Monkey Business

by Leslie Margolis

“Yes,” said Emma, closing her notebook. “We have all week to get ready and it looks like we are, as long as someone has plastic cups.”

  “We’ve got tons of plastic cups,” said Claire.

  “Perfect,” said Emma. “I should get going now. I have a ton of homework.”

  “Me too,” said Yumi and Claire at the same time.

  Rachel didn’t say anything. She just followed my friends to the front door. It may have been my imagination, but it seemed like everyone wanted to leave. And I didn’t blame them!

  We went to Emma’s house after school on Tuesday so we could perfect our recipe. Turns out we needed about three times as much water as lemon juice, plus three squirts of agave nectar to get the perfect batch.

  Then on Thursday we went to Claire’s place to work on the actual stand. She’d tie-dyed a sheet ahead of time and it was amazing—color bursts of rainbow with the words LEMONADE FOR PANDAS spelled out in silver glitter paint.

  By the end of that day we were raring to go. We thought the lemonade stand was going to be awesome, and the answer to all our financial concerns. We figured we’d make what we needed for the concert and would have plenty of money left over, too.

  Except the lemonade stand was a disaster of epic proportions—the worst thing to happen to our friendship.

  And I wasn’t even sure how things got so bad.

  Chapter Six

  When Life gives you Lemons, do not make Lemonade

  The trouble started at lunch on Friday, the day before our grand opening. And surprisingly, it had nothing to do with lemonade.

  “I was thinking of whipping up a batch of my famous chocolate-chip-banana mini-muffins for tomorrow’s lemonade stand,” Claire said.

  It seemed like an innocent statement to me, but Emma jumped down her throat, as if Claire had suggested digging for oil in our backyards—with our bare hands.

  “Muffins?” she practically shouted as she literally dropped her tuna fish sandwich on the table. “Why would we sell muffins?”

  “Because they’re delicious,” said Claire. “And anyway, who doesn’t love a mini-muffin to go with their lemonade?”

  I was about to tell her it was a great idea, but before I had the chance to, Emma cut in. And her voice sounded way high-pitched. Also? She talked faster than usual, as if she were nervous or angry but trying to hide it.

  “Introducing two new products at once could be confusing,” said Emma. “I feel like it’s smarter to focus on one thing—at least for our opening weekend. You know, like we all agreed to the other day. I’ve been reading up a lot about how to launch a new business, and everyone seems to agree that it’s best to start simple and really perfect the basics.”

  “Emma’s right. And we did agree to serve plain lemonade before even trying out other flavors,” Yumi gently reminded Claire.

  “How come you always take Emma’s side?” Claire asked her.

  “I don’t, and I’m not even taking sides,” said Yumi, sitting up straighter. “I’m merely offering my opinion about what products we should be selling.”

  “You sound just like Emma now!” Claire said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Yumi asked, clearly offended.

  “You don’t have to be so formal and official about it,” said Claire. “Muffins aren’t a product. They’re just muffins.”

  “Think about the size of the table,” said Emma. “And how crowded it would be with more than one thing on it.”

  “I think the table can handle two things,” said Claire with a laugh.

  Emma shook her head. “But its not simply two things. We’ve got the pitcher of lemonade and the cups and the ice and the cash box.”

  “The ice is going to go in the cooler on the ground,” said Claire.

  “True, but there’s got to be room for us, too,” Yumi pointed out. “Your moms’ poker table isn’t that big.”

  “I can fit a dozen miniature muffins on one small plate,” said Claire. “I’ve done it before.”

  “I love mini-muffins,” said Rachel.

  “Me too,” I said. “And you know what’s also delicious? Muffin tops.”

  “Last year my aunt bought me a muffin top muffin tin for my birthday,” said Rachel. “Except I’ve been using it to make cupcake tops instead. So what if we did that with the frosting on top? I mean, how awesome would that be?”

  “Or what about cake pops?” asked Claire. “They hardly take up any space because they’re the size of lollipops. I think you can even buy a cake-pop holder. This keeps getting better and better.”

