The Water Fight Professional

by Angela Ruth Strong

  Chapter Ten:

  Weekend Warrior

  “Supply and demand, my boy.” Dad put down the newspaper and gave me his full attention.

  “Huh?”

  He rubbed his hands together. “You asked for an economics lesson.”

  What was economics? “No, I didn’t. I just want to know how I can make more money water fighting.”

  “Exactly.” Dad stood up.

  I expected him to wipe off Mom’s theater schedule from our chalkboard and start drawing pie charts.

  Somehow he contained himself. “Say there are two cupcakes left for dessert tonight.”

  I was confused already. “Since when does Mom bake cupcakes?” She’d made me bran muffins for my last birthday.

  “Okay, say Mom is gone. I have two cupcakes. You and Christine have to buy them from me. How much would you pay?” He placed his hands on the back of a chair and leaned forward.

  “Umm … a quarter?”

  Christine had recently earned two quarters from Mom for videotaping Mom’s dance practice in the living room.

  “Okay.” Dad pushed off and paced around the table. “But what if you each had a friend over for dinner and there were still only two cupcakes left?”

  I sat up straighter. “Then I would buy them both for Chance and me.”

  Dad narrowed his eyes. “How much would you pay?”

  I shrugged. “I guess I would have to pay more than Christine could. I’d pay fifty cents a cupcake.” If I weren’t still in debt.

  Dad slapped his palm on the table. “So what does that teach you?”

  I lifted my eyebrows. “Cupcakes can be expensive?”

  Dad laughed and sat back down. “The more people that want a product—or a service, in your case—the more money they will pay for it.”

  I rested my elbow on the table, and my chin on my fist. “So where do I get all these people?”

  Dad gave me a look that said I should be able to figure it out. “When are there the most people at the park?”

  I thought about Chance’s baseball games. “Weekends. During sporting events.”

  “So?” Dad turned his body sideways to face mine. “How can you make more money water fighting?”

  I looked out the window.

  Cars fought over parking spaces in front of the playground.

  “I should go to work. And I should raise my prices.”

  Dad nodded wisely. “You’re going to be a hot commodity on a day like this.”

  Brilliant. Swinging my backpack over my shoulders, I grabbed my Turbo Drench 3000 and my slingshot. “See ya.”

  Dad gave me a thumbs up as I ran out the door.

  Displaying my sign at the picnic table closest to the baseball diamond, I pulled a magic marker out of the front pouch and crossed out some of my prices. A cup of water stayed at fifty cents and a simple water balloon still only cost seventy-five cents, but I added the balloon slingshot at one dollar. The Turbo Drench was definitely worth a dollar and twenty-five cents. I had tossed the Mega Drench in my garbage can that morning. To get customers’ attention, I juggled some balloons.

  Two teenagers sat lazily on top of a picnic bench nearby. They didn’t seem the least bit interested in my performance.

  Behind them, two moms walked with a toddler between them. “I don’t know how the boys are supposed to play baseball in this heat,” the one with short hair said, propping sunglasses on the top of her head as she stepped into the shade.

  Boise was high desert. No cacti or sand dunes, but also no rain during the scorching summers.

  “I know,” said the woman with long red hair. “They’re not only burning up, they’re dehydrated.”

  Dehydrated? Lacking in water? Maybe I could help.

  The redhead paused at a drinking fountain and hoisted the toddler up to get a drink.

  I strutted over. “Excuse me, ladies,” I said in my most professional voice. “I overheard you talking and thought I might offer my assistance.”

  They both turned to look at me. Then they looked at each other.

  Facing me again, the short-haired woman asked slowly, “What kind of assistance?”

  I resumed my water balloon juggling. “My name is Joey Michaels. I’m a water fight professional, and for just a small price I could help your children and their team cool off from the heat.”

  “A water fight professional,” mused the red-headed woman. “So you could do what? Throw water balloons at our boys?”

  “I have cups of water, water balloons, and a water gun.” I mentally crossed my fingers. If I got these moms to hire me, the whole team would become potential clients.

  The women looked at each other again.

