Sorry You're Lost (22 page)

“Of course.” I tap my left foot against my right foot so I can feel the thick roll of twenties against my ankle. “So what's the plan, Manny? What do we do next?”

“Were you not listening? The plan is this: our goal is $2,000. We will only get there if the wrappers are cleaned up, mopped up, picked up … however you do it, get it done. We will be increasing our distribution for our last push. The Gum Dealer is a threat, but good luck to him giving candy to everyone at school. We must distribute. Wildly. One last mad dash. But you must be careful and pick up wrappers. This is in your hands, Donuts. Those hands may be sugary, chocolaty, and peanut-buttery. But it is still in your hands.”

“Why don't you pick up wrappers, Manny?”

“I believe it was the principal who asked you to do it, yes?”

*   *   *

Eating candy loses its luster quickly. You get that sugar high and you want to swing from the rafters and hug the planet for creating something so delicious and energizing and inspiring, and then you die. Fact of life.

No, that's not true. I mean, you run out of energy, fall from the rafters, crash, hit the floor, smack, crack, and splat.

Turns out, selling candy is exactly the same. At first, it's all fun and games and tens and then hundreds and fistfuls of freezing firm cash. And now, instead of a simple “Thank you, come again,” I'm forced to say, “Thank you, come again, but don't drop the wrapper” … “Come on, clean up after yourself, man—what do I look like, your maid? Have you no soul? Have you no sense of dignity? Have you no shame, man? You're killing the environment. The ozone is melting and so is the chocolate on your wrapper and you don't even care, spoiled brat!” … “Yeah I'm talking to you. Remember not to eat it in class, be respectful, be responsible, you filthy animal” … “What, you're never coming back? Fine by me, I just added you to my ‘no-sell list.' What's a no-sell list? It's like a no-fly list: you go nowhere and get nothing. Next time you want candy, I'll suggest the nearest corner store” … “Hey, seriously? In the middle of class, who
raised
you? How old are you? Don't you think it's about time you act your age and grow up? I mean, really, grow up, man. Grow up. Yeah, you. Grow up. Hey, pick that up! What? No,
you
suck! You're the scum of the earth, you know that? Please come again. My name is Denny and I sell candy.”

*   *   *

I am the janitor. I am the manners police.

I am my own worst nightmare. I am a nagging teacher.

*   *   *

With every step I take, I'm back at her funeral, picking up Juicy Fruit wrappers.

They may say Snickers, Milky Way, Twix. But they smell like Juicy Fruit.

*   *   *

Wrappers are like a family of ants: you don't see them until you look for them, and where there's one, there are thousands. Under chairs, on top of chairs, under tables, under desks,
in
desks.

Animals, I tell you, animals at this school!

(And yes, ants, too. Unlike me, they seem to enjoy wrappers.)

Lunch is the worst. The wrappers come down like falling leaves and I can't stop them. I need a rake. I need a broom. I need a leaf blower. I need a new lunchtime activity. Before that meeting with Mr. Softee, each wrapper that fell was a symbol of my success. Now they're proof, evidence, that Donuts was here. All anyone has to do is look down.

It's pretty much all I do, all day, every day.

Look down. Look down. I'm like Jean Valjean in
Les Misérables
, toiling with my bare hands. Look down, and see the animals of Blueberry Hills Middle. Look down. Look down. Mrs. Q, what have I done? I deserve the pain, for I was a pain; I see now what I put you through, and I am sorry. You are the goddess of mathematics and I am trash. A worthless wrapper. I am so very sorry. I want you to know that.

While on the cafeteria floor, before I lose my nerve, I pull out a pen and some paper from my backpack and start writing an apology note:

Dear Mrs. Q, I was an idiot, a
maroon
moron. I know that now. I am sorry. I hope you are well and that things are
peachy
okay in the Learning Zone.
My hearts and prayers go out to you.

