Graphic by Mary-Amma Blankson
It appeared in our cafeteria one day like a shimmering capitalist mirage: the Scholastic Book Fair. Sure, flyers had been sent home weeks ago, but now it was real. Covers shined, bookmarks glittered like treasure, and every book smelled faintly of destiny… or maybe artificially scented highlighters. For us, it was paradise. For our parents, it was a test of will power. I knew I had to prepare.
My morning reconnaissance mission began promptly at 9:00 a.m. I paced the aisle with the precision of a general, assessing resources and weaknesses. I already knew where to strike. Like a detective connecting clues on a cork board, I’d spent the previous night aggressively circling items in the flyer. I identified three targets: an educational book that no parent could say no to, a book that was 75% comic panels, and one highly sought after luxury item: an absurdly overpriced fuzzy, neon pink diary that came with a pom-pom pen and a padlock so tiny it might as well be decorative.
Then came time for the negotiation. I approached my parents with the confidence of a lawyer armed with damning evidence and a PowerPoint titled Why I Deserve $25. First, I tried the logical appeal. “If I read this book, my vocabulary will expand, which will improve my grades, which will help me get into Hahvahd, which will make you proud.” My dad nodded slowly, as if weighing the future cost of tuition against the immediate cost of a paperback. My mom just squinted, clearly remembering the “educational” book I bought last year, which turned out to be 80% doodles and 20% glitter.
Sensing this approach was failing, I channeled every sad ASPCA puppy commercial I’d ever seen. “Please,” I said, clutching the flyer to my chest. “I promise to brush my teeth and call Grandma once a week if I can just have $20 dollars.” My crowd remained unmoved. “Fine, what if I also do the laundry and read the book out loud to you?” Their counteroffer was swift and brutal: “$15 and you’re feeding the dog.”
With my funds secured, I re-entered the cafeteria the next morning, head held high. I moved from shelf to shelf, inhaling the intoxicating scent of paper. I pretended to browse the “educational” section, but in truth I was just hunting for the ultimate prize: The Make Your Own Unicorn Poop Slime kit, complete with an iridescent vial of unicorn essence, three different scented slimes, and miniature poop-shaped mold. It had absolutely nothing to do with education, but I knew the Make Your Own Unicorn Poop Slime Kit would make me the undisputed ruler of recess and possibly a legend among my classmates. At checkout, I clutched my treasure and walked out triumphant. Behind me, the fair glowed like the green light at the end of the dock, promising endless possibilities, temptation, and just enough allure to bring the next wave of unsuspecting parents into financial ruin.
