It’s just after lunch at Joppa-Maple Grove, and two boys—Hutson Hillebrand, a fifth grader, and Oliver Dummitt, a third grader—are talking fast, their voices running over each other in that excited, honest way of children who can’t decide which part of their story to tell first. They’re explaining the Quarterback Club, a reading incentive program that manages to combine the magic of discovery with the thrill of a good trade.

Here’s how it works: students drop a quarter into a white piggy bank on a table outside of the office, choose a book from that table—chapter books, picture books, even Dog Man or Diary of a Wimpy Kid—and then take a permission slip to Dr. Goins, who pulls out a box of collectible trading cards. “Baseball, basketball, football,” Hutson says. “All-stars, rookies—you could get a good one worth way more than a quarter.” The grin on his face says he’s thought about this possibility more than once.

At first glance, it’s a small thing. A quarter. A book. A card. But behind that exchange lies something larger: a district quietly teaching its students that reading has value. Not because it’s required, but because it connects you to something beyond the page—possibility, curiosity, community.

Oliver says he’s a “Dog Man guy,” and he’s working through Diary of an Awesome Friendly Kid at the moment. “I’m also building popsicle-stick bridges in science,” he adds proudly, “but we can’t test them until Monday because the book fair stuff is in the way.” Hutson, meanwhile, is reading an I Survived comic and tackling decimals in math. “Reading and math,” he says, “those are my favorites.” It’s the kind of balance every educator hopes for—a child who enjoys thinking in both words and numbers.

The boys’ enthusiasm for school bubbles up naturally. They talk about baseball teams they’ve played on—Hutson likes to pitch and play first base; Oliver once braved the outfield but says it was “too hot” and he’d rather be inside painting sunsets or drawing Frankenstein glyphs for art class. “I’m gonna be a famous artist,” he declares, and there’s no reason to doubt him. He was up at 4:40 that morning, sketching hills against an imagined sunrise.

Both have family ties within the district. Hutson’s mom works in the front office; his sister, Clara, an eighth-grader, plays basketball, softball, and cheers. Oliver’s mom is fifth-grade teacher Jesse Dummitt, whose own journey through Joppa-Maple Grove—student, aide, teacher—has become something of a hometown story. “I’ve had her as a sub before,” Oliver says proudly. “It was awesome.”

Ask either boy what makes school special, and their answers speak volumes. “Sports,” Hutson says first, then pauses. “And learning stuff I haven’t learned before.” Oliver grins: “My friends. The teachers. That’s about it.” It’s not about grandeur or technology; it’s about belonging. About walking into a place where everyone knows your name and wants you to do well.

The Quarterback Club captures that same spirit. It’s a homegrown idea that blends old-school fun with a bit of modern magic. The money raised through those quarters goes right back into the school—pencils, computers, new chairs, better tables. “You fix what you can fix,” Dr. Goins likes to say, and this little white piggy bank is proof that small fixes can ripple outward in big ways.

Oliver laughs as he admits his mom finally had to cut him off. “She said we were spending too much money—we’re saving for a big house,” he says, half-serious, half-proud. Hutson jumps in: “My locker’s packed full of books.” Both are right. Reading costs a little—but look at the return.

At Joppa-Maple Grove, motivation doesn’t have to be complicated. Sometimes it’s a coin dropped into a jar and the rustle of a new book opening. Sometimes it’s a kid who doesn’t think of himself as a reader, suddenly realizing he’s finished three chapters without noticing. And sometimes it’s the laughter of two boys in a small office, debating which rookie card might be worth more—without realizing that the real treasure is already in their hands.