Читать книгу Hannah Smart 3-Book Bundle - Melody Fitzpatrick - Страница 11

Vegetarians Don’t Eat Chicken

So, here we are 6:00 a.m., Saturday morning with nothing to do but listen to rain, which is coming down in buckets. The wind is howling, and the lights in my bedroom just flickered. According to the guy on the radio, we’re in the middle of a tropical storm. No wonder the windows are rattling.

Rachel shrugs. “Too bad we couldn’t have had the yard sale last week when it was warm and sunny.”

“Guess we should have checked the weather forecast.”

“Yeah.” Rachel frowns. “Your dad is a meteorologist.”

“Well, maybe I could have asked him if he were ever home,” I say throwing up my arms in frustration. “He’s always working now, and when he is home, he’s tired and grouchy. You know what? His new job kinda sucks.”

“Yeah, your mom said the same thing when she was over for yoga the other day. Anyway, let’s remember to check the forecast next time, okay?”

“So, I wonder what else we forgot?”

Rachel throws her arms up. “Advertising! We forgot advertising.” She looks out the window. “We didn’t put an ad in the paper; we didn’t even put up a single poster.”

“You know,” I say, looking out the window at my waterlogged neighbourhood, “maybe this rain did us a favour. Now we have an extra week to make it even better!”

“Yeah, I guess at least we have time to do some promotion.”

“Rachel, we can do better than that!” I exclaim. “Look at all those driveways.” I point out the window.

“Okay, what are you getting at?” She lowers her eyebrows.

“What about a huge sale with the entire neighbourhood! Don’t you think it would bring in, like, way more people than a single yard sale? Plus, we can split the cost of advertising with all the neighbours!”

“Hannah Smart!” Rachel says, grinning. “You are living up to your name.”

* * *

For the rest of the week we knock on doors, rallying the neighbourhood for our new and improved plan: Operation Street Sale. We put an ad in the paper, make posters, and even plan a coffee-and-muffin station.

The week flies by and before we know it, Saturday morning arrives. The sky is clear and forecast is super. Everything is perfect.

“Okay, here we go!” Rachel squeals, and pinches my arm as she spies an old couple approaching the driveway.

“I’m already picturing those concert tickets in my hand,” I whisper.

“Nice morning girls,” the old guy says, as he scans the driveway.

“Oh, look, Harold!” the lady exclaims. “The girls are selling bran muffins.” She claps her hands together. “I love bran muffins! How much are your bran muffins dear?”

“I’m sorry,” Rachel, says, “but we only have cho­colate chip. Would you like one?”

“I’d like a bran muffin, please,” the lady replies, smiling.

“I’m sorry. We don’t have bran muffins,” Rachel says, slowly.

“Well, yes you do, dear.” The old lady grins, shaking her head. “They’re right there.”

“They’re chocolate chip,” I repeat, trying to save Rachel.

“But I don’t like chocolate chip!” she cries. “I like bran muffins.”

“These are really delicious, even better than bran muffins!” I say, nodding.

“I’m sure they are dear. Now how much are your bran muffins?”

“Um …” I start.

“We’re looking for china,” her husband cuts in.

“Royal Albert, Old Country Roses,” the lady says smiling. “Such a lovely pattern. Please show me your china dear.”

“No, sorry. We only have …”

“Ooooo-wee. Lookie there, old girl!” the old guy interrupts me, pointing to my neighbour Gertrude’s driveway. “Looks like a good one over there!”

“Oh my!” The lady’s eyes widen as she spies Gertrude’s driveway overflowing with yard-sale treasures. “I hope they have bran muffins.”

My neighbour Gertrude is, like, seventy-eight years old, and downsizing: she’s moving into a condo or nursing home or something. Anyway, her whole front lawn and driveway are littered with old furniture and dishes and crap, so she’ll probably have something they’ll want. Who knows, she might even have bran muffins.

The next couple wanders in munching on granola bars and sipping from their eco-friendly water bottles.

