Free Lunch Money by Andrew Clements

had heard a detailed description of every major blood-producing event endured by the Shaw family over the past fifteen years.
    His own mom was not impressed with his condition. She gave him a quick once-over and said, “Go put that shirt in cold water in the laundry room, then take a shower. Since I’m home a little early, I think I’m going to make lasagna for dinner. How’s that sound?” And that was it—from his mom.
    By dinnertime the bruise had spread under his left eye, and his big brothers wanted details.
    â€œWhat do you mean, ‘an accident,’” said Ross. “Did you fall off the climbing wall? Or get hit by a baseball? What?”
    Greg shook his head. “It was somebody’s hand.”
    Edward said, “Some kid hit you?”
    â€œNo,” said Greg. “It was just a bump, and she didn’t mean to.”
    â€œâ€˜She’?” said Ross. “A girl did this? That’s lousy. I mean, if a guy whacks you, you can whack himback, but if it’s a girl—”

    â€œBoys.” Their dad’s tone of voice froze the chatter. “Nobody in this family ‘whacks’ anybody. It was an accident. So just drop it, all right?”
    Ross and Edward let it go—at least until after dinner.
    Greg was sitting at his desk doing a tally of the day’s sales when both his brothers came bursting into his room. They each had painted on a black eye, and Ross, panting like he’d been running, said, “Hide us, hide us! Me and Edward, we were outside just now, and, and this whole gang of tiny little girls came up and started pounding us! It was terrible! They’re everywhere, they’re everywhere!” And then they both fell on the floor, howling with laughter.
    Greg wanted to laugh too, but he didn’t dare. Ross was a high school sophomore and Edward was a freshman. The slightest encouragement of their madness could prove fatal. As coldly as possible, Greg said, “Very funny,” and went back to his numbers. He always did the accounting before he started his homework.
    About twenty minutes later Greg was almost done with his social studies reading when his mom called up the stairs, “Greg . . . telephone.” He trotted out and grabbed the portable phone off the table in the hall.
    It was the last person he wanted to hear from.
    â€œGreg, it’s me . . . Maura. There was an assignment in math. And you weren’t there. So I thought you’d want to know.”
    Greg said, “Uh, yeah . . . sure. I mean, I was going to call and get it from Ted.” And he thought, What, does she think I’m so stupid that I’d miss a math assignment? But in a fairly pleasant tone of voice he said, “So, what’s the assignment?”
    â€œYou have a pencil?”
    â€œUh-huh.” Greg had already hurried back to his room for fear that his brothers might guess he was talking to a girl.
    â€œOn page seventeen, it’s exercise B,” said Maura, “all the even-numbered problems. And I could help, if you don’t understand it or something . . . because you weren’t there.”
    â€œNo, that’s okay,” said Greg. “I can do it. This stuff is still review. So this is good. Yeah . . . this is good.”
    Maura said, “Mr. Z told everybody to payspecial attention to the decimal points. And he said he might give a quiz. Which means he probably will.”
    â€œGood,” said Greg. “I mean, that’s good to know. Yeah . . . good. This is good.”
    Already this was the longest phone conversation Greg had ever had with a female who was not his relative, or at least thirty years old, or both. Plus, Greg couldn’t help remembering what Mr. Z had said, that he thought Maura found him interesting. Even with a topic as safe as a math assignment, Greg felt the strain. He was ready to sign off.
    Then Maura said, “I read your comic book again. It makes my