living room and found Mom sitting on the sofa staring at the staircase. I couldn’t tell whether that was a good sign or not. At least she wasn’t copying recipes. It was spooky when she did that.

  “Hi, Mom,” I said. “I’m going to make a fortune, and I’m not even going to have to do anything except answer the phone and collect the money.”

  “You’ve found quite a racket for yourself,” she said. “Now leave me alone, could you hon? I’m doing some serious thinking.”

  “About what?” I asked nervously.

  “About rackets,” she said, and smiled. “I think you may have inspired me.”

  “How?” I asked.

  “Shush,” she said. “Let me think some more and then I’ll tell you.”

  Chapter Eleven

  I may have spent more frantic Saturdays in my life, but I couldn’t tell you when.

  For starters there was the yard sale I was in charge of. It lasted six hours, and I managed to get rid of most of the oatmeal cookies, at only a small loss to my gross. None of the kids there broke or stole anything, and when the sale was over Mrs. Schwartz gave me a dollar bonus so I stayed a little longer and helped her pack up.

  People kept coming up to me and my sign and saying they’d read about me in the paper. They asked a lot of questions about Kid Power Agency and a half-dozen of them took down the name and phone number and said they might have a job coming up for us to do. When I told them about expansion, they agreed that it was a sensible idea. They usually bought a couple of oatmeal cookies after that from the Adult Plate. It was a very profitable afternoon.

  I got home by four, absolutely exhausted. Still, I was glad when Lisa came over. She looked excited about something.

  “Mrs. Townsend is back!” she shouted.

  I turned pale. “What did she say?” I asked.

  “She said the garden looked great. She said she couldn’t have tended it better herself.”

  “Even with the Japanese beetles?” I asked dubiously.

  “Especially with the beetles,” Lisa said. “Mrs. Townsend said they’ve been eating away at her garden for the past couple of years, and she never did know what to do about them. She was really happy when I told her my method.”

  “What exactly is your method?” I asked. I’d been wondering about it.

  “I read about it in a magazine,” Lisa said and giggled. “You take an open can of fruit cocktail, and you leave it outside for a week, so it ferments a little. Then you put it in a bucket of water and leave it by the rosebushes. The Japanese beetles eat the fruit cocktail and get drunk and drown in the water. Isn’t that great?”

  “That’s horrible,” I said and giggled, too. “I just wish I’d known about that method earlier.”

  “For Mrs. Townsend’s garden?” Lisa asked.

  “What, Mrs. Townsend’s garden,” I said. “For Harriet!”

  “You’re terrible,” Lisa said, and joined me laughing. “Anyway, Mrs. Townsend was so happy with the job we did, she gave me a five dollar bonus.”

  A person could sure grow attached to those bonuses. “Keep it,” I said. “You’re the one who deserves it.”

  “I thought we’d split it,” she said firmly. “You did most of the work and all of the worrying. You deserve at least half.”

  It was hard to argue with that logic. So I added another $2.50 profit to my day’s accounts.

  “Not only that,” Lisa said. “But when Mrs. Townsend was in the hospital she heard about Mrs. Edwards, and she said she thought that was a great idea, having someone come in every day to check up on her and see if she needs anything. So I’m going to go over for fifty cents a day. Minus ten percent of course.”

  “That’s great,” I said, sinking into an easy chair. “Lisa, if any more garden jobs come up, you want them?”

  “I’d love them,” Lisa said. “I like making money.”

  “It is fun,” I said.

  We heard shouting outside, then, so we went out front to see what was going on. It was Ted, calling to us. He was walking the biggest Great Dane I’d ever seen. I stayed behind Lisa as we walked over to say hello.

  “This is a great job,” Ted said. “I wasn’t supposed to walk this dog on weekends, but they decided to go away for the afternoon and I offered to take care of him. The more I walk him, the sooner I get my new glove.”

  “Don’t forget my ten percent,” I said.

  “I’ll pay you on Monday,” he said. “Monday’s our payment day.”

  “Fine,” I said, as the dog dragged Ted away.

  And then Margie came. She looked as tired as me.

  “All those kids,” she said, and smiled happily. “Thousands of them. And they all loved my chocolate chip cookies. Except for a couple who said the yard sale down the street had better oatmeal ones.”

  “They’re Carol’s specialty,” I said.

  “I owe you sixty cents,” she said, handing me a dollar. So I gave her forty cents change. Earning money really seemed easy when you had other people doing it for you.

  The three of us talked for a while, mostly about our different jobs, and what we’d be willing to do if Kid Power Agency got any more assignments. Margie said a lot of people took down the phone number from her sign. We all agreed we were on to a good thing, at least for the rest of the summer. When school started, we’d cut down on our jobs.

  The phone rang, and Carol stuck her head out to say it was for me. So I ran into the kitchen, and everybody left for their houses.

  “Is this Kid Power?” a woman asked irritably.

  “Yes it is,” I said, and grabbed a paper and pencil.