  “Or at least sweeter and sweeter,” I said. “The other day I went out to this bakery with my mom and Ted. My mom has a huge sweet tooth now, thanks to the pregnancy, which I’m totally benefiting from. Anyway, they sold frosting shots.”

  “What’s that, like a bullet made out of frosting?” asked Claire. “Do you shoot it out of a gun made of cake?”

  “No, no, no,” I said. “It’s in a little shot glass. Like how grownups can order a shot of espresso, or cowboys order shots of whiskey in those tiny little glasses? This is the frosting version.”

  “You mean you can get all the frosting without having to bother with the cake part? That sounds amazing,” said Claire, her eyes getting way wide. “We’ve got to sell frosting shots. That’s way better than mini-muffins. Awesome idea, Annabelle!”

  Emma looked at Yumi, who rolled her eyes.

  “What?” Claire asked Emma.

  “Nothing,” said Emma.

  “No, I saw you roll your eyes just now, and you and Yumi gave each other that look.”

  “What look?” asked Yumi.

  “You know!” said Claire.

  Yumi shook her head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Emma turned to me. “Frosting shots sound good, but on Monday we all agreed to lemonade, and I think we should stick to it.”

  “I’m not saying we shouldn’t sell lemonade,” said Claire. “I’m just saying we should also sell frosting shots. I mean, think about it—lemonade stands are as old as time. But lemonade-and-frosting-shot stands? We might very well be the first ever!”

  “What if we combine the two and sell lemonade-flavored frosting shots?” asked Rachel.

  “And lemonade, too?” asked Claire. “Or just the frosting shots?”

  “Good question,” said Rachel. “What do you think, Emma?”

  Emma gave the rest of us a pained expression. “I think we should stick to the original plan.”

  “Mini-muffins?” asked Claire.

  “No, lemonade!” Emma shouted.

  “You don’t have to yell,” said Claire. “I’m sitting right across the table.”

  “I know, but I’m frustrated because you can’t just change your mind!”

  “Of course I can,” said Claire. “People change their minds all the time. It’s not good to be so rigid.”

  “Gah!” Emma buried her head in her hands.

  “Now you’ve got this sour-lemon expression on your face,” said Claire.

  “I do not,” said Emma, glaring at Claire.

  I didn’t want to get in the middle of things, but Claire was right. Emma totally looked like she was sucking on lemon slices. And I kind of understood why. She’d worked hard on the business plan and had a good reason to want to stick to the lemonade. On the other hand, it was hard to beat Claire’s enthusiasm. And mini-muffins did sound delicious.

  “Let’s just try selling the muffins,” said Claire. “I really don’t think it has to be a big deal. A lemonade–bake sale will only bring in more money for our concert tickets, which is what this is all about. Right?”

  “Well, what about the sign?” asked Emma. “You already made it, and there’s no room to add anything about muffins.”

  “Maybe we don’t have to advertise it,” said Claire. “Maybe the muffins will come as a nice surprise.”

  “If we sell muffins, I think we need to advertise the muffins,” said Emma. “That’s, like,
the most basic thing in the world.”

  Claire thought about this for a moment as she pulled her hair into a bun. “I can scrunch in a ‘+muffins’ right next to the lemonade. I’ve got some spare puffy paint at my house.”

  “Does that mean that you’ll provide muffins whenever we have lemonade?” asked Emma. “And if so, who’s going to pay for the supplies?”

  “I don’t know,” said Claire. “But I’m sure we’ll figure it out. What’s the big deal?”

  “This is a huge deal! What if we spend too much money and don’t make enough for tickets?” asked Emma.

  “Hey, let’s vote on it,” suggested Rachel.

  “Good idea,” said Claire. “I mean, no one made you the boss, right, Emma?”

  Emma sucked in her breath, shocked. “I never said I was the boss.”

  “Good,” said Claire. “I’m glad to see this is still a democracy. Let’s vote!”

