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“Sure, I’ll give you sixty cents for it,” said the girl.
Someone else offered seventy-five cents, then a dollar, and before too long it was up to nine dollars and ninety-nine cents. And then someone bid ten dollars, trading his ten-dollar bill for Mr. Warren’s.
There was a lesson in all that, but Armpit wasn’t quite sure exactly what it was.
“One year I actually sold it for ten dollars and ten cents,” Mr. Warren told the class.
Eighteen hundred miles away, Kaira DeLeon was getting her own lesson in economics.
“I just want to know how much money I made so far,” she said.
“It’s not that simple, dear,” said her mother.
“I’m not asking you,” said Kaira.
Her mother had on an aqua and indigo silk jacket, with a small sapphire pinned to the lapel. Kaira hadn’t seen either the jacket or the pin before, but that wasn’t surprising. Her mother seemed to show up with a new outfit daily.
“I can’t give you exact figures,” said Jerome Paisley, Kaira’s agent and business manager.
He had just returned from the hotel’s health club, and was still wearing his running shorts and a V-neck undershirt. A gold chain hung around his thick neck.
He had a large forehead and a puffy face, which was no doubt the result of taking steroids. At one time he’d been a pro baseball player, although, except for eighteen days, he’d never made it out of the minor leagues. His career was ruined after he was hit in the face by a pitch.
Kaira always wondered how someone could get hit in the face by a pitch. You have to see it coming, don’t you?
“Have I made a million dollars yet?” she asked.
“There are a lot of expenses. Do you even know how many people are on this tour?”
She was too embarrassed to say she didn’t, so she remained silent.
“Forty-two,” said Jerome Paisley. “Everyone gets salaries, per diems, travel expenses. And then there are additional costs associated with each venue.”
“What’s my salary?”
“You don’t get a salary. You get what’s left over after everyone else is paid.”
“You’re doing very well, sweetie,” said her mother.
“How much does the Doofus get paid?” Kaira asked.
“I’ve asked you not to call him that,” said her mother.
“I just want to know. How much do you have to pay a babysitter?”
“Fred gets fourteen hundred a week, plus expenses,” said her business manger, her mother’s husband.
Kaira laughed. “And what about your new jacket?” she asked her mother. “Who paid for that?”
“Your money all goes into a trust account,” said her mother’s husband. “Nobody can touch it, not even your mother. You’ll get it when you turn eighteen.”
“Yeah, well, a lot is going to happen when I turn eighteen,” Kaira said.
If Jerome Paisley heard the threat, he chose not to acknowledge it. “It doesn’t really matter even if you don’t make a dime on this tour,” he told her. “Right now, it’s all about exposure. Getting your name out there. Getting your songs on the radio. You’ll make more money in CD sales than you’ll ever make on the tour.”
“Maybe we should charge more for the tickets,” Kaira suggested.
“Oh, you think so?”
