The next morning, I woke up with more energy than I’d had in days. I had my permit. I had my inventory. I had my red wagon and my coolers and my folding table.
Most importantly, I had hope again.
I loaded up my supplies and headed to the park, practically bouncing with excitement. After being shut down for three days, I was ready to make up for lost time.
But when I got to the park, something felt different.
The little league tournament was over. The baseball diamonds sat empty, with just a few scattered pieces of trash blowing across the infield like tumbleweeds in a ghost town. The bleachers that had been packed with cheering parents were folded up and stored away.
And Griggs’ Grub was nowhere to be seen. He’d probably rolled off to terrorize some other park with his carnival music and overpriced hot dogs.
I set up my table in my usual spot and looked around. The park felt… quiet. A few families were scattered around the playground, and some joggers were using the walking path, but it was nothing like the crowds from the tournament.
I was arranging my candy bars when I saw a familiar figure walking across the park toward me. My heart stopped.
Officer Hernandez.
My hands immediately flew to my pockets, frantically searching for my permit. Where was it? Did I forget it at home? Was I about to get shut down again on my very first day back?
“Oh no, oh no, oh no,” I muttered, digging through my backpack. “I know I brought it. I know I—”
“Morning, Kiora,” Officer Hernandez said as he approached my table with a smile.
I finally found the folded permit and thrust it toward him like it was a shield. “I have it! I have my permit! It’s all official and approved and—”
He held up his hand, chuckling. “Relax, I’m not here on official business.”
“You’re… not?”
“Nope.” He pulled out his wallet. “I heard through the grapevine that you were back in business, and I wanted to be your first customer. My daughter loves those chocolate bars you sell. Can I get two of them?”
I stared at him for a moment, my brain trying to catch up. “You… want to buy candy bars?”
“If that’s okay with you,” he said with a grin. “Unless you’ve got a permit that says you can’t sell to police officers.”
I laughed, finally relaxing. “Two dollars, please.”
He handed me the money. “You know, I’m really glad you got that permit sorted out. Takes guts to stick with something when the system throws obstacles at you.”
“Thank you,” I said, handing him the candy bars. “And thank you for being so nice about everything. I know you were just doing your job.”
“That’s what we’re here for,” he said. “Good luck with your business, Kiora. I have a feeling you’re going to do just fine.”
As he walked away, I felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the summer sun. My first customer of the day was the same officer who’d shut me down. Sometimes the world had a funny way of coming full circle.
Within an hour, I had my second customer—a mom buying a water bottle while her toddler played on the swings.
“One dollar, please,” I said, trying to sound as professional as possible.
“Here you go,” she said, handing me the money. “It’s nice to see you back. I heard you had some permit troubles.”
“All sorted out now,” I said with a smile.
But as the morning went on, I realized just how much the tournament crowds had helped my business. Without hundreds of kids and parents concentrated in one place, customers were few and far between. I was like a pop star who suddenly had to perform in an empty stadium.
By noon, I’d sold only three candy bars and two sodas. Yesterday at this time during the tournament, I would have been restocking my coolers. Today, I was basically running a very expensive lemonade stand, except without the lemonade. Or the customers.
The afternoon wasn’t much better. By five o’clock, I’d made a total of $32—better than zero, but a far cry from my $116 tournament day.
That evening, I sat at my desk with my notebook and did some math that made my stomach sink. Math had never been my favorite subject, but apparently it was about to become my least favorite.
I had been shut down for three days during the tournament—three days when I could have been making serious money. Now the tournament was over, Mr. Griggs was gone, and I was back to the slow, steady sales I’d had before he arrived. It was like being a rock star who suddenly had to go back to playing birthday parties.
I added up all the money I’d made so far: $67.57 after paying for the permit fees. I needed $600 for the Florida trip.
That meant I still needed $532.43 with only six weeks of summer left.
$532.43 divided by six weeks was almost $89 per week. Nearly $13 per day, every single day, for the rest of the summer. Plus makeup days for when I got distracted by a really good book.
I stared at the numbers in my notebook. The math was brutal and honest: at this rate, I wasn’t going to make it to Florida. Unless I could convince people that candy bars were actually vegetables.