Morgan Makes a Deal

by Ted Staunton

  Morgan Makes a Deal

  Ted Staunton

  Illustrated by Bill Slavin

  Formac Publishing Company Limited

  Halifax

  1

  A Birthday Sneeze

  “Thad wud a grade ga — CHOO … game.”

  “Id sugged, Morgan.”

  We are clumping back through the snow from my friend Charlie’s birthday party. I sound stuffy because I am allergic to Charlie’s dog, Roxy. Aldeen Hummel sounds stuffed up because she is — her mouth is full of stolen birthday cake. Aldeen is the Godzilla of Grade Three. Stealing birthday cake is the kind of stuff she does. Now she is coming over to my place until her mom can come pick her up.

  “It wud too grade.” I mean Charlie’s new Skateboards on Mars video game. Aldeen doesn’t like video games. When she crashes she stomps the controls.

  “Ah-ah —” I sneeze again. Aldeen crams the last of the cake into her mouth. Green icing sticks to her face. It looks like... eww. She swipes it with her mitt and licks. Double eww.

  We bump up the steps to my house and into the warm. We drop our goodie bags and take off our stuff, and I tell my mom about Skateboards on Mars. It’s way past Christmas and a long time before my birthday, but I really really really want it.

  “We’ll see,” says Mom. “Did you have fun, Aldeen?”

  Aldeen nods. Her glasses are fogged up. She’s pulled more mushed-up cake out of her mitten and she’s eating it. She’s making me hungry. I like to eat too.

  I go in the kitchen and sit down. My dad is there, making us hot chocolate. Yesss. He says, “If you really want the game, Morgan, earn some money. Get a paper route.”

  “Is a paber rude hard?” I ask.

  “No,” says Dad. “You get paid to deliver papers after school. That’s it.”

  After school? That’s when Aldeen comes over while her mom works and her grandma is busy. With a paper route I wouldn’t be here. I look in the hall. Aldeen is dumping out her goodie bag. No, wait, that’s my goodie bag.

  “Hey — CHOOO!” I really blast one. My elbow whams the chair back. “Ow!” I go to rub it and I can’t. Something is grabbing my arm. I look — my elbow is jammed between the bars on the back of the chair. “Help!” I snork my sneeze back into my nose and tug.

  Aldeen comes in, chewing my gum. She peers over her foggy glasses, then, blammo, she noogies me in the ribs.

  “Ahh!” I jump. My elbow pops out. I look at Aldeen. She swallows and says, “Thank me, Bozo.”

  “Thanks,” I say, rubbing my arm and ribs. Then I say, “Let’s call the paper.”

  2

  Paper-Boy Blues

  Monday after school there are twenty-one papers and a carrier bag waiting for me. I know how many papers because Mom makes me count them. She says I have to do that every day. Then she helps me fold them and comes around with me to make sure everything goes all right.

  I guess it does, except my paper route sure takes a long time. It’s snowing and it’s cold. My scarf gets all soggy across my mouth. The bag is heavy. Mom won’t let me throw the papers like they do in movies; she makes me stick them between the doors. I can hear a big dog growling in one house. I’m hungry. I’m thirsty. And when I tell Mom, she says, “We’ll be home soon.”

  When I tell her again, she says, “Morgan, suck it up. We’re almost done.”

  When I tell her again, she doesn’t say anything. Maybe she doesn’t get it. She does two of my last three papers, though. I didn’t know she could move so fast.

  Tuesday, Mom stays home. It takes me even longer than it did my first day, and there’s a paper left over.

  “Did you count?” asks Mom.

  Oh-oh. “I forgot.”

  Mom waits until someone calls to say there’s no paper. She drives it over.

  Wednesday, I’m one paper short. I forgot to count again. Someone calls and says they have two papers. Someone else calls; they don’t have any. Mom picks up the extra paper and drives it over.

  Thursday, I’m two papers short.

  “Morgan,” sighs Mom.

  “I counted!” I say. And I did, I think.

