Sorry You're Lost (13 page)

“Look, I don't need to sit down or anything. I don't need to stay long. I gotta get back to work, you know? I mean, I know Manny's got nothing to do, but I gotta work. Gotta pay the bills. Somebody's gotta do some work, you know?”

Manny's mom, skinnier even than her son, is walking faster than anyone, her arms in full swing, her face full of makeup twitching with every rapid step she takes.

“I really can't stay, Mrs. Tice. I wouldn't even be here in the first place if the school hadn't threatened to call the Administration for Children's Services, or ACS, or whatever you people call it. Like I don't have enough to worry about. I can't take much more of this. I got a heart problem, you know? This isn't good for me. I just want to go to work. I'm sick of this. I feel like washing my hands of him, you know?”

“I know you're frustrated, Ms. Templeton, but let's talk in private in my office, if you don't mind.”

“Look, I really gotta go to work. They make the schedule when you get there. They got some people working overtime on one day, and other people working overtime other days. There's no consistency. And the traffic on the turnpike … you gotta be kidding me. Twenty minutes to drive one mile! I could walk a mile in less time, not that I would, given my heart problem.”

“I understand. It'll be quick, I promise. Let's just get into my office and—”

“I'm trying to be nice here, I really am, but I gotta go to work, you know? And Manny's gotta—well, he's gotta whole lot of nothing to do today, so he's got some catching up to do…”

That's the last thing I hear, as their voices fade down the hall. The last thing I see is Manny turning around with a thumbs-up, a silent laugh, and a wide cartoonish smile that I know from plenty of personal experience he's faking.

 

HUNGRY PEOPLE

“This morning never happened,” Manny says to me, wiping his eyes on the way to lunch. I understand him not wanting to talk about it, so I don't say anything.

“It is just—” he starts, “she is not like your mom,” and now
I
don't want to talk about it. Don't want to hear him talk again about how he misses my mom and how she was a better mother than his and how lucky I was, still am, and how he's still sad, too, and how we need to distract ourselves with our candy scheme. Instead of answering his comparison of our moms, I get missile-straight to the fund-raising operation when we enter the lunchroom by telling him, “The mission is a go.” He doesn't say “Roger that” like I want him to, but at least he nods, takes off his backpack, and gets down to business.

*   *   *

In this, our second
GRAND OPENING
lunchtime extravaganza bonanza fund-raiser, I feel like a wanderer, a nomad, going table to table with a message and a murmur: “Yo, I got that Reese's” … “I got that Heath Bar” … “Y'all better believe I got that Butterfinger.” And then, slowly but surely, like the Girl Scouts dreamed it up when they invested in uniforms, our lunchtime customers come to me, keeper of the candy flock, local shepherd and conqueror of
Level 1: Hungry People
. Never, in all my almost thirteen years of existence, have I been so wildly popular, in demand and on demand. DONUTS ON DEMAND. You can have me whenever you want me, as long as your favorite snack is still on the shelf. The shelf being my book bag. And halfway through the day, the shelves are empty. I've completely sold out. In a good way.

Day Two profits: $126 from me, $112 from Manny.

*   *   *

Dear February: In case you didn't receive the memo, you have been asked to leave. Instead, you have brought rain and darkness by the time I approach our front door when I come home from school. My dad, as usual, is at the kitchen table. “No more,” he says, biting his lip, and I know what's coming:
Cut the act, you junky food dealer. No more candy conquering.

Someone must have called home again. Mrs. Q again, Mr. Softee—

“I came home today and I could have sworn there was more chicken”—his hands are shaking now—“but there wasn't. There wasn't any left.”

On the tiled kitchen floor, I let my backpack drop, which doesn't take a whole lot of effort. Eighty-three pounds at the start of the day, now down to five. Thankfully, none of my English papers spill out this time, which makes life
good
bearable for the moment. “Dad, it's fine,” I tell him.

“It's
not
fine. I wanted a relaxing night after a long day and…”

He bobs his head up and down like a chicken. He must really miss his chicken.

“How about Chinese?” he asks.

