Chapter 4: A Mountain of Mandarins

Resolved to help, I started walking the fields. Dew clung to my boots as I traced the property line. Most mandarins weren’t ripe yet—still green, still hard. Dad said this month was my window to find buyers. All around, hillsides glowed with orange, hundreds of tons waiting for a miracle.

Honestly, it was more daunting than any marketing report I’d ever written. I was standing on the ridge, lost in thought, when a deep voice called out behind me.

"Mark, when’d you get back? Why not come sit with us a while? Heard you’re doing well in the city—and that you want to help the town?"

I turned to see Mr. Henderson, the town supervisor, and one of the first mandarin growers. He looked more like a county clerk than a farmer—black hair, big belly, nice shirt.

He grinned at me, but I couldn’t read his eyes, so I just smiled back. "Yes, sir. My dad said the old buyer backed out, everyone’s nervous. I’m just seeing if I can help..."

He cut me off with a smile. "You’re a good kid. Don’t forget your roots. We appreciate it. But just so you know, we sold for $2.70 a pound last time. If you’re selling, don’t go too low."

He leaned in, voice lowering. "And look, business is business. You gonna make something for yourself, right? How much you planning to keep off the top?"

I tried to hide my wince. "I get it, sir. My dad mentioned this. But right now, there’s too much fruit and too few buyers. I’m getting offers between $1.35 and $1.60, sometimes $1.80. I’ll try my best, but I can’t promise more. As for money, I’ve got a steady job. I’m not taking a dime from the town. Whatever we negotiate, that’s what they get."

He laughed, big and booming. "Just checking, son. Wouldn’t want anyone thinking otherwise. All right, it’s in your hands."

I knew then—if this went south, I’d take the blame. Suddenly, it felt like the weight of the whole county fair was on my shoulders. I never thought Thanksgiving would put the whole town’s hopes on my back.

For a week, I hustled—tracking down online shops, cold-calling stores, pitching the town’s unsellable fruit to anyone who’d listen. My phone burned against my ear, voicemail after voicemail, until my voice turned hoarse. Most folks hung up fast. I got it—everybody already had their own deals, their own people. Who’d take a risk for a stranger?

Seven days, barely any sleep. Even in my dreams, I was haggling over fruit. My friends joked I should take out an ad in the Maple Heights Gazette—give every teacher a free box and pray for a miracle.