Chapter Three

Cleaning the attic with Grandma was a snap, and there was no trick to asking Mrs. Edwards if she wanted me to run any errands for her. Even being fitted by Mrs. Marks for dresses for her granddaughter Harriet (who sounded like a real creep) wasn’t too bad. But babysitting for a bunch of kids at a yard sale was my first real challenge, and I hoped I was up to it.

First of all I insisted that Carol letter another sign for me, and she did, for a dollar. I wasn’t too thrilled about paying her at all, but she pointed out if I wanted to be paid for my labor, so did she. It almost hurt to hand that dollar over to her. I hadn’t spent a penny that I’d earned since I’d started Kid Power. I’d even bought a little notebook (from my allowance) and started to keep records of who’d paid me what and when. Mom offered to teach me double entry bookkeeping, but I decided to stick to my own system, which recorded all the money coming in and didn’t allow for the possibility that any of it might be going out. Except, of course, Carol’s dollar.

“You’re going to have to spend more money than that,” Carol told me a couple of nights before the yard sale.

“Why?” I asked. “You haven’t spent any money in ten years.”

“But I’m not in business for myself,” she said. “People who are in business for themselves always have to spend money. It has to do with gross and net.”

“Gross and what?” I asked.

“Gross and net,” she said. “That means you have to spend money to make money.”

“That doesn’t make any sense at all,” I said, and walked over to where Dad was reading a book. I knew he wasn’t the best choice of people to ask about my business, but Mom was making her daily check of jobs in the paper, and that wasn’t to be interrupted. “Dad, can I ask you a question?”

“Sure, honey,” he said and put his book down. “You know you can always ask me whatever you want to know.”

“What’s gross and net?” I asked.

“Gross and what?” he asked.

“Gross and net,” I said. “Carol says it has to do with business.”

“Oh, that gross and net,” he said with a sigh. “You know in some families daughters ask their fathers about how to get boys or improve their fastballs.”

“I don’t want to get any boys,” I said. “And my fastball’s just fine. What’s gross and net?”

“This conversation is pretty gross, if you ask me,” he said.

“Daddy!” I said. “Whatever happened to ‘Ask me anything you want?’”

“You’re right,” he said. “Okay, gross and net are business terms. Let’s take that job you did for Grandma. How much did she pay you?”

“Three dollars,” I said.

“Okay, your gross profit was three dollars. But it cost you fifty cents to take the bus there and back, right?”

I nodded.

“So if you subtract the fifty cents from the three dollars, you have a net profit of $2.50. The net profit is the gross profit minus expenses.”

“And there have to be expenses?”

“Yes, Scrooge,” Dad said.

“Then Carol was right,” I said.

“That’s been known to happen,” he said. “Now do you want to learn about profit sharing or capital gains?”

“Not tonight,” I said. “Thanks, Dad.”

“Come the revolution,” he said and grinned. “But if your whole generation is like you, I guess the revolution won’t be for a while.”

I didn’t care about revolutions nearly as much as I did about gross and net. I’d never thought about there being two kinds of profits in the world. I went back to Carol and sat by her feet. Carol likes it when I do that.

“Tell me about spending money to make money,” I said.

Carol put down my sign and said, “What do you want to know?”

“How much do I have to spend?”

“That depends,” she said. “Now take this yard sale business.”

“Yes?”

“If I were in charge of the kids, I’d make sure they had something to keep them busy.”

“I’ve already thought about that,” I said. “But if I bring some of my own toys, they might think they’re for sale.”

“Then bring something else,” she said.

“Like what?”

“Like food,” she said. “Everybody loves food.”

“That’s certainly true,” I said. “And little kids aren’t on diets, so they can eat just about anything.”

“Of course, it’ll cost you some money,” she said. “But it’ll make your job easier, and then you’ll do it better, and then other people’ll be more likely to hire you. That’s what I mean by spending money to make money.”

“What kind of food do you think I should bring?” I asked. I was hoping she’d suggest something inexpensive.

“I make a really good oatmeal cookie,” she said thoughtfully. “It’s practically nutritious.”

“They are good,” I said. “Carol, would you really bake me some?”

“Sure,” Carol said.

I got up and hugged her. “Carol, you’re the greatest big sister in the whole world!” I shouted. I didn’t even care if I disturbed Dad and Mom.

“A dollar a batch,” she said coolly.

I broke away from her. “What?”

“You heard me,” she said. “A dollar a batch.”

“You little cheapskate!” I said.

“Whatever happened to best sister in the world?” Dad asked from his side of the living room.

