Sorry You're Lost (18 page)

“You're my hero, Chad.”

“Thanks. Hey, you know what I heard?”

“What?”

“That he wants a date for his little seventh grade dance.”

“
Ha!
I heard that, too!”

“You know what else I heard?”

“What?”

“He pretends to be a clown so no one will make fun of him.”

“But we're making fun of him anyway.
Ha!
”

“Isn't that funny?”

“It
is
funny!
Ha!
”

I don't hear them too well, but I think Allison adds something about Manny's and my stupid spy mission and her being the ladybug and how we're the biggest loserasauruses on the entire dinosaur and human and nonhuman planet. Chad agrees and says that we're better off extinct. Then he mentions something about my mom.

I don't feel
too
bad because I'm able to tune them out, which is easier than you might think because I'm selling so fast I'll soon put the lunch ladies out of business, which I
do
feel the slightest bit bad about, so when my four boxes (forty-eight bars each) sell out in under nineteen minutes, I step over a sea of candy wrappers to visit my favorite lunch lady.

It also doesn't hurt that Sabrina's on the line, too, buying a drink. Her strawberry shampoo overpowers the smell of the lunchroom. This is a good thing.

“Hi, Denny.” She's wearing a green button-down shirt with a cat at the upper left corner instead of a man playing polo or a sailboat or flag. I point to it and ask, “Is that the cat on your roof?” It's a dumb thing to say, I know it is, but I love that she's not one of them, not a slave to the logo. I love it so much I feel like singing. So I do.

“Too much,” she says, “tone it down.”

“It's the bass, isn't it? Too much bass in my golden pipes?”

She can't help but laugh because my game is oozing like cheese fries. Speaking of which, Marsha, the lunch lady, beams when she sees me with Sabrina. “So maybe I
do
have to worry about you running off and disappearing with a woman,” she cackles, flashing me an exaggerated wink. “Remember that women are relationship beings and that men—”

“Are not.”

Sabrina seems impressed. “True story,” she whispers.

“Right you are.” Marsha scratches at her hairnet. “Now tell me, how are your classes going? Gonna pass this year, aren't we, baby?”

“Yes, ma'am,” I explain. “Straight A's. I'm very much looking forward to the honor roll celebration at the end of the year. I hear it's a potluck dinner this time around. I think I'll bring some of my dad's famous fried chicken.”

“You tellin' the truth, baby?”

“Told you you're a terrible liar,” Sabrina says.

Marsha nods. “Like I always said, it's better to be rather than to seem.”

“Can I get some fries please, Marsha?” I reach into my shoe and pull out a wad of twenty-dollar bills. “For safety,” I whisper to Sabrina. “Every businessman should have street smarts.”

She gives me a stink face. “All that money in your
sock
? That's gross.”

“Your wish is my command,” Marsha says, filling up two trays. “Here we go, double order of french fries, made with you in mind.”

I thank her.

“You got it, sugar, and remember now. It's better to be, rather than to seem.”

“Roger that.” I tuck the change in my sock.

“I like her,” Sabrina says, following me away from the lunch line. “It's better to be than to seem. You should listen to her and stop pretending. Her advice is spot-on and smart. Your money system on the other hand…”

“Sorta gross?”

“Yeah.”

“At least it's safe. And it's not all ones or anything. I've exchanged them for a bunch of twenties and a few hundreds because it's all about the Benjamins.”

She rolls her eyes. “What do you need the money for so badly anyway?”

“Yes, Donuts,” another voice cuts in, “what do you need the money for so badly?” I don't realize the table isn't empty until we're already sitting down.

Manny has a grin the size of Antarctica on his face. “Tell us, Donuts, what do you need the money for so badly?” I try to kill him with my eyes, but it doesn't work. He presses on. “Why go through the trouble we have been going through, buying boxes, organizing inventory, selling before school, after school, between classes, during classes? Why all the trouble? For whom? For what?”

