Chapter 11

Chapter 11 A Total Loss total loss (total loss) n. Goods so damaged that there's no point in repairing them (or they can't be repaired at all). The first cup was an easy sell. The second cup, too. It was on the third cup that a little girl, about six years old, said, "Ew, there's a bug in my drink." Then her brother said, "There's one in mine, too." "Gross," said an older boy on a skateboard. "There are, like, three in mine. I want my money back, man," he said, dumping his lemonade on the ground. The mother of the little girl and boy looked into their cups carefully. "I think you need to check your lemonade, honey," she said to Evan.

Evan unscrewed the cap and everyone looked in. The surface was swimming with dead bugs: fruit flies, worms, and a soggy brown caterpillar. "Oh my goodness," said the mother. The boy started spitting on the ground like he was going to die. The girl started wailing. "Mommy! I drank bugs. I have bugs in my tummy!" Evan couldn't believe his eyes. How did this happen? Did they crawl in somehow? They couldn't have. He had screwed the lid on tightly. He was sure of it. And anyway... one or two bugs crawling in— maybe. But fifty dead fruit flies and two inchworms and a caterpillar? It just wasn't possible. Evan was burning with embarrassment as everyone looked at him and his buggy lemonade. Frantically, he reached into the cooler and started to scoop out the dead bugs with his hands. "Uh, sweetheart," said the mother, "you can't sell that lemonade." "I'll get them all," said Evan. "I'll get every last one out."

"No, dear. You really can't. You need to dump it out," she said. Evan looked at her like she was crazy. Dump it out? Dump it out? He'd spent forty dollars of his hard-earned money on that lemonade and another dollar for the cups. He wasn't going to dump it out. "I'll do it at home," he said. "No. You should do it here, I think. I need to be sure it's all disposed of properly." Evan looked at her. He didn't know her, but he knew her type. Boy, did he know her type. She was the kind of mother who thought she was the mother of the whole world. If you were on a playground and she thought you were playing too rough, she'd tell you. If you were chewing gum in line at the 7-Eleven, she'd say, "I sure hope that's sugarless." Mothers like that never minded just their own business. Or just their kids' business. They thought they had to take care of every kid in the kingdom. "It's too heavy for me to dump," he said. "I'll take it home and my mom can help."

"I'll help," said the busybody mother of the world. "All we need to do is tip it a little." She grabbed one handle of the big cooler. Evan had no choice but to grab the other handle. Together they tipped and the lemonade poured out of the top of the cooler. They poured and poured and poured. The lemonade sparkled in the sunlight, like a bejeweled waterfall, and then disappeared without a trace, soaking into the parched September grass. As the last sluice of lemonade slipped out of the cooler, a slick of mud poured out. "Oh my goodness," said the mother. Evan couldn't believe it. He couldn't believe how quickly his victory had turned to defeat. It was just like the lemonade. It had disappeared into the grass, leaving nothing behind. A total loss. The mother smiled sympathetically as Evan returned her two dollars. The skateboard dude had already skated off with his refund. There was nothing to do but go home.

Evan walked slowly, dragging the wagon with the empty cooler rattling inside. With every step he took, the wagon handle poked him in the rear end. Step. Poke. Step. Poke. He felt like someone was nudging him forward. "Evan, Mom wants to see you in her office. Right away!" That had been weird. His mom had had no idea what he meant. "I didn't call you. I didn't call anyone," she had said. "I've been on the computer." "Evan, Mom wants to see you." He had been coming up the stairs. Jessie had been in the garage. She had looked anxious. "Right away!" she had said. Evan stopped walking. He stared at the empty cooler. Then he started to run. The wagon bounced crazily along the uneven sidewalk. Twice it tipped over. What did it matter? thought Evan angrily. There's no lemonade to spill. By the time he got home, he had it all figured out. He looked in the kitchen trash and found the

three Ziploc bags, inside out and sticky with lemonade. He shook the fruit bowl and noticed how few fruit flies took to the air. If he'd had the right materials, he would have dusted the cooler for fingerprints. But there was really no need for that. He knew what he would have found: Jessie was all over this one. "That RAT! That lousy rotten stinking RAT of a sister!" he shouted. He went back to the garage and kicked the wagon. He knocked the cooler to the floor. He tore up his Lemonade-on-Wheels sign into a dozen pieces. He was going to lose. She had a hundred dollars (he was sure of it) and he had just sixty-two left. Tonight, before the fireworks, when they counted their money, she would be the winner and he would be the loser. Winner takes all. Loser gets nothing. It was so unfair. Evan stomped upstairs to his room. He slammed