It's Not Easy Being Bad by Cynthia Voigt

shook her head, denying it. “They don’t know enough about us to do it on purpose.” Then she smiled—lots of teeth, Who-me? Little-old-me? —at Mr. Saunders, whose attention had been attracted by her shaking head.
    Mr. Saunders smiled back. Good-girls.
    Mikey kept on smiling.
    His expression grew wary. His smile changed. I’ve-got-my-eye-on-you , he smiled and went back to his agenda.
    â€œIn your committees, you will first estimate your expenses and then consider ways of raising the necessaryfunds. This two-step process is a good rule to follow for all of life,” he advised them.
    That wasn’t bad advice, in Mikey’s opinion. Pay your own way. She agreed one hundred percent about that. She figured, if you were paying your own way, you could go wherever you wanted.
    â€œIn our experience,” Mr. Saunders told his audience, “it will cost you at least one hundred and twenty-five dollars to put on a successful dance.”
    A few moans and whistles and complaints accompanied this information. “Too muches” bounced around off of “Not enoughs,” like little boats on a sea of “Who cares-es?”
    â€œOther seventh-grade classes have done it,” Mr. Saunders told them. “Do you think you can’t do as well as all the other seventh-grade classes who have been at West Junior High? I know better than that,” he reassured them. He offered the bribe of his esteem. “In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if your class didn’t give the best dance ever.”
    His confidence raised their interest.
    â€œSo let’s brainstorm about how to raise money,” he exhorted, like a politician urging people to vote for him, or a general getting his troops eager to march off and die. “Let’s just get started and do it. Yes, Louis?”
    â€œA boxing match,” Louis Caselli suggested. He hadn’t changed since the first time Mikey and Margalo had laid eyes on him, in fifth grade. It was almost fun, how predictable Louis Caselli was, when it wasn’t totally boring. “People would pay to see that.”
    Mr. Saunders had a yellow pad out, and a pen in his hand, but he wasn’t writing this down. “That’s not exactly—”
    â€œOr wrestling,” Louis suggested. “Or karate, like The Karate Kid ,” Louis concluded, speaking loudly now so Mr. Saunders could hear him over the enthusiastic support of those boys who thought this was one great idea.
    Mr. Saunders raised his voice two notches. “That’s enough, boys.” As if a wet blanket had been thrown down over them, the boys settled down.
    â€œThe guy is good at his job,” Mikey said. “I have to give him that.”
    They went through the predictable suggestions, which Mr. Saunders did write down—car washes, bake sales, bottle drives. There were also some more self-interested ones, like Rhonda’s suggestion of a fashion show. “With a lunch. We could set out tables in the gym and—we could see if the department stores in the mall will sponsor us. The girls who weremodels would all be seventh graders,” she promised.
    â€œWhat about boys?”
    â€œBoy models?”
    â€œDo you think you’re that good-looking?”
    A Heather suggested, “Boys could be the waiters.”
    â€œWhat about a fair?” a Lindsay suggested. “We did that in my old school, every March. We got our computers with the money we made; we made a lot.”
    â€œMy mom could teach dance, ballroom, disco, line dancing. She knows them all.”
    â€œHow about a touch football tournament?” Louis asked, without being called on. He’d been waving his hand around for a while without attracting Mr. Saunders’s attention.
    Mikey was groaning softly. “Bo-ring,” she chanted. “Bo-ring, -ring, -ring,” and Margalo didn’t argue. She looked at Mikey and grinned. They chanted softly in