  “This is Mrs. Schuman,” the woman said. “You were supposed to send someone over to help me pack boxes. Three hours, three dollars.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “Didn’t the girl I sent show up?”

  “Nobody has,” Mrs. Schuman said. “I read about you in the paper, and it said how responsible you were, but I must say I’m deeply disappointed. I’m moving tomorrow you know.”

  “I’ll have someone over in half an hour,” I promised. “Fifteen minutes. I promise.”

  “Well,” she said.

  “And if you don’t like the service, you don’t have to pay,” I said. “Fifteen minutes.”

  “All right then,” she said, and we hung up. I felt like killing Sheila. Instead I dialed her number. After two rings, an operator’s voice came on and said the phone had been disconnected.

  That could only mean Sheila’s mother was having one of her crises, which would explain why Sheila hadn’t shown up. But it also meant there was no way of getting through to her.

  “Carol!” I shouted.

  “What?” she asked, coming into the kitchen.

  �
�Want another job?” I asked. “Please, it’s an emergency.”

  “When?” she asked.

  “Right now,” I said.

  “I can’t,” she said. “I promised Gwen I’d go over to her house before supper.”

  I was going to say something about what was more important, but then I remembered Lisa and how mad she’d been at me. “What am I going to do?” I said instead. “It’s too late for me to try to get anybody else.”

  “Then you’ll have to do it yourself,” Carol said. “It’s called responsibility.”

  “I’m learning,” I said, and grabbed the piece of paper with Mrs. Schuman’s address on it. “Tell Mom and Dad I’ll be home late for supper. But before dark. And tell Dad it’ll never happen again.”

  “Good luck,” Carol said.

  I ran all the way to Mrs. Schuman’s. Maybe it was the way I was panting when I introduced myself, or maybe it was the way I did nothing but apologize for the first five minutes, but Mrs. Schuman turned out not to be a grouch. She did expect a lot of hard work though, packing things and moving the boxes. My muscles really ached from the yard sale before I got there. After three hours of practically nonstop work, I was ready to find a nursing home and retire for good.

  “Well,” Mrs. Schuman said at seven-thirty. “I’d say we got a lot accomplished.”

  We sure had. There were more boxes loaded and labeled than I’d ever seen in my life; “You don’t have to pay me,” I said, although I think I would have cried if she hadn’t. My body never hurt so much in my life.

  “You’ve earned your pay,” she said, and handed me three dollars. “I admire the job you’re doing. Keep up the good work.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “Good luck on your move.”

  “It’s going to be a lot easier now,” she said, and we said good-bye. I walked slowly all the way home. I wasn’t looking forward to what Dad was going to say about the hours I had to put in, but all he did when I got in was give me a hug and say, “We all have rough days occasionally.”

  Mom had made a huge chef’s salad for supper, and for dessert I’d contributed a few spare oatmeal cookies. We were sitting at the dinner table feeling relaxed and happy. Carol had to leave in a little bit for her babysitting job, but making extra money always puts her in a good mood, so we were all feeling fine.

  “I have an idea,” Mom said, sipping her iced tea. “Something to keep me busy until I find a job.”

  “That sounds good,” Dad said. He didn’t say anything about sore feet or tuna casseroles or copying recipes. I breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Kid Power is such a success,” she said. “I thought it might not hurt to try an adult version.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “A lot of housewives would like part-time occasional jobs to help pick up a little extra money,” Mom said. “And I think this summer’s proved there are a lot of occasional jobs out there needing to be filled. So I thought maybe I’d try to organize something to take care of both needs.”

  “What kind of jobs?” I asked. I didn’t like the idea of Mom directly competing with me.

  “Adult kinds of jobs,” she said, answering my unasked question. “Cooking for invalids. Gourmet cooking. Helping with parties. Chauffeuring. Daytime babysitting. I’m sure there are a dozen more things if I thought about it.”

  “It certainly sounds like it’s worth a try,” Dad said. “Although we may have to get the two of you a new phone number.”

  “Well, let’s not rush out and order one,” Mom said. “I thought I’d take August and investigate possibilities. And then once I got things organized I’d sit back and collect my ten percent. Just like Janie.”

  “It sure is fun,” I said, thinking about Carol and Lisa and Ted and Margie. “Doing nothing and getting paid for it.”

  “You don’t do nothing,” Mom said. “You assign the jobs, and make sure the people are doing them and doing them well.”

  It hadn’t occurred to me before, but after Mrs. Schuman, I’d learned my lesson. So I nodded. “Like tonight,” I said. “I’ll make sure Carol does okay at her babysitting. I wouldn’t want one bad apple to ruin Kid Power Agency.”

  “Good grief,” Carol muttered, but then she smiled at me. Even taking out ten percent from her pay, she was still making fifteen cents more an hour for the Kid Power babysitting jobs than she’d ever gotten on her own. I didn’t know how long it would last, but for the time being, I knew she’d be fairly friendly.

