The Year Money Grew on Trees Read Online Free PDF Page A

you?"
    "I'd get a part of everything we sell."
    "Which part?"
    "Depends on how many we sell, I guess, but it could be a lot of money. And I would be working after school, too, not just during the summer."
    Dad let out a little "hmm," which meant he liked the idea of me sitting around as little as possible.
    "And I'd be close to the house all the time, in case Mom needed me for something."
    "I hate for you to miss your shot with Slim." Dad looked thoughtfully at the washer. "I guess it'll be all right," he finally drawled. "As long as this orchard thing is legit. You're not just making the whole thing up to get out of real work?"
    "No! I promise. It's real. I was just going to ask you if you knew how I should get started. Mrs. Nelson is not much help."
    "Oh brother. A prima donna old lady and a kid who
doesn't know the difference between an apple and his armpit. I'm sure you two will be rolling in money."
    I flushed red and looked at the floor. "Well, do you know anyone I could talk to about getting started?"
    "You're smart. You'll figure it out. It can't be too hard. There are plenty of people around here raising apples, and no Einsteins in the bunch." Dad started putting his tools away and mumbling about me "giving up a perfectly good job to sharecrop for some old lady." We then walked triumphantly into the kitchen together to fish for compliments from my mom for fixing the washing machine.
    Even if he wasn't any help, at least Dad had accepted the idea. Maybe that was the best I could hope for. If everything worked out, he would probably be proud of the great deal I negotiated. Still, it was scary to not be able to rely on my dad for answers. I couldn't remember a time when that had ever happened. It felt like I had been driven out into the desert and abandoned.
    For the entire weekend, I thought about everyone I knew and whether they might have a history with apples and, more importantly, whether they'd be willing to help. As I sat staring blankly at the bookcase in our living room, an idea finally bubbled up from somewhere in my brain. What about a book? In sixth grade I had to do a research report on a subject picked out of a hat. I got the Roman Empire and was told I had to use
two books besides the encyclopedia. If there were books about something like the Roman Empire, maybe there were books with useful information, too, like how to raise apples. I checked my A—AR encyclopedia volume where I had filed the contract but didn't find nearly enough apple-growing details. I would have to try to find a whole book on the subject somewhere at the library.
    ***
    On Monday I noticed that none of the kids at school carried any books besides their class textbooks. In elementary school we used to have scheduled library times, and some people would constantly check out books. Percy Collyer read every Hardy Boys book there was. In junior high, though, he was bookless.
    "Hey, Percy, why aren't you carrying around a book, reading all the time like you used to?" I asked him as we walked between classes.
    "I dunno. Never been to the library here, I guess," he said, shrugging.
    Come to think of it, neither had I. I didn't even know where the library was, or if one existed. It was time to find out. Since we didn't have any library time in our schedules, I decided I would ask to leave one of my classes early to go find it. The most likely time would be during history.
    After the opening bell, I raced through the reading
and ditto handout Mr. Clafton had given us. I grabbed my textbook and made my way up to the front of the room, where Mr. Clafton was sitting casually behind his desk.
    "There he is! Mr. Jones! Working hard or hardly working?" he asked with a big smile and his feet up.
    "Working hard, I guess," I replied, wondering if this was a real question and whether I was supposed to answer it.
    "So what's up? Is this new tie awesome or what?" he asked, lovingly stroking a shiny, very thin tie.
    "Pretty cool. Mr. Clafton, I'm done