*   *   *

We squeeze into his old green Buick—well,
he
squeezes, I just sit—and as soon as he turns the key, National Public Radio is already cued as loud as it can go, which isn't that loud because the hosts sound like they're reading the newspaper on a snowy Sunday morning with a mug of hot apple cider by their side, but it's still loud enough that my dad doesn't have to talk to me and I can look out my window without him getting angry, or lonely, or impatient.

The car smells like last week's lunch gone sour. I'd look around for a lunch box, a paper bag, moldy Tupperware, but he never packs a lunch. “Tomorrow,” he always says, “I'll pack it tomorrow.” On the backseat, a mess of take-out menus, tissue balls, tissue boxes, bent folders, two umbrellas, and a black dress shirt crumpled into a ball.

On the radio, a soothing voice, so soothing it sounds like a whisper—
I'm Kai Ryssdal, and this is Marketplace—
then a choir of flutes. I bet that Kai Ryssdal has a swell life. I bet he wakes up every morning with his pillows nice and fluffy. I check to see if my dad is still awake, not that he has a history of passing out behind the wheel, but I'd understand if he did now. Those flutes and Kai Ryssdal's melodious voice make me want to close my eyes and look around for a few sheep. So I do.

There are thousands and thousands of sheep. In the meadow, on the farm, grazing through high grass, munching on hay. There are too many sheep and not enough space. They pile in tightly, squeezing up next to one another. The sheep get mad, really mad.
Baaaaaa,
they cry. There are newspapers on the ground. The sheep look down and read the headline. It's bad news, really bad news. A new shipment of sheep is on its way. The sheep don't like this news.
Baaaaaa,
they cry, and stomp their hooves in protest. The other sheep join in. Newspapers are dirtied, shredded, destroyed. But the shipment arrives on schedule. A thousand more sheep. They fight over space, but it's no use.
Baaaaaa,
they cry. There's no more room on the ground; stacking is the only option. The sheep stand on top of each other. There are piles and piles of sheep to count, all over the green meadow. Hundreds of sheep piles. Another shipment of sheep comes in. The piles get bigger. They approach the sky.
Baaaaaa,
the sheep cry. There are hundreds and thousands of sheep, and no sign anywhere of sleep, which isn't a bad thing because the restaurant's only five minutes away from our house and we're already here.

Hunan Palace. Against a black misty sky, a pink sign buzzes with missing letters. Or maybe they meant to advertise as Hunan Pal. Friendlier that way, more chummy:
You got a pal at Hunan Pal.

I hope not. I really hope there are no pals here. You see, I've never been part of the United States Secret Service, but going out to dinner with the Natural Schmoozer can't be much different. Climbing out of the car in the wet cold, it swallows me: the paranoia, the fear that someone at my school is lurking, watching, waiting, dining with their friends and family, strolling through the parking lot, swapping tongues in a parked car. The exhaustive searches, scanning the premises—someone will be here already, will suddenly appear, a drive-by, a drive-through, a driver with a big mouth, a sniper with a smartphone, a classmate with a computer, a familiar face from Facebook. I need a suit and sunglasses, Secret Service–style, a baseball hat, makeup, a fake mustache, a fake dad, a motorcycle for a quick getaway. I look left, I look right, I look down, I look up and say a prayer that the coast is clear, that there is no threat—yes, I am a scared member of the Secret Service, but my dad is too big, too unpredictable. If he loses his cool, the gig's up. All those carefully timed jokes, pranks, and performances. My public persona, so carefully chipped and carved and crafted, will crumble into pebbles, and all I'll have left is just Denny Murphy, an eternal life of loserdom, and my dad. I must be vigilant, be vigilant, c'mon, be vigilant. I peek through the restaurant's frosty windows, past a bubbling tank of pink and yellow fish. As a Secret Service agent, I fight an urge to protect the fish. Would I take a bullet for them? Silly question. Small fish don't get shot. Would I take a net for a fish? As long as it got me out of having to dine with the Natural Schmoozer.