  “Good lord,” Dad said, staring at me like he’d never seen me before. “What a calling.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Everybody has a true calling,” he said. “Some people find it later than others though. You’re the first eleven-year-old I’ve ever met who knows hers.”

  “What’s mine?” I asked. I could think of quite a few things it wasn’t. Gardening, for one, or modeling, and it certainly wasn’t walking German shepherds.

  “Management,” Dad said and scowled. “Here I am a labor lawyer, and for my daughter I have an eleven-year-old management whiz. An ‘exploiter of the working class, all for her ten percent. It’s disgraceful.”

  “Don’t worry, Dad,” Carol said. “I’ll unionize.”

  “No picket lines, please,” Mom said. “At least not on our front lawn.”

  But I didn’t care about Carol and her threats. I was feeling too good. Picket lines or no, management sounded like a pretty good true calling to me.

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Kid Power series

  Chapter 1

  “Smile, Janie!”

  “I am smiling,” I growled.

  “Then smile harder,” my mother instructed me. “And don’t squint.”

  “I have to squint,” I told her. “The sun’s in my eyes.”

  “Then shield your eyes until I say when,” Mom replied. “We want a nice picture of you in front of your new bike.”

  I sighed, shielded my eyes, smiled, and quickly removed my hand from my face when my mother told me to. She took two quick pictures of me standing by the bike, and then one of the bike without me. “For your scrapbook,” she told me when I gave her a weird look. As though I’d want a picture of my bike in my scrapbook. As though I could even remember where my scrapbook was anymore.

  My mother had bought the kind of camera that develops the pictures itself, so in a minute, I was looking at three pictures of me and my bike. In one of them I was definitely squinting, but the others came out okay.

  “This camera was such a great idea,” my mother said. “It’ll give that something extra to Something Extra.”

  I sighed some more. My mother had taken to saying that about practically everything lately. “It’s getting cold, Mom,” I said. “Mind if I go in?”

  “Not at all,” my mother said. “Just put your bike away first.”

  So I moved it into the garage. It was a beautiful bike, and I wasn’t really sure why it didn’t make me happier. I’d earned half the money for it myself, by working all summer for my organization, Kid Power. I’d created Kid Power just to earn the money for the bike, and while I’d been working and saving, it had been fun to have a goal. But the time finally came when I had enough money, and a little extra to keep my savings account open. My mother really started after me then about when I was going to buy the bike, so I finally gave in, withdrew the money, and went bike shopping with her that morning. And now I had my bike, and there wasn’t any reason to even pretend Kid Power still existed.

  I kicked at some leaves on the driveway as I walked back to the house. There hadn’t been much time for Kid Power anyway once school started. At its peak, in August, I had three of my friends, plus my sister Carol and me all working for it. I put all of the money I earned into my savings account, plus ten percent of what the others earned as well. We watched kids at yard sales, baby-sat, weeded gardens, walked dogs, fed cats, helped people pack and clean, and did anything else we could come up with.

  And the funn
y thing was, even though it was work, it was a lot of fun.

  But business just about died after Labor Day. That weekend we’d done four yard sales, and we hadn’t done one since then. There’d been some last-minute bulb planting in October, but that ended the gardening for the year. People came home from vacations, so there was no more need to feed cats, and lately it seemed as if even the dogs were walking themselves. That just about left babysitting, and the only one of us who worked at that regularly was my sister Carol.

  Which reminded me. She’d worked the night before, and she hadn’t given me the thirty cents she owed me. Thirty cents wasn’t much, but it was the only income Kid Power would have for the week, and I wanted it.

  “Carol!” I shouted, as I walked into the house.

  “What?” Carol shouted back. Judging from the sound, she was in the living room. So I went there. Sure enough, she was sitting in front of the TV, watching a football game with my father.

  “You owe me thirty cents,” I told her, as I plopped down on the sofa next to her.

  “I do not,” she said. “Why should I owe you anything?”

  “You worked last night, didn’t you?” I said. “You baby-sat for three hours at a dollar an hour, and I’m entitled to ten percent of that. Thirty cents.”

  “Forget it,” Carol said. “I’m not paying you any thirty cents.”

  “But you owe me,” I shrieked.

  “I paid you when the jobs came in from Kid Power,” Carol replied. “But I got this job on my own, so why should I pay you anything?”

  “You got the job because you were recommended by somebody you got through Kid Power,” I told her. “That’s the same thing as getting the job through Kid Power. Isn’t it, Dad?”

  “Third down,” Dad said. “Wait until this play is over, and then ask me.”

  So we sat quietly while the quarterback tried to pass the ball. It was incomplete, so Dad turned to us. “Now what seems to be the problem?” he asked.

  “Carol owes me thirty cents, and she won’t pay,” I told him.

  “Janie has this fantasy that Kid Power is still in business,” Carol said. “And she expects me to keep shelling out ten percent of my hard-earned money for no reason whatsoever.”