This time I am determined to sell something.

“Would you have anything baby-related?” the guy asks, searching the driveway.

“I’m expecting … my first,” the woman says, beaming, as she rubs her hand over her giant belly.

“No, sorry. No baby stuff,” Rachel replies, squishing up her nose.

“Well, could we interest you in some coffee or a freshly baked muffin?” I ask.

They both hold up their water bottles. “No thanks. We’re good.”

“Okay, then,” I say, scrambling to pick up a book from the table, “could I interest you in this great cookbook? 101 Ways to Cook a Chicken!” I hold it up to show her. “It’s got loads of great recipes, and it even has a very informative section on how to take all the bones out! See …” I flip the cookbook open to the “Deboning a Chicken Carcass” page and point to a picture at the top where a lady is stabbing a sharp knife into a raw chicken.

“First, lift the skin of the chicken’s neck with a sharp blade,” I read from the book, “then, saw the wishbone from the chicken’s flesh and give it a good yank. Drive your knife in deeply to separate the bones from the soft, fleshy tissue. Then slice the connections of the legs and the wings to the carcass. Pull the leg toward you so the thigh bone pops completely out of its socket.” I look up at her with my widest smile and try to pass her the book.

Her eyes are bulging out of her head. “No, I don’t want it!” she cries, thrusting the book back at me.

Wow, I was not expecting that reaction. I mean, I gave a pretty impressive sales pitch. Actually, if my mom hadn’t given us this book to sell, I’d seriously think about buying it for her myself!

“We don’t eat chicken,” the pregnant woman says in complete disgust. She’s actually starting to gag a bit.

“Really?” I say confused. “But chicken is such a healthy choice for your family. Maybe you should consider it.” I pat her belly. “It’s low-fat!”

“I’m not fat!” she protests angrily, “I’m pregnant!”

“I wasn’t calling you fat,” I stammer, “I just meant …”

“Listen, kid!” she cuts me off. “We’re vegetarians! Not depraved chicken butchers!”

“So, are you sure?” I shrug. “I mean, think of the baby. Everyone needs protein, especially that poor little innocent infant growing in there.” I point to her belly.

“Yes, I’m sure!” she yells, quickly waddling away.

“Well, think about it!” I shout, holding up the book as I scurry after her.

She glances back and for a second, I think she might be changing her mind, but then suddenly, a look of terror appears on her face. Is she afraid of me? She starts speeding up, almost running, kind of like a crazy duck, wibble-wobbling toward the street.

“Stay away from me you … you … CRAZY-CHICKEN-MURDERING-CARNIVORE!”

That’s when something completely awful happens; I trip over my shoelace and accidentally lose my grip on 101 Ways to Murder a Chicken. As it’s flying through the air, Mrs. Definitely-Not-Fat-Just-Pregnant-Vegetarian-Lady catches sight of it, and, thank god, ducks down out of its path. It flies straight over her head and lands with a loud smack on the pavement in front of her.

Her husband shoots me a disgusted glare, puts his arm around his poor, traumatized wife, and leads her wibble-wobbling across the street to Gertrude’s driveway.

At that moment, a car door slams and we look up to see a lady and her daughter getting out of a big black SUV. I have a feeling that our luck is about to change. But sadly, that feeling only lasts a second. Suddenly, we realize we’re looking at Scarlett Hastings and her mother. The Hastings family lives in a huge house a few streets over. Scarlett’s mom is tall and slim with shiny, jet-black hair that’s always perfectly done. She’s a fashion buyer, so she’s always dressed up in something designer. Scarlett is like a mini version of her mom; her satiny black hair is pulled back into a perfectly neat ponytail and she’s wearing brand-name everything from head to toe. It’s easy to feel plain next to Scarlett Hastings.

“Okay, we can do this,” Rachel whispers to me through a forced smile.

“Hi Scarlett,” I say.

“Could we interest you in a coffee or a chocolate-chip muffin?” Rachel points to our snack station.

