Tags:
Fiction,
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Humorous stories,
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Juvenile Fiction,
Social Issues,
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Student government
well what schools in our situation did when they needed to raise money fast. We’d already discussed it, at length, during the student government meeting, after Ling Su’s shocking revelation about the state of our bank account. Mrs. Hill hadn’t been willing to give us a loan (it’s doubtful she even has five grand socked away somewhere. I swear I’ve never seen her wear the same outfit twice. That’s a lot of Quacker Factory tunic sweaters on a teacher’s salary), but she’d been more than willing to show us some candle catalogs she had lying around.
Seriously. That was her big suggestion. That we sell some candles.
Lilly just looked at her and went, “Are you suggesting we open ourselves up to a nihilistic battle between the haves and the have-mores, à la Robert Cormier’s Chocolate War , Mrs. Hill? Because we all read that in English class, and we know perfectly well what happens when you dare to disturb the universe.”
But Mrs. Hill, looking insulted, said that we could have a contest to see who could sell the most candles without experiencing a complete breakdown in social mores or any particular nihilism.
But when I looked through the candle catalog and saw all the different scents—Strawberries ’n’ Cream! Cotton Candy! Sugar Cookie!—and colors you could buy, I experienced a secret nihilism all my own.
Because frankly, I’d rather have the senior class do to me what Obi Wan Kenobi did to Anakin Skywalker in The Revenge of the Sith (i.e. cut off my legs with a lightsaber and leave me to burn on the shores of a lava pit) than knock on my neighbor Ronnie’s door and ask her if she’d be interested in buying a Strawberries ’n’ Cream candle, molded in the actual shape of a strawberry, for $9.95.
And trust me, the senior class is CAPABLE of doing to me what Obi Wan did to Anakin. Especially Amber Cheeseman, who is this year’s senior class valedictorian, and who, even though she is much shorter than me, is a hapkido brown belt, and could easily pound my face in.
If she stood on a chair, that is, or had someone hold her up so she could reach me.
It was at that point in the student government meeting that I was forced to say queasily, “Motion to adjourn,” a motion that was fortunately unanimously passed by all in attendance.
“Our advisor suggested we sell candles door-to-door,” I told Grandmère, hoping she’d find the idea of her granddaughter peddling wax fruit replicas so repellent, she’d throw open her checkbook and hand over five thousand smackers then and there.
“Candles?” Grandmère DID look a bit disturbed.
But for the wrong reason.
“I would think candy would be much easier to unload onthe unsuspecting hordes in the office of a parent of the typical Albert Einstein high school student,” she said.
She was right, of course—although the operative word would be TYPICAL. Because I can’t really see my dad, who’s in Genovia at the moment, since Parliament’s in session, passing around a candle sales form and going, Now, everyone, this is to raise money for my daughter’s school. Whoever buys the most candles will get an automatic knighthood.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said. “Thanks, Grandmère.”
Then she went off on John Paul Reynolds-Abernathy the Third again, and how she’s planning on hosting this huge charity event a week from Wednesday to raise money in support of Genovian olive farmers (who are striking to protest new EU regulations that allow supermarkets to wield too much influence over prices), to impress the designers of The World, as well as all the other bidders, with her incredible generosity (who does she think she is, anyway? The Genovian Angelina Jolie?).
Grandmère claims this will have everyone BEGGING her to live on the faux island of Genovia, leaving poor John Paul Reynolds-Abernathy the Third out in the cold, yada yada yada.
Which is all very well for Grandmère. I mean, she’ll soon have her own island to run away to. But