  I didn’t want to take sides, but I could already tell who stood where. Yumi and Emma seemed in agreement. So did Rachel and Claire. As for me, well, I saw both sides. Mini-muffins sounded delicious and like a good way to earn some extra money. But at the same time—Emma had made some valid points. Our table was small, and the sign was already done. Plus, maybe we should keep things as simple as possible for the opening week.

  I didn’t know which side to take, but I knew I’d be the deciding vote. It was a lot of pressure.

  “Everyone who wants muffins, raise your hand,” said Claire. She held her hand up high and Rachel did too.

  “And everyone who doesn’t want muffins at our Lemonade for Pandas stand, raise your hand,” said Emma, smiling, assuming that the majority of us was anti-muffin.

  She and Yumi both raised their hands.

  Then everyone turned to me.

  “I abstain,” I said, sitting on my hands.

  “You can’t abstain,” said Emma. “We need you to decide.”

  “It’s too much pressure!” I said. “Let’s flip a coin.”

  Everyone sighed as I pulled a quarter out of my pocket.

  “Hey, is that a new jacket?” asked Rachel.

  I looked down at my jacket. “It is,” I said. “My mom got it for me last night.”

  “But you already had a jean jacket,” Rachel said, kind of pointedly. Almost like she was complaining.

  “I know,” I said, feeling uneasy. “But this one has a dark wash and the other was all faded.”

  “Huh,” said Rachel.

  She didn’t say anything else, but she didn’t have to. That single syllable said so much: Rachel was jealous of my jean jacket. Or maybe Rachel was jealous of me in general. Or maybe Rachel was just highly critical of everything I did or said or wore these days. Why was she keeping track of how many jackets I had? What was wrong with getting a new jacket? Nothing!

  “People get new jackets sometimes. There’s no need to comment on it,” I said to Rachel, flipping my hair over my shoulder. I felt kind of mean saying it, and I’m not sure why since I was merely stating a fact.

  Rachel smirked and said, “Some people get more jackets than—”

  “Hey,” said Yumi, interrupting. “Let’s drop it. We need to make a call on the banana muffins.”

  Everyone turned to me in anticipation.

  “Know what,” I said. “Let’s not flip a coin. I changed my mind. Let’s sell lemonade this weekend and really make the stand great. Maybe we can try muffins the following week. As long as everything else is under control.”

  “There you go,” said Emma. “It’s settled.”

  Claire huffed and rolled her eyes.

  Rachel stared at me, her head tilted, as if she were trying to figure something out. Like maybe I had voted not only against muffins but against her.

  I could tell that was what she suspected, and it annoyed me even more.

  Because guess what? Rachel was totally right.

  Chapter Seven

  Shop Till you Drop … a Huge Wad of Cash!

  My mom picked me up from school later that day, and we headed straight for the mini-mall. I don’t even know how many times I’d passed by the Baby Supply Company on my way to the Gap, but I’d never actually been inside. I’d never had any reason to go until now.

  That was why it was such a shock to see how massive the place was. Walking inside, I felt like I was in an airplane hangar. Except instead of planes, it was filled with enough supplies to take care of a gazillion babies. The ceilings were so high, and the walls were all lined with shelves stacked higher than any regular-size human could reach. From where we stood, right inside the front doors, I couldn’t even see the end of the store.

  “This place is crazy!” I said to my mom.

  “I know.” She laughed. “It’s pastels and plastics as far as the eye can see. Who knew there was so much stuff they could sell to new parents?”

  “Not me,” I said as we walked through an entire aisle dedicated to high chairs and stopped when we got to the parking-lot-size space for strollers. “Some of these look more like rocket ships,” I said.

  My mom tested one out—pushing it back and forth. “Yeah, they didn’t have ones so elaborate when you were little. At least I don’t think they did. I bought your stroller used off Craigslist. It’s all so different this time around.”

  “You mean because you have Ted?” I asked carefully.

  When I was born, my mom was on her own. By the time she realized she was pregnant with me, she’d already broken up with my biological dad, and he didn’t want to have anything to do with me. He still doesn’t, not that I care. He lives in Norway, which is in Scandinavia, which is really, really, really far from here.