I scratch that last line out because “hearts” is a stupid word to use because I only have one heart. And besides, “my hearts and prayers go out to you” sounds like a note you hand to someone who has lost a mom instead of to a math teacher you gotta make up with. “Sorry you're lost” is a much better way of expressing sympathy, but it doesn't fit this scenario. Plus, “peachy” sounds sarcastic, and I spelled “moron” like the color “maroon,” so I crumple it up and add it to the pile of trash on the ground and look down. Look down. Snickers, Butterfinger, Milky Way, Twix. This better be worth it. Better be worth it. Better be worth it.

No matter how many I pick up, there are twenty I can't get to. Under tables, under Sabrina's table. She's still wearing blue Converse sneakers, the color fading like our relationship. I look up to tell her I'm now invested in the environment, doing my part for Earth Day, but something tells me she doesn't believe me.

She says it, actually. “I don't believe you.”

I don't know what to say to her.

But I do know this: I feel like a moron, a maroon, a moron with a maroon face from sweating and grunting and picking up garbage all day.

And I do know this: I want to tell the truth.

And I do know this: I want to ask her to the dance.

And I do know this: my lower back hurts.

And I do know this: in a few days, when our goal is met, I'll quit this job forever.

*   *   *

Every afternoon from 2:50 to 3:10 is the final sweep. Twenty minutes to do one last desperate cleanup before the janitor clocks in. It's intense, the pace furious. It requires a superhuman burst of strength, exhausting each and every energy reserve. A miracle, a prayer is what's required. Or, what I sell on a daily basis. See, it's in these heart-racing, calorie-burning moments that I find my merchandise to be of assistance.

So, on a Wednesday at 2:48, I reach into the bottom compartment of my backpack, push past all the crumpled stacks of bills, and pull out two Milky Ways. No time for enjoyment, I scarf both of them down in eight bites. I swallow hard.

Propelled by a double dose of chocolaty nougat, I run from classroom to classroom, any garbage, ma'am, any trash? Haven't you heard of global warming? Just trying to do my part … A last sweep of the lunchroom: look down, Denny, look down, I mutter, but it's a faster version of the
Les Misérables
song, the techno version, look down look down look down look down look look look look down down down down, look down look down look down look down look look look look down down down down 'cause I'm runnin' on caffeine and runnin' out of time. Gotta get to the bleachers in the gym, the stairwells, the locker room. Don't mind me, dude in the jock strap calling me a perv, dude in the shower cursing me out—just pickin' up
your
garbage. Well, sure, I sold it to you, which technically makes it
my
garbage, but when it became your property it became
your
garbage, so why am I cleaning it up? Ask the principal, yes I'm leaving, shower in peace. My words are fast my heart is fast the cleanup is fast God bless you Milky Way you are seriously an out-of-this-world candy and my sugar high is in full blast—and good thing too because the stairwells are a mess and sure my hands get stepped on but I'm feeling so nougaty good it doesn't bother me and I head to C wing, the last area to sweep, and I'm glad I come to C wing 'cause it's there I stumble into a mountain of wrappers over a foot high in the corner of the halls.

I don't stumble upon these wrappers. I stumble into them, over someone else's foot, and I'm reminded again that sugar highs are only temporary and the fall is steep and I know it has to be Chad because who else mans the halls at a time like 3:08 in the afternoon and who else wears shorts the second week of March and has calf implants and legs as smooth as a snake? He pops a carrot into his mouth and chews it slowly.

“I know what you're up to,” he says.

On the ground, with Chad standing over me, I laugh nervously. “You know me, always up to no good. Just trying to clean up the school neighborhood.”

“Give it to me,” he says. “All of it.”

“Sure, more Milky Ways? No problem, they're delicious.” Still on the ground, I wriggle my body like a worm and reach into my bag and push past a stack of crumpled bills and fumble for candy bars and that's when he steps on my wrist, his strong right heel pressing down on veins, and I know now those calves are definitely either calf implants or the strongest calves ever placed on a human male.

I know that Chad means business. And that my business is about to crumble.

“The money,” he says. “All of it.”

No way. Not when we're so close.

He lifts his left foot onto my face. His heel smells like dirt. But feels like concrete. He pushes down—hard.

“Your meat is still sour,” he says.