  Nobody calls. Mom buys two papers from the store and drives them over. I don’t see what she’s so bugged about. The newspaper says they’ll give us the money.

  Friday is worst of all. Aldeen comes with me and she complains the whole way. She’s hungry. She’s thirsty. She’s cold. I’m slow. Why don’t I throw the papers, like on TV? Aargh! This is even worse than doing papers alone.

  Saturday, Dad and I figure out how much I’ve made. It’s going to take three months to get enough for Skateboards on Mars. I’ll be old before then. I call up Charlie to see if we can play his game.

  “Can’t,” Charlie says. “My parents say I can’t play until my math mark goes up.” Charlie is kind of a doofus at math.

  “Morgan,” Mom calls, “Time to do your papers.”

  I groan and hang up the phone. I hate my papers.

  “And don’t forget to count,” says Mom.

  I look up. I hate my papers, but I have an idea.

  3

  Let’s Make a Deal

  “What kind of a deal?” Charlie asks me Monday morning. We’re climbing snow banks as we walk to school.

  I say, “You help with my papers and I’ll help with your math.”

  “How?” Charlie asks, jumping down.

  “If you do my papers, I’ll...give you...my... homework...to copy.” It’s tough talking and climbing at the same time.

  “You’d still have to come with me on your route,” Charlie points out.

  I sit down and slide to the bottom. Did I just hear something rip? Never mind. “That’s okay,” I say, “Then nobody will find out.”

  “Deal,” says Charlie. “Let me see your answers when we get to school.”

  At school we huddle by the wall. I read Charlie my answers. He has to change nearly every one of his. As the bell rings and we all line up to go in, someone shoves in behind me. A voice whispers, “I’m telling, Morgan. I saw Charlie copy your homework.”

  I know the voice. I whip around. Aldeen, the Queen of Mean, is glaring at me. Her witchy hair pokes out from her hood. Breath curls out her nose like dragon smoke.

  “He did not,” I lie. “I was just helping him.”

  Aldeen snorts more dragon smoke. “Like stink. If Charlie copies, then I do too.”

  What? “Get out, Aldeen. Charlie’s trading with me.”

  “Okay, here’s a trade. You let me copy your math and I won’t pound the snot out of you.” She lifts a fist. Her mitten looks kind of like a boxing glove. We have a deal.

  “Good,” says Aldeen. More dragon smoke. “And guess what — you ripped your snow pants. Your butt is hanging out.”

  I thought it was cold back there. Now I think it’s going to get colder.

  4

  The News Team

  After school, Charlie comes over to my place. So does Aldeen.

  “You can stay here,” I say to her as we have our snack. I’m still mad at her about our “deal,” and all she does is complain, anyway.

  Aldeen grabs the last cookie and says, “Uh-uh. I’m coming.”

  We go out to the porch. I stick the papers in the bag.

  “Hey,” Aldeen orders, “Count them first. Your mom said.”

  I glare at her. Her eyes squinch back. I think about snot pounding.

  We count.

  Down the street, I give Charlie the papers. I show him how to fold one.

 
“That’s sloppy,” snaps Aldeen. “Do it right.”

  “You do it, if you’re so smart,” I say.

  “It’s not my paper route,” she says, packing a slush ball. She heaves it at a phone pole. It hits a parked car instead.

  Charlie keeps delivering papers. Aldeen keeps complaining.

  “This sucks,” she says, heaving more ice balls. “Hurry up. I’m cold. This is boring.” The ice balls miss. If she thinks this is boring, she should try it alone.

  And really, we’re moving fast. I’m puffing to keep up with Charlie. Even popsicle-stick Aldeen is hurrying. We can’t get one house ahead of her before she comes racing up like some little kid who’s scared of getting lost.

  “Just throw the papers,” she insists to Charlie, “Like they do on TV.”

  “Noooo,” I groan. “My mom —”

  “That’s just because you’re a crummy thrower. Gimme that.” Aldeen drops her ice ball, grabs the paper and heaves it at a house. It sails past the porch, whangs off the front window and lands way up in a big bush that still has Christmas lights. A bunch of lights fall off.

