Chapter 3

Chapter 3 Joint Venture joint venture (joint venture) n. Two or more people joining forces to sell a certain amount of goods or to work on a single project. When the goods are sold or the project is finished, the joint venture ends. "Your sister is really—" "Shut up," said Evan. "Huh?" "Just shut up. She's okay. She just... she doesn't... look, she's okay. So just shut up." "Y'okay," said Scott, holding up his free hand to show he meant peace. Evan was getting abused on both sides. The

heavy cooler was banging against his inside leg with every step. And the plastic chairs were scraping against his outside leg. Bruised and bloodied, he thought to himself. All for the fun of hanging out with Scott Spencer. Why couldn't Jack have been home? Or Ryan? And why did Adam have to be on the Cape this week? It stunk. "How far are we walking?" grunted Scott. "Just to the corner." Evan watched as drops of sweat fell off his face and landed on the hot sidewalk. "We shoulda stayed in the driveway. It was shaded." "The corner's better. Trust me," said Evan. He remembered when Jessie had said the same words to him last summer. They were setting up a lemonade stand together, and Evan had been grumbling about dragging the cooler across the street and down two houses, just like Scott. But Jessie had insisted. "There's sidewalk on this side," she'd said.

"So we'll get the foot traffic coming in both directions. And people in cars coming around the curve will have time to see us and slow down. Besides, there are a bunch of little kids on the side street and their mothers won't want them crossing Damon Road. The corner's better. Trust me." And she was right. They'd made a ton of money that afternoon. It took ten seconds to set up the lemonade stand. Evan unfolded the chairs and set one on each side of the cooler. Scott tilted the sign toward the street for maximum effect. Then they both sat down. "Man, is it hot," said Evan. He took off his baseball cap and wiped the sweat from his face with his shirt. Then he grabbed an ice cube from the cooler, balanced it on his head, and stuck his cap back on. "Yeah," said Scott. "I'm thirsty." He reached into the paper bag and pulled out a cup. It was one of those large red plastic cups that vendors use at professional baseball games. Then Scott took one of

the pitchers from the cooler and filled the cup to the brim with lemonade. "Hey, not so much," said Evan, pouring himself a cup, too, but only partway. He glugged down half his drink. Not bad, he thought, though he noticed a dead fruit fly floating on the top. His mom had been battling a mad fruit-fly infestation ever since the weather had turned really warm. The kitchen sink area, where they kept their fruit bowl, was dotted with tiny, feathery fruit-fly corpses. Scott drained his cup and tossed it on the ground. "Aahhh," he said, satisfied. "That was good. I'm gonna have another." Evan reached for the trashed cup and stowed it under his seat. "Nah, c'mon, Scott. You're gonna drink all our profits if you do that." He stretched his legs out by putting his feet on top of the cooler. "Just chill." "I'm gonna chill by having another cup," said Scott. There it was. That mean bite in Scott's voice.

Evan's shoulders tensed up. "Move your feet," said Scott. "It's hot out here." "Dude, you're—" Evan sat up expectantly and looked down the street. "Hey, here comes our first customer." A mother pushing a double stroller came into view. At the same time, one of the kindergartners from down the street rode her bike up, noticed the sign, and quickly pedaled back to her house. Within five minutes, there was a small crowd of neighborhood kids and pedestrians buying lemonade from the stand. Evan let Scott handle all the money while he took care of the pouring and the "sweet talk." That's what his mother called it when a salesperson chatted her up. "Trust me," she had once told Evan and Jessie. "Buying something is only half about getting something. The other half is all about human contact." Mrs. Treski knew about these things because she was a public relations consultant. She'd even written a booklet called Ten Bright Ideas to

Light Up Your Sales for one of her clients. And Evan was like her: He was good at talking with people. Even grownups. It was easy for him. So he kept the conversation flowing, along with the lemonade. People hung around. Most of them bought a second cup before they left. Evan was so busy, he almost didn't notice Jessie flying out of the garage on her bike and riding down the street toward town. Good riddance, he thought— but at the same time he wondered where she was going. During a lull in business, Evan walked all around the stand, picking up discarded plastic cups. Scott sat in his chair, jingling the coins in his pocket. "Man, we are gonna be so rich," said Scott. "I bet we made five bucks already. I bet we made ten! How much you think we made?" Evan shrugged. He looked at the stack of used cups in his hand and counted the rims. Fourteen. They'd sold fourteen cups so far. And each cup of lemonade cost fifty cents. Evan heard Mrs. DeFazio's