Styrofoam cup, sir? Why do these places still have Styrofoam? It’s bad for the environment.
No, I don’t hate you for drinking the coffee. I just wonder, Mr. Rodriguez.
Okay. So Wednesday morning. Four dollars and fifty cents jangled in my stretchy pants pocket. Just enough for three bottles of Code Red. (I was keeping myself in check—no extra money so I wasn’t tempted to go for more.) Maybe I was crabby, but I felt good about the fact I was trying.
And then—totally evil surprise. Parched, ready for my first Dew of the day, I strolled into the cafeteria and discovered that all pops in our pop machine had been jacked from a buck fifty to $2.25! No longer did I have the proper coinage for three Code Reds. I only had enough for two. I couldn’t make it through a school day on two Code Reds! Oh, no, no—
By lunch, I was swimming in the swamp of despair. Sick in my heart, sir. I finished my second and last Code Red of the day and looked down at my empty tray (school-quality corn dog already sucked into my belly).
Camille said, “Chunk, what’s your damage? You’re not remotely funny these days.”
“I got nothing,” I mumbled.
“Seriously, what’s going on?” Justin asked. “You’re on a downward slide, man.”
Although it wasn’t the only problem, it was the problem of the day. I pointed at the pop machine and whispered, “Pop price.”
“Are you kidding?” Camille asked.
“No.”
“Really?” Justin said. “The price of pop has knocked you on your ass?”
“Yes. Unfair business practices,” I mumbled.
“How so?” Justin asked. “Prices are determined by the market. Look. Chandra Gore is up there buying pop right now. The market will bear the higher price.”
I looked over and watched Chandra Gore (one of the “sad sacks” in our health class project) pull a bottle of lemonade from the machine. Her real last name isn’t Gore. It’s Wettlinger, but Wettlinger isn’t goth enough for her, so we call her Gore. She tries to look like hell. (I know now that she’s beautiful, sir, so beautiful.) She wants to be scary (all bleeding black eyeliner and makeup that makes her look pale and dead).
“So? What about competition?” I asked. “Where’s the competition? There’s only one pop machine in here, owned by one company that sets the price. No competition.”
Justin cocked his eyebrow, which has always been his way of saying, Dude, you are an idiot.
But Camille agreed. “I don’t believe we should have all these sugary drinks for sale in a school, but as long as we do, Chunk really has a point.”
“I suppose there’s a lack of competition,” Justin said. “But the profits do go to the band program and bands aren’t cheap. Isn’t it reasonable that we pay a premium for pop to support the common good of the band?”
“Oh, yeah,” Camille said. “Point Cornell.”
“Stick it in your asses,” I said.
“Whoa. Dude,” Justin said.
“Stick what? A pop? Can I borrow a couple bucks so I can buy one?” Camille asked.
Justin laughed.
“Seriously. Stick it,” I said.
“I’m just joking,” Camille said.
“Keep your stupid jokes to yourself,” I said.
“Will do,” Camille whispered. Her face got red.
Justin squinted at me. He said, “Okay, Chunk. Let’s talk to the principal. We should lodge a complaint at least. You’re right. That’s a pretty crazy price hike. What’s wrong with a quarter? Just from our research, we know there are low-income kids who drink a ton of pop. They’re probably doing that instead of eating breakfast. They have to be suffering from this.”
Justin is class president, so he acts all powerful.
Camille nodded like she agreed but then left the table, probably because I hurt her feelings.
Justin made a plan for us to go to see Principal Deevers.