“Those are my terms,” Carol said. “After all, I should be paid too for working in a hot kitchen in July just to bake cookies for some little kids I don’t even know.”

“You’d be baking them for me,” I said.

“That’s even worse,” she said. “A $1.50 a batch.”

“Carol!”

“Okay, a dollar,” she said. “How many batches do you want?”

“How many cookies are there to a batch?” I asked.

“A couple of dozen,” she said.

I did a little mental arithmetic. “I’ll take three batches at fifty cents a batch,” I said. “And I won’t pay for any burnt cookies, and you have to give me my money back for any cookies I don’t sell.”

“I will not,” she said. “A dollar a batch and you keep what you get.”

“Fifty cents and I’ll let you make a sign saying you made the cookies,” I said. “You might get some business that way.”

“A dollar and I get to have the sign anyway,” she said.

“I think we need a mediator,” I said. “Daddy!”

“You don’t have to shout,” he said. “Okay, come on over.”

Carol and I crossed the room and explained our problem to him. Dad listened and then thought about it.

“How does this sound?” he asked. “Seventy-five cents for each batch, no burnt cookies allowed. That’s two dozen unburnt cookies to a batch. Carol gets to advertise, and Janie’s responsible for any extra cookies.”

“That sounds okay to me,” I said. The main thing was to make sure I didn’t have to take any burnt cookies. I wouldn’t have put it past Carol to burn them all.

Carol scowled. “I guess it’ll be okay,” she said. “But I want to make four batches instead of three. It’s the same amount of work. All I’d have to do is double the ingredients.”

“Are you willing to order another batch?” Dad asked me.

I thought about it. It was better to have too many cookies than too few. But it meant I was going to have a lot of extra cookies, and seventy-five cents less net profit.

“Okay,” I said. “But only if Carol throws in two free pitchers of homemade lemonade.”

Dad raised his eyebrows, but didn’t say anything.

“I get to advertise?” Carol asked.

“Absolutely,” I said.

“Deal,” she said.

“You’ll bake the cookies tomorrow?” I asked.

“I sure will,” she said.

“Fine,” Dad said. “Now if you’ll leave me alone for a while, I’ll read my book and think about how many oatmeal cookies this family is going to eat on Sunday.”

“None,” I said. “I’m going to get rid of each and every one of them if I have to ram them down those kids’ throats.”

“You’ll make a great mother,” Dad said and started reading again.

So Carol finished the sign for me, and then she made a sign that said, “Homebaked Oatmeal Cookies by Carol Golden.” She decided not to put her phone number down to avoid getting calls from cookie cranks. The next day she made four dozen oatmeal cookies. Mom was out all day going to different employment agencies, so she didn’t notice just how much of her ingredients Carol was using.

“These cookies,” Carol said to me, as she nibbled on a slightly burnt one, “are pure net profit.”

I paid her the three dollars, which lowered Kid Power’s net profits considerably. I knew I’d be getting a lot of money the next day, but it still hurt to see so much of the company’s profits go into somebody else’s hands.

I cleaned the kitchen up for Carol so Mom wouldn’t see what a mess she’d made of it. We hadn’t discussed who’d do the cleaning, but I figured it was easier to just do it than to negotiate all over again. I packed the cookies into a paper bag, and stuck in a couple of paper plates to put them on. The lemonade she said she’d make after supper.

Mom got in just before Dad did. “How did it go?” I asked while she took her shoes off.

“Nothing,” she said, kicking her left shoe clear across the room. “Between all the other social workers that got laid off and all the June college graduates, there are a hundred applications for every job. One of the agencies suggested I get a Ph.D. and teach sociology to future unemployable social workers.”

“You’ll get a job,” I said.

“Sure,” she said. “When your father gets in, tell him I’m upstairs taking a nap.” She trudged out of the room, leaving her shoes where she’d flung them.

So Dad treated us all to hamburgers and french fries that night, and we tiptoed around all evening, even though Mom had the airconditioner on and couldn’t have heard us anyway. Things were much easier when she had a job. Sure there were some nights when she’d come home tired and depressed from her work, but we never had to tiptoe.

She didn’t seem in too bad a mood the next morning when she drove me and the cookies and the lemonade and the signs to Mrs. Dale’s house. “I’ll pick you up at four,” she said, and kissed me on the cheek. “Good luck, honey.”

“Thanks, Mom,” I said and got out of the car. I could see Mrs. Dale setting out her merchandise on folding tables. There were already people there watching as she unpacked stuff from boxes.

“Hi,” I said, walking over to her, holding the pitchers of lemonade carefully. “I’m Janie Golden from Kid Power.”