  “Aldeen,” I yell, “That’s not even the right house!”

  I huff over and jump for the paper. I miss — but not everything. Something crunches under my boots as I come down. Christmas lights. The door of the house opens.

  It’s going to cost an extra two weeks of work on the paper route to pay for the lights. I work it out as we trudge home. I decide not to tell Mom.

  “You owe me,” I tell Aldeen.

  “It’s not my fault,” she says, “I was just helping. Now do your homework so we can copy it.”

  5

  Too True to Be Good

  Aldeen doesn’t come over for the next few days. She wants my homework, though, every morning.

  Still, things are better. Charlie is fast at my papers and he always counts, too. People don’t call to complain any more. That makes Mom happy. I’m happy because all I have to do is walk around with my friend, then have hot chocolate.

  Charlie and his parents and our teacher, Mrs. Ross, are happy because Charlie looks like a math genius compared to before. That means we get to play Skateboards on Mars again. We get to the third level. I don’t even mind that Roxy makes me sneeze.

  It’s hard to tell if Aldeen is as happy as everyone else, but she goes a long time without hitting anybody. And on Friday, when Mrs. Ross calls on Charlie in math, she even helps out. Charlie hears Mrs. Ross and looks at me. I’ve got the answer. I whisper to Aldeen, who whispers to Charlie, who says the wrong answer.

  But Mrs. Ross says, “Well done.” I look — I’ve made a mistake. Phew, I think, good thing Aldeen didn’t hear me right. Then the very next second Mrs. Ross says we have a math test on Monday. Charlie looks at me again. Oh-oh. We didn’t figure on this part.

  At lunch, I try to show Charlie some math. “Know how you split the papers up for each street? Well, that’s dividing. There’s twenty-one papers and three streets. How many for each?”

  “Well, your street gets eight, mine gets six and the one in between gets seven.”

  “Yeah, I know, but say they get all the same.”

  “But they don’t.”

  “But if they did, what would they get?”

  “I dunno.”

  “Okay, what adds up to twenty-one?”

  “Eight, six and seven.”

  “No, what same number adds up to twenty-one?”

  “That’s adding, not dividing.”

  I try something else. “Say I make twenty-one dollars a week delivering papers — ”

  “You do?”

  “No, only about six dollars. But say I did and three of us share it. What do we get?”

  “Well, Aldeen doesn’t do anything, so — ”

  “No, but if we had to share all the same. Wait.” I start biting off carrot bits to show him. Nobody eats carrots, not even me. Charlie goes to get milk. I’ve got milk. I get a noogie in the back instead. Guess who’s there?

  “You get paid for your paper route?” Aldeen hisses. She has crumbs in her hair.

  “So? I’m saving up for Skateboards on Mars. Why else would I do it?”

  She shrugs. “I thought you were just getting punished for something.” Then she leans in and her noogie knuckle pops up again. “But if you’re getting paid, so am I.”

  6

  A Dry Run

  I am so stunned I almost swallow the carrot bits. Aldeen turns away and swipes somebody’s cookies. When she turns back, I try to argue. She shakes her head. Crumbs fall. It’s hard to argue with a snot-pounder-outer.

  Then things get worse. After school, Charlie says he doesn’t want to do papers.

  “Why not?” I ask, even though I know why not. “We’ve got a deal.”

  “Well, what good is it if I can’t pass the test?” Charlie says.

  He’s right. I go home and get a little luckier. Mom has done my papers because we’re going to Aunt Jane’s for dinner and there’s no time to wait. Even better, my cousin Andrew has Skateboards on Mars. After dinner I get to the next level.

  Then my luck flips back. On Saturday everybody goes tobogganing in the park, but I have to do papers first. I slog around by myself. It’s so cold my cheeks sting. It’s not fair, I tell myself. I can’t help it if we have a math test — tough noogies for Charlie. And why do I have to pay Aldeen? I am so grumpy I don’t notice at first I have a paper left over.