I continue scanning. A man in a blue shirt and yellow tie at a corner booth, eating with his wife and two young sons. One looks eight, the other six. They're strangers. Green light, they're safe. A family of eight at the middle table. A grandmother in a flowery blouse, her husband in a black button-down shirt. Green light. Their kids all over forty. Green light. Three grandchildren still too young for Blueberry Hills. Green light. One grandchild is a teenager. Hooped earrings. Stranger. Green light. A young couple in the back, slurping hot and sour soup; the girl is a green light, the guy's a yellow light. His back is turned. His hair is gelled to the side like no one I've ever seen, but Secret Service agents can never be too sure. There, now he turns around for the waiter. Green light. An older man walks back from the bathroom to his family. He doesn't teach at my school. Green light. His daughter has long, flowing blond hair and that's all I can see. Yellow light. I bend down to tie my shoes, my head tilted to the side for a better view.

“Denny, what are you doing?” my dad grunts.

I see her profile. Green light.

“Nothing, Dad, good to go.” It's safe to enter, so I do. A string of bells on the door signals our entrance. The restaurant smells of fish and soy sauce.

The manager, a thin man with a thin black mustache and thinning black hair, is smiling behind the counter. Then he sees my dad enter.

He is no longer smiling. His face drops—sagging cheeks, heavy eyes, like Mrs. Q sensing impending doom upon my arrival, or Sabrina walking into an unwanted group partnership.

We have a history here. My dad does. It's not a good one. But a customer is a customer. “Welcome,” the manager says. Such a pal. Everyone is a pal at the Hunan Pal.

The host guides us to an empty booth. Cue the stares, the double takes, the whispers about my dad's weight. At the middle table a grandson in a blue turtleneck doesn't whisper: “WHOA, LOOK AT HOW FAT HE IS, MOMMY!”

His brother elbows him. “Shhh, don't say that so loud. But that guy sure is fat.”

They both laugh.

The girl with the long flowing hair turns her head. “Yikes,” she says.

From the back of the restaurant, the guy with gelled hair turns around and fights a smile. He doesn't fight hard enough.
Soon, WE'LL have to fight,
I want to shout, but I don't want to draw any more attention than we already have and I don't want to fight him unless I really have to because he'd
probably
definitely beat me up.

Seated, my dad and I gaze at the pandas on the walls, avoiding each other until a waiter balancing a tray full of water glasses hands us two menus. He must be new here.

“No, no,
no
,” my dad growls, “I want the Chinese menu.”

“Sir?” Eyebrows raised. “I'm sorry?”

“I want authentic Chinese food, what
real
Chinese people eat.”

“I'm sorry, sir,” he says, “I don't understand.”

(I don't understand either, though we've been through this before.)

“Just bring me the Chinese menu!”

The whole room is closing in and I am trapped. I feel like a mouse locked in a cage. Of Chinese food. The waiter blinks. Water glasses rattle on his tray. He throws me a desperate glance, but I can't help him. I am a mouse.

The Natural Schmoozer smooths out his napkins, mumbling to himself. All I catch are the words “ridiculous,” “damn,” “quit,” “broccoli,” “service,” and “can't.”

In the kitchen someone's blasting a fast-paced Katy Perry song, and it's hard to tell which one it is because they're all exactly the same and I want to shut it off, shut it off, shut it off, stop, stop thinking about it, but it's better than looking at my dad, and
way
better than listening to National Public Radio, especially that Kai Ryssdal.

The waiter returns with two red menus with Chinese writing, even “Hunan Palace” is in Chinese. He tentatively places them on our table.

“Do I
look
like I speak Chinese?” my dad huffs.

“But, sir—”

“I need you to translate.”

“But, sir, I don't speak Chinese.”

“Just bring us what Chinese people eat!”

The waiter's face turns powder white. I watch him turn around and power walk to the manager at the front of the restaurant, and that's when I notice I've failed as a member of the Secret Service.

A girl walks in with her parents.

She's wearing a black hooded sweatshirt and her hair is parted over her right eye. She has a stud on her nose and a Batman bracelet on her left wrist.

Red light.

Sabrina can't see me like this. Can't see my dad like this.

I toss my napkin on the table. “Dad, we need to go.”

He's breathing harder. “As a paying customer, I demand—Denny—I've gotten it here before and—they need to—it's not fair and I know—you know—I—”