Mrs. Dale smiled at me. “Look at those vultures,” she whispered. “Just waiting to swoop down.”

“Is there any place I could put my stuff?” I asked. “I brought cookies and lemonade for the kids.”

“That’s a great idea,” she said. “There should be some space at that end of the table. Why don’t you put your things there?”

I went to where she pointed and set up. I scotch-taped the two signs to the edge of the table, and put out two platters of cookies. There were still plenty left, so I ate one while I waited for kids to show up.

“Do you think we should put up another sign telling the kids the cookies are for them?” Mrs. Dale asked me as the first customers started going through her stuff.

“I already did,” I said and took out another pair of signs. One read, “Kids’ Cookies. Free for all kids 12 and under.” The other read, “Adult Cookies. 5¢ each.”

Mrs. Dale laughed, and handed me a nickel. “I’ll have one adult cookie please,” she said, and I gave her one from the adult pile. She bit into it and said, “These are very good. You’ll probably make more money today than I will.”

“I’m just trying to build up my net profit,” I said, but before we had more of a chance to talk, some kids came over and started grabbing at the cookies. “Only two per kid,” I said.

“Says who?” one of the kids asked.

“Says me,” I said.

“The sign doesn’t say anything about two cookies a kid,” the kid pointed out.

So I took the sign down and changed it to “Kids’ Cookies. 2 Free Cookies for all kids 12 and under.” The “2” fit in pretty well, but the second “Cookies” was pretty scrunched in.

“As long as the sign says it, I guess it’s okay,” the kid said and handed me a nickel. “I want one of the adult cookies, too.”

“Okay,” I said. There was nothing on the sign that said kids couldn’t buy the adult cookies if they wanted, so I knew it must be okay.

It was a long, hot, tiring yard sale. The kids stayed away from their parents, and stuck to the cookies and me. The lemonade didn’t last the morning, but Mrs. Dale thought that it was such a good idea, she sent me inside to make some more, which I did. When I came back with a fresh pitcher, I saw a whole family, two grungy-looking parents and three of the dirtiest little kids I’ve ever seen, steal all but two of the cookies from the adult plate.

I shouted “Hey!” at them, but they just ran away with the cookies. Mrs. Dale came right over though.

“Those awful people,” she said. “I knew they were going to steal something before they left. I could tell from the way they were looking around and whispering. I guess we should consider ourselves lucky all they took were the cookies.”

“I guess so,” I said, and put the lemonade pitcher down.

“Let me pay you for them,” she said.

“For the cookies?” I said. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Of course I should,” she said. “A dollar should cover it, don’t you think?”

Instead of answering her, I took some of the kid cookies and put them on the adult plate. “They’re all the same cookie,” I said. “I’m just charging for some of them.”

Mrs. Dale laughed. “Janie, you’ll be a millionaire before you’re twenty-one,” she said.

“I thought about charging a quarter for four cookies,” I said, “but I decided that was cheating. So I guess I won’t get rich that fast.”

Mrs. Dale was still laughing when a lady walked over to where I was sitting and asked for an adult cookie. I gave her one and she gave me a nickel.

She ate it very carefully. “This is an excellent oatmeal cookie,” she said when she finished. “I’ll take a dozen.”

“A dozen?” I asked. “I don’t sell them by the dozen.”

“Why not?” the woman asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “It just never occurred to me.” I looked through the bag and found a dozen unbroken cookies. There were so few cookies left that I took them out and put them on the plates, and put the lady’s dozen cookies back in the bag and handed it to her. She gave me three quarters, and I gave her back her change.

“These cookies remind me of my childhood,” she said. “I don’t suppose I could get more.”

“At sixty cents a dozen?” I asked, doing some quick arithmetic. If I took a ten-cent commission for every dozen cookies, Carol would still be getting fifty cents, which was basically the rate she’d wanted to charge me before I bargained her down. “Sure you can,” I said, and gave her my phone number. “That’s also the number of Kid Power,” I said. “No job too big or small.”

“I’ll remember that,” she said, and started to walk away.

“Don’t forget to tell your friends,” I called out after her.

“I won’t,” she called back, and left with her cookies.

Mrs. Dale looked at me and grinned. “You’ll make it before you’re twenty-one,” she said.

I counted the pile of nickels I’d earned already. There was well over two dollars there, and I still had a few cookies left. Even if I didn’t sell anymore, and had to give the rest away to the few remaining stragglers, I’d still have cut my business expenses down to less than a dollar and raised my net profit by two.

I smiled back at Mrs. Dale. “I just might at that,” I said.