  “Did you count?” asks Mom.

  Oh no, not this again. When the phone rings, Mom and I drive the paper over because Dad isn’t back from the grocery store yet. As soon as we get in, the phone rings. Someone doesn’t have a comics section.

  Mom grabs ours. “Come on.”

  I say, “But I haven’t even read those yet.”

  Mom doesn’t say anything. I don’t see why she’s so bugged — they’re my papers.

  When we get back, I’m cold and it’s too late for tobogganing. Mom makes me take a hot bath. I get out, still mad about papers and Charlie and Aldeen. What I want now is my favourite comfy pants and sweatshirt. Mom says they’re in the dryer.

  I grab some cookies and go downstairs in my underwear. Upstairs, I hear the doorbell ring. There are voices. They get louder as people come in. The voices sound like Charlie and Aldeen. Oh, no. What do they want?

  “He’s downstairs,” I hear Mom. “C’mon.”

  What? I don’t want to see them. Plus I’m in my underwear. I can’t see my clothes in the basket. So I do the only thing I can think of — I dive into the dryer and pull the door almost shut.

  “He’s probably in the family room,” Mom says from the hall. “Go on in, I’ll take care of your snow suits.”

  I hear footsteps. The dryer door opens. Something cold and soggy hits my face. The door slams. Mom starts the dryer.

  7

  All Shook Up

  The one good thing about getting bounced around in a dryer for ten seconds with wet snowsuits in your face is that when you get out you feel too rotten to see anybody. Charlie and Aldeen don’t stick around long after I push the door open and tumble out.

  Things aren’t much better after they go. Mom is not happy. She doesn’t even say, “Good work not throwing up.” All she says is, “What were you doing in the dryer?”

  I say, “Um, looking for something.”

  Mom’s mouth gets small. I say, “I dropped my cookie. I had to crawl in to get it.”

  “Well,” says Mom, “Maybe you should crawl in and get the money you owe your paper-route helpers.”

  “What?”

  “Aldeen says you’ve kept them busy.”

  “I have not. She doesn’t do anything. Only …” I’m about to say, “Only Charlie does,” when I remember that I’d have to tell about the
deal. We’d get in trouble.

  Mom says, “I don’t care who does what. Aldeen has gone with you and she makes you count the papers. For that alone, she deserves to get paid. I think you should divide up your money and take it to them now. The fresh air will do you good.”

  “Awwwwwww,” I say.

  “Morgan,” Mom warns, “Don’t push your luck, or you’ll have to pay your other helper too.”

  “Who?” I ask.

  “Me. Now get going.”

  8

  The Great Divide

  The money is in a jar in my room. Eighteen dollars and sixty cents for three weeks of winter paper route. It’s all in coins. I like coins. They’re heavier and the money feels like more.

  I lug it over to Charlie’s. As soon as I get there, Roxy starts jumping all over me, panting and licking. I can barely tell Charlie about splitting up the money. Charlie drags Roxy off and I go to wash my hands before I start itching. When I get back I say, “There’s eighteen dollars and sixty cents, so we each get — ”

  “Six dollars and twenty cents,” says Charlie. “I already split it up.”

  “Right,” I say. He hands me back the jar.

  “Well,” says Charlie, as if he can’t wait for me to go, “I have to study math.”

  So I leave. Charlie doesn’t even say thanks. He doesn’t even ask me to stay and play Skateboards on Mars. At least I’m leaving before I’m all stuffed up.

  Aldeen’s front walk is lumpy with ice and snow. Her sled is lying in the middle of the steps. I climb over it and knock on the door. After a minute, it opens a few inches. Aldeen glares at my face. Her cat Muscles glares at my ankles. “Whaddya want?”

  “I brought you some money from the papers,” I say. “Four dollars.” Okay, so I’m lying. But it’s not as if Aldeen did anything, except bug us.

  It doesn’t matter. She says, “Nice try, Morgan. You owe me six dollars and twenty cents.”