I wish he'd stop talking. I know why he's angry, I get it. I'm sitting next to the person who drove him so mad during their stupid debate. For this, though it sounds stupid, I can't help but feel the slightest bit guilty. I feel like a cheater, which makes me feel weird because I'm not married to Manny or anything, but, well, sometimes it feels that way. And in the case of selling candy, I am married to him—in profits, in I.M.P. We're supposed to get dates. Together. Sabrina isn't part of the plan.

Though I want her to be part of a new one. An honest one. A real one.

Manny's eyes flicker back and forth between Sabrina and me. “What are you—what is
she
doing here?”

“I brought her here.”

Sweat sprouts on Manny's nose, a dead giveaway he's about to burst. He wipes his sweat on his sleeve and says, “So, where did you two lovebirds meet?”

Sabrina laughs. “I don't know about lovebirds, but…” which sort of hurts my feelings. A better answer would've simply been “In class. We met in class.”

“English project,” I tell Manny. “We're partners.”

“Interesting.” He rubs his chin. “I thought we were partners. Business partners. Remember, Donuts? What was the purpose of that business again?”

I look at Sabrina, then to Manny.

“For a car,” I say. “To buy a new car. For when I can drive. Years from now.”

He slaps his knee playfully. “Ah, that was it. Forgive me, I recently aged another year, became thirteen. My memory is not what it used to be.”

*   *   *

Outside of the lunchroom, Manny pulls me aside and pushes me against a locker. Oohs and aahs ripple through the crowd. “Catfight!” someone hollers.

Might as well have called “Fire.” The masses swarm, circling around us. The squeaking of sneakers, the clomping of boots. Cheers, fists, a bloodthirsty mob. In seconds, we're trapped like animals inside a cage, which is fitting because the sneer on Manny's face isn't human—until he realizes the scene he's created.

He loosens his grip. “No, no, not a fight,” Manny announces, dusting off my shoulders. “Just two growing men disagreeing is all. A friendly, rational conversation.”

Grunts of disappointment as the crowd shuffles down the hall: “
Really
could've used a fight today.” “Would've been epic.” “Had twenty bucks on Donuts.”

Once they're out of earshot, Manny's back at it. “Are you serious, Donuts? You are macking with the cheese with Sabrina?”

“Chill out, Manny, she's just a girl.”

He huffs. “You sound like a man of the world, a regular world traveler. Tell us sheltered creatures what girls are really like. Why on earth are you macking with the cheese with Sabrina? Have you already abandoned our plan?”

“Of course not. Didn't you see me selling candy in there? I sold out.”

“Indeed you have.” He looks both ways. “Let me give you something to chew on.”

“I just ate lunch.”

“Not literally, metaphorically. Are you familiar with macaroni?”

“The pasta?”

He nods.

“I know all about pasta, Manny. Remember, I asked if we could bring tortellini in our Lamborghini.”

He rolls his eyes. “How could I forget…”

“So what's your point?”

“Listen, macaroni is a pasta like any other, but it got labeled as a cheese lover. Labeled in households, restaurants, commercials, and fun-size microwavable packets. We cannot fathom macaroni without its mate, its bride, its gloppy yellow cheese. Macaroni and marinara? Macaroni and sausage? Not unless it is out of a Chef Boyardee can or sloppily served by Marsha at your favorite cafeteria establishment. Somewhere along the line, macaroni got caught up in the wrong crowd, rubbed elbows—pun intended, my friend—with its cheesy neighbors, found itself in mixed company and consciously led the cheese on, making it blush, making it melt, and look where it got him: labeled, branded, cemented in history alongside the pasteurized by-products of a cow.”

“Wow.”

“Indeed you are capable of rhyme. I am very impressed. Sound the trumpets, cue the violins, for you, sir, are a natural poet. A bona fide Bobby Frost, a teenage one at that. And teenagers, as you well know, Mr. Court Jester, get branded. Labeled. Cemented in history as this or that. Popular, or not. Athlete, or not. Musician, or not. Thespian, or not. A mint-condition academic powerhouse such as myself—or not. A donut-swilling, sad, Springsteen-loving, Jolly Rancher—”

“I get it.”