Scarlett’s mother glances at our muffin display, rolls her eyes, and then shakes her head no.

“Do you realize how many grams of fat are in those muffins?” Scarlett sneers.

“They’re low-fat,” Rachel exclaims. “It said so on the package!”

“They’re from a package?” Scarlett throws her head back, laughing. “How pedestrian!”

“Pe-dest-what?” I frown.

“Low-class,” Rachel whispers quickly.

“Low-class?” I grit my teeth.

Scarlett’s mother raises her eyebrow at Rachel, takes one sweeping glance at our stuff, and then walks away, leaving Scarlett behind with us.

“Can I help you find something, Scarlett?” I ask.

“Find something here? You’ve got to be kidding,” she scoffs, picking up my Hollister hoodie.

“Well, why are you here, then?” I frown. “I mean, isn’t this a little too pedestrian for you?”

“Yeah, you’re right, it is. Actually, we’re looking for antique furniture for the summer house.”

“Antique furniture? Try over there,” Rachel makes a face, pointing toward Gertrude’s place.

“Oh, that’s where everybody is,” Scarlett chirps with a smirk. “Good luck selling any of this junk.” She walks away laughing, tossing my once-prized hoodie over her shoulder and onto the grass. How freaking rude!

After Scarlett makes her exit, the morning turns around, and we start selling like crazy. It’s like people are almost throwing money at us. And what a wonderful feeling it is to see kids all over the neighbourhood holding our balloons and eating our Jumbo Freezies.

At 1:00 we decide to pack up. Since I’ve been handling the money end of things, I count up the profits while Rachel loads up my dad’s car with the leftover stuff for Goodwill.

“How much did we make?” Rachel squeals, excitedly.

I smile. “Well, the good news is we made a profit.”

“Rachel’s face falls, “The good news? What’s the bad news?”

“We didn’t make as much money as I thought.”

“Yes, we did!” Rachel argues. “We made tons of money. We made enough for the tickets, right?”

“Not exactly.”

“What do you mean, not exactly? How much did we make?”

“Ten bucks.”

“How could we have only made ten bucks?” Rachel cries. “We sold tons of stuff; I even sold some of my artwork!”

“Well, maybe our expenses were too high.”

“Our expenses!” Rachel exclaims. “Hannah, you said you were good at handling money! How much were our expenses? How much was the ad in the paper?”

“Well, the ad was cheap because I split the cost with the neighbourhood,” I say, “and Gertrude lent me the money for our supplies. Wasn’t that nice of her?” I smile hopefully.

“Super,” Rachel answers sarcastically. “How much were the balloons?”

“Only a dollar-fifty each.”

“One-fifty each!” she yells.

“They were filled with helium!”

“Well, how much did you sell them for?”

“How much did I sell them for?” I frown. “They were freebies. I gave them away!”

“How many, Hannah?”

“Only thirty.”

“Oh, Hannah …” Rachel lets out a deep sigh. “Please tell me you charged for all of those Jumbo Freezies.”

I look down at the ground.

“Hannah!”

“Well, the balloons and the Freezies brought in a lot of business! So did the samples!” I add.

“The samples?” Rachel asks slowly.

“Yeah, well, the muffins weren’t selling so well, so I cut some up for a little try before you buy. Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“I thought we sold all those muffins.” Rachel frowns.

“Well, we sold a few and I ate a few, and the rest I gave away.”

“Oh, Hannah …” She closes her eyes and sighs again.

“Sorry,” I say, wiping a crumb from my mouth.

“What now?” Rachel shakes her head.

“We try again.”

“Another yard sale?” She looks horrified.

“Of course not!” I sneer.

Rachel throws her arms up. “Then what? What are we going to do?”

“People want to spend money, Rachel. We just have to figure out what they want to spend it on.”

“Yeah, that’s the challenging part, especially since we have nothing left to sell.”

“Well, it’s a good thing we like challenges,” I say.