I scream, but it's muffled by his sneaker on my mouth, crushing my lips that were just getting to know Sabrina's and just tasting a bit of success and now they're bleeding, I can taste it, and I just bit my bottom lip and I can't speak.

“I don't want to do this to you,” he says. “I really don't. Let's make this easy. Shall we?” He lifts his heel.

I shut my eyes.

“Next time, it crushes you,” he says, popping another carrot into his mouth, which sounds strange to me. I mean, with his legs and feet smothering me, it surprises me that he still has arms. I know it's a stupid thing to think about at a time like this, but Chad suddenly feels like an octopus. How many limbs does this guy
have
? And why can't I be a ferocious hawk when I need to be!

My mind is flashing ten things at once and I can't think straight: money, Manny, Mom, phone, mayday, help, please, please, please, candy, wrappers, bribes, deals, companies, hallways, witnesses, help, help!

He reaches for my backpack and I snatch it and pull it closer.

His right heel pushes deeper in my wrist and I know I'm running out of time.

Time! I've cursed you before (for the record, February, you still suck), but I could kiss you now. “Check your watch,” I say. “It's three ten.”

“So?”

“Janitors start their shift at three ten. Why do you think I'm buried in wrappers?”

“Because I tripped you.”

“Right. I mean, ouch, I mean, why do you think I'm rushing to clean up?”

“Erroneous,” he says, which means nothing to me, except that he doesn't seem afraid of the janitor. “I know what you're up to,” he says again. Carrot in his mouth, he laughs. Unfortunately, he doesn't choke.
Well, choke on this!

I maneuver my body to kick him—in the face, groin, stomach—
anywhere
. I've had bad ideas before, but this one takes the taco. As my foot comes up to strike, Chad grabs my ankle and twists. Then he snatches the enormous wad of twenties and hundreds from my sock. All of them. ALL OF THEM!

“Thank you for your donation to the school, Denny. As school secretary, I assure you that your money will not go to waste.”

“GIVE IT BACK, YOU—”

He smothers me again with his right shoe. His sole tastes like mud and I bet his soul
is
mud. “If you tell anyone—
anyone
—about what happened here, everyone—
everyone
—will know about your little fund-raiser that's not a fund-raiser.” Yup, mud. He grins. “I know about it. Know about how you raised money, you loser, to offer a ride in a good-looking car because you weren't good-looking enough to get a date any other way. Selling candy to get popular, to land a date to the dance.”

I need to ask him how he knows, who told him. “MMRRRRR … ERRRRARRR … GRRRRAAA.” Those are the sounds my mouth makes with his shoe in it.

A shoe that he now raises up.

Help! Somebody! Janitor! Please!

And crashes down.

 

SPEECHLESS

It's spring in the sixth grade. I'm playing soccer, even though I'm terrible at it. Really truly terrible. But my mom likes soccer and I like having her near me and we're running out of time.

One of my teammates passes me the ball. I tap it in front of me, fake left, and go right. The defender slips. “Go, Murphy, go!” my coach shouts. I don't know why he's getting his hopes up. Any second now I'll lose the ball, trip over someone's foot, and eat a faceful of dirt. Like … now. It hurts to get up, but my mom is watching and the ball is kicked back my way. I get to my feet and dribble forward, gaining speed.

“Go, Denny!” my mom cheers. Then I hear her cough. It hurts for her to shout and it hurts for her to cough.

I am in full sprint, like a sprinter at the Olympics, who is great at running fast but terrible at stopping. Only one more defender left to beat, the sweeper. I tell him to please move aside so that I can score a goal while my mom is watching. I really say that, “Please move aside so that I can score a goal while my mom is watching,” but he's running too fast to hear me. He slide-tackles the ball away from me.

On the sidelines, the coach gives me a high-five. “That was aces,” he says.

My mom walks over to me. Her face is soft and beautiful. Like flowers. Like a dozen yellow daisies. She dangles a cup of orange Gatorade, my favorite flavor. “Drink up,” she says. “Champions deserve refreshment.”

I try to explain that I didn't score, that I didn't even shoot.

“But you did your best,” she says, “and that's what makes you a champion, my champion, and champions deserve refreshment.”