  “Yes,” said my mom. “It’s nice knowing I’m not going to have to go through everything alone. Although I wouldn’t change a thing about raising you.” She put her arm around my shoulders and kissed me on the top of my head. “And I’m thrilled to know I can do it on my own if I have to. Nothing will ever be that intimidating.”

  I stared at my mom. She looked massive in her giant sundress with red and blue sideways stripes. Her feet were swollen and she had on purple flip-flops. They were the only shoes she could wear now—I’d heard her complain to Ted that her feet were too big for all her regular shoes. She didn’t even walk anymore. She waddled, which looked weird and funny, but I didn’t want to say so because I figured that would be insulting.

  Anyway, as we walked she continued adding stuff to the shopping cart. Baby towels with yellow ducks all over them, little jumper things with bunnies and rainbows, a white plastic bathtub with blue padding, and two gigantic boxes of newborn-size diapers.

  “Wow, those should last for a year!” I said.

  My mom laughed. “More like a month if we’re lucky!”

  We wandered through the crib section and found dozens on display—all in different shapes and sizes and colors and designs. And there were pictures of a hundred more in a gigantic binder with big laminated pictures.

  Except the one crib that my mom wanted wasn’t in stock.

  She asked the salesperson—a tall guy with curly, salt-and-pepper hair—about the crib.

  He plugged some numbers into his computer and said, “That one’s on back order and won’t be ready to ship for another three weeks, ma’am.”

  “Are you sure about that?” asked my mom, holding on to her belly with both hands as if she were holding the baby in place. “Because we can’t wait much longer.”

  “Positive,” he replied with a curt nod.

  “Okay, then,” said my mom. She gave the sales guy our address and he handed her a piece of paper with a picture of the crib on it.

  “They’ll ring it up at the register with the rest of your stuff,” he explained. “Just give them your address and the crib will be delivered straight to you.”

  “Thank you,” she said as we turned the corner and headed to yet another section of the store.

  “Don’t worry, Annabelle. We’re almost done here,” she said as if
reading my mind. “Want to help me pick out sheets?”

  “Sure,” I said, pointing to the first set I saw and liked. “How about those with the blue and yellow elephants?”

  “Lovely,” said my mom. “And they’re organic, too.” She took three sets and dropped them into her cart. Then she pushed the cart toward the cash register. Since she seemed to be struggling, I asked if she wanted me to take over.

  “That would be amazing,” she said.

  I got behind the cart and tried to push it, but it didn’t move. “Wow, this is heavy,” I said, throwing more weight behind my steps.

  “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” my mom said. She shuffled along, tummy out, her hands resting on her back.

  “Why, where am I going?” I asked. “Do you plan on sending me to boarding school once this kid comes out?”

  My mom cracked up. “No, you’re not going anywhere. This baby is going to need you.”

  “Good,” I said as we joined the back of the line. I looked at the sheets again, hoping my baby brother or sister would like them. Being a big sister suddenly felt like a huge responsibility, and I hoped I was good at it.

  “Did you know that Yumi is in charge of her baby sister, Suki, every night when her mom makes dinner?” I asked.

  “I didn’t,” my mom said, smiling.

  “She even gets paid for it,” I said.

  “Good for her,” my mom said.

  There were only two carts in front of us, but both of them were stuffed full of baby junk too, so we ended up having to wait for a while.

  When our checkout time finally came, it took forever for the cashier to ring up all the items, and once she finished, well, I could not believe the bill. I don’t want to say how much it cost because I still can’t believe it wasn’t a mistake. Let me just say this: the bill came to more money than tickets to the Panda Parade cost, in total—a lot more. The crib alone cost more than the spending money for my five best friends. I expected my mom to balk or excuse herself to put some of the stuff back or at least pull a coupon out of her gigantic purse. That was what usually happened in this kind of situation. Except not today. As soon as the cashier announced the total, my mom smiled and handed over her credit card.