St. Theresa of the Child Jesus Roman Catholic Church at 5188 Rt. 23, Windham, NY 12496 US - The Big Pepperoni Problem

“This helps pay dues and buy team shirts,” Mr. Hudson said as he passed out the order sheets.

Every year we had to sell stuff. Mom let me sell to neighbors, but that wasn’t enough. Mrs. Amherst was usually on a diet. The Wongs didn’t eat pizza. Some people said, “Twelve dollars buys two pizzas at the store.”

At least I could count on Mr. Von Hof. He lived alone in a little house with peeling brown paint and creaky porch steps.

“You’re a foot taller than last year!” he said with a big false-tooth smile when I came to sell. “What flavors can I choose from?”

“Canadianbaconpepperonisausagevegetarianandcombination,” I said in one breath.

“One pepperoni,” he replied, pulling out a worn wallet. “How much?”

“Twelve dollars.”

Sometimes I felt sad about taking his money. He always paid in one-dollar bills, and the change he kept in a sugar bowl.

“Thanks,” I said. I wrote down his order and stuffed his money in my jean pocket.

Ethan, please pick up your room,” Mom said when I got home. She always bugged me about keeping my room cleaner. I shoved stuff under the bed a little tighter. Maybe that would do.

The next day, my teacher, Mrs. Flores, called for desk cleanouts. Mine was so crammed that the lid barely closed. The other kids made fun as I dumped homework papers and old lunch. One sack had a peach in it. Now the peach was slime.

“How gross!” screeched Lindell, who sat in front of me. Mrs. Flores came running with a spray bottle of cleaner.

“This should help,” she said as she sprayed and wiped it dry. “What a wonderful job, Ethan.”

I had to admit her lemony spray smelled better than rotten peach.

The recess bell rang, and Jeremy and I ran out to kick a soccer ball.

“At least I found 87 cents in my desk,” I told Jeremy.

“Almost enough for one skinny pizza slice,” Jeremy said as he knocked the ball off his knee.

That reminded me about the pizza orders. Mr. Hudson wanted our sale money at tonight’s practice. I needed one more sale to make my goal. I wondered if Mrs. Flores ate pizza.

“I’d love to buy one, Ethan,” she said when I asked after recess. She pulled out her purse. One side zipped down for her money and credit cards. Even her purse was organized. “Vegetarian, please. Twelve dollars, right?”

“My order form’s at home,” I said, “but I’ll put you down for sure.” I stuffed her money in my jean pocket.

Soccer practice started right after school. I barely had time to run home and change into soccer gear.

“Don’t forget the pizza order,” Mom said through my closed bedroom door. “I sold three more at work. Here are the people’s names and money.” She slid an envelope under my door.

Where did I leave that order form? I started pulling stuff from under my bed. I found a sock stiff with mud and a petrified peanut butter sandwich. Out came my extra soccer shirt with grass stains. I found my shin guards, but no order form. I yanked out my desk drawers and dumped them in the middle of my floor. Nothing.

Was it in my closet? I pawed through those piles. My dresser? I dumped those drawers on top of the pile from my desk.

I felt my stomach twisting inside. I could probably remember who ordered what and do a new form. But where was their money?

“Ethan?” Mom asked as she opened my door. “Oh, my!”

“I hate pizza sales!” I said, swiping my tears with the bottom of my dirty soccer shirt. “I don’t want to play on that dumb team.”

Mom stepped over the mess and pulled me into a hug. I knew she was disappointed. Over and over she’d told me to keep my room clean. I didn’t think it was that big a deal—until now.

“So you lost your pizza order envelope?” she asked gently.

I nodded my head up and down, not looking at her.

I felt her sigh deep inside as she loosened her hug.

“Let’s go to practice,” she said. “You need to tell Mr. Hudson you’ll get the order to him tomorrow. Tonight, after dinner, let’s work together on your room.”

Mom bought burgers on the way home from practice so we could start cleaning right away. She hung up clean clothes and took the dirty ones to the washer while I sorted papers and toys.

As I reached under my desk, I found an overdue library book. Inside it, like a bookmark, was the missing order envelope. I shook it and shouted “Yes!” when I heard coins rattle.

“Ethan?” I turned around to see Mom holding out some money. “I found twelve dollars and eighty-seven cents in your jean pocket before I did the wash.”

I stared at her a minute, then remembered. It was Mrs. Flores’ order, plus the money I found in my school desk.

“Yeah, another order,” I said. “Thanks!”

I looked around my room as Mom left. For the first time in months, I could see most of the rug. Papers and junk stuck out of my little wastebasket like an explosion. I realized I had six pairs of shoes—now that all the pairs were matched and sat on the floor of my closet. Mom had collected my soccer gear in a big wicker basket. Then I’d always find it.

I sat down at my desk and pulled a pencil from the mug where I’d put all my pencils and pens. I felt so organized as I added Mrs. Flores’ vegetarian pizza to my order form.

I opened up the envelope and counted the money. With Mom’s sales I should have $96. But I had only $84. Whose money was missing?

I leaned back and thought about the afternoons I sold to neighbors. The Browns got two, Mrs. Fantino got one…. Then my memory went up the creaky front porch of Mr. Von Hof’s house. I hadn’t put his money in the envelope. I put it in my jean pocket. And that night I’d gone to the store and bought some soccer magazines, pop, and candy. I’d paid with his money, not mine.

I felt sick again. How could I be so stupid? I dumped my piggy bank on my bed. All the pennies and nickels and dimes and quarters came to $5.06. I needed almost $7 more.

I knew what Mom would say. I could earn it, pulling weeds or cleaning out the garage. When I finished, Mom would say, “Wonderful job,” just like Mrs. Flores. I guess that’s why God gave us parents and teachers, to help us change bad habits, like being careless.

I grabbed my wastebasket and headed for the garbage bin. And I knew, from now on, things would be a lot different.