“Or not. We cannot take the chance, so allow me to finish. Teenagers get labeled, especially by their relationships. What social pack they belonged to, who they dated, who they squired to a dance (hence our elaborate operation to maximize profits), who they boogied with on the dance floor, who they kissed, who they dated for a day, week, month, year. It stays with them. Forever. That is what our candy operation is about: avoiding a negative label for all of eternity.” He pauses. “If you go forth with Sabrina, she will be on your résumé. Not to be melodramatic—which contrary to popular belief, is not the mellow, laid-back version of drama—but thirty years from now, when we are all middle-aged, people
might
forget your antics, your jokes, your grades, your clothes, your hair, your looks. But they will never. Ever. Ever. Ever forget your résumé.”

“Are you finished?”

“Yes, Donuts, but understand, that is why I have lacked a date up until now. I have chosen carefully. And now with the vehicular, musical, and other amenities we can acquire with our candy money, we'll have our choice of date, smorgasbord that our school is. But I am only in this if we are in this together.”

“Fine, but understand this: I'm not embarrassed by her. I like her.” I fight a blush.

“She is your group partner, Donuts. She is supposed to be nice. I bet you think waitresses like you, too. And hostesses, salesladies, clerks, cashiers, managers…” He laughs at his own joke. “I bet you think the lady you buy tickets from at the movies likes you, too. And the lady who rips your ticket. I bet she is gaga for Donuts.”

“Stop! I don't know what I want to do for the dance. I don't know if Sabrina even likes me the slightest bit, but if she made it to my, what do you call it?

“A résumé.”

“Right, a résumé. She'd look good there. She'd be the only one there.”

He sighs. “I need to know now. If we are going to make our fund-raising operation work, I mean truly work, together, we need to find out now. And in order to find out, we need to step up our market research, take a chance with a purchase of some sort, or get more aggressive in other ways. I doubt we have raised enough money for a helicopter yet, but it is time we spice things up. Desperate times call for desperate measures and Lord knows we are desperate. At least I am, and it is time to get spicy. Are you still with me or not?”

“I don't understand what you mean by spicy, but I don't like the sound—”

“All that matters is this, Donuts: Have you betrayed our partnership or are we still in this together? Are you with me or not? I need to know now.” He lowers his voice. “Before we take this to another level that we cannot turn back from.” He pauses, then runs his hand through his hair. “Or until it all grows back.”

 

DESPERATE MEASURES

“Oh my god, can you be
lieve
what my son-in-law got me for my seventieth birthday? I mean, hel-lo, who in their right mind would turn down a gift certificate for a Swedish massage? Certainly not
this
lady.” Though she's on the phone, “this lady” with the nasal voice, sagging cheeks, and pink curler in her hair points to herself with two shaking fingertips covered in orange nail polish. “I've met silly people before in my lifetime, but
this
lady”—again the orange pointers—“is certainly not one of them. My daughter has married a charmer, I'm telling you. He even got me three full tubes of foot cream all the way from the Dead Sea. And, honey, you know me and foot cream. We go together like chocolate and ice cream.”

MELINDA'S MAKEOVER
, it says on the window. And this lady must be Melinda. Her salon, which smells of hair spray, has eight mirrors with chairs, though no one else is sitting in them because Melinda's the only one here. She's on the phone beside a row of sinks and pictures of boys and girls with all sorts of haircuts: spikes, fades, perms, bowl cuts, afros …

“I think we're in the wrong place,” I whisper to Manny.

He runs a hand through his mop of hair, now ungelled and with a mind of its own. “This is the right place. It was recommended by one of my classmates, and I did do my research. This hair salon got a five-star rating on Yelp.”

“By who?” I scoff. “The shuffleboard club?”

A framed picture of Miami Beach above Melinda's name, a bumper sticker to the side of her station that reads “I [heart] Art Deco.” Combs soaked in blue vials, a yellow hair dryer, and a sign that reads
NOBODY NOTICES WHEN I GET THINGS RIGHT
, which brings me no comfort.

Neither does Manny's elbow in my ribs. “Do not judge this place by its appearance. That is why we are here, after all. The female species has deemed our current appearance unworthy of its company. So we shall work on that appearance.”