  “Do you think the kids would like that?” asked one.

  Their gazes shifted to the baseball diamond behind me.

  The pitcher shielded his eyes, preparing for the pitch. The basemen stood planted to their spots with arms hanging heavily, and the outfielders moved around slowly as if through sludge.

  “They need something to liven up the game.” The other lady looked back at me. “I’m not sure about the water balloons. Let’s start with a cup of water for all the players.”

  Woohoo. “How many players?” I tried to keep the excitement out of my voice.

  The woman slipped her purse off her shoulder. “Ten. How much will that cost?”

  “Five dollars, ma’am.” My feet itched to do a jig. My biggest sale yet. And how easy was it to fill up ten cups of water?

  The woman handed me a five-dollar bill. “We’re the Rangers. Let me warn the coach first. Next time we’re up to bat, you can dump a cup of water on each of the players.”

  Yes! I nodded and hurried off to grab my paper cups. As I jogged back to the field, the Rangers struck out a batter for the third out. Time for business. A kid with bright orange hair caught my eye.

  He plopped a helmet on top of his head and picked up an aluminum bat. Wiping sweat from his forehead, he rolled his shoulders back.

  My first target. I couldn’t call him a victim, because in a sense, I was helping his team. “Hey, buddy.” I smiled at him. “Are you hot?”

  “I’m dying.”

  “I can help.” I angled the cup of water his direction and let gravity do the rest.

  “Ah!” he shrieked. Then, as the breeze cooled his dripping skin, he repeated the sound, but in a refreshing way. “Ah … can you do that again?”

  “Sorry, I’ve only been paid to dump each player with one cup.”

  “Well.” He shrugged. “It was worth it.”

  After jogging into the batter’s box, he practiced swinging with renewed vigor. So what if the dust stuck to him and turned to mud? He’d gotten a moment’s relief from the searing sun.

  Other Rangers had seen the kid get splashed.

  “My turn,” called a big kid. He reminded me of Chance—large for his age.

  “Oh, me too,” said a black kid.

  They lined up for me to soak them. Work had never been so easy. And it was awesome watching them explode with energy. The first Ranger up to bat hit the ball out of the park.

  “Way to go, Rangers,” yelled parents in the crowd.

  “Hey, kid,” called the coach from the other team.

  Was he talking to me?

  “Yeah, you. Get over here.”

  I trotted behind the bleachers, hoping for more business.

  The coach for the Angels didn’t let me down. “I want you to douse my team.”

  “Well, sir,” I said, trying to hide a grin. “I’m out of paper cups, but for a dollar twenty-five I can squirt one of your guys with my water gun.”

  “One dollar and twenty-five cents per player? That’s preposterous.”

  My excitement faded. Dad’s suggestion had let me down. I turned to go.

  “Wait,” a kid behind the coach called.

  I stopped and looked over my shoulder. It was Chance.

  “What Joey is offering is better than steroids.”

/>   My jaw dropped. Chance’s words might help me win the bet.

  He motioned me to join him in the dugout. “Come on, Coach. Just for the players up to bat. You saw how it helped the Rangers.”

  The Coach shrugged and dug into his pocket for some cash. “Anything for Zabransky.”

  “Hey,” yelled the first mom—the one with sunglasses—from the bleachers. “We want the water fight professional back.”

  “He’s mine now,” hollered the coach.

  Me, a double agent—playing both sides. But as Chance’s best friend, I should be helping out his team.

  The red-headed mom stood up and waved a ten-dollar bill overhead. “I’ll pay to have a water balloon tossed at each of our players.”

  My mental cash register rang up to seven dollars and fifty cents. Not quite what Chance’s coach was offering. “Sorry,” I called back. “The Angels outbid you.”

  The woman jumped off the side of the bleachers and headed my way. “We’re down by one. Pump that water gun, and start coolin’ off the Rangers. I’ll pay you whatever you want.”

  The world around me faded at her words, and I floated on a fluffy cloud in heaven—only the Angels were playing baseball instead of harps.

  Ah, yes. Supply and demand. I was more like my dad than I realized. “Sorry, Chance.”