Sorry You're Lost (26 page)

“Okay! It's true!” I blurt out. “What's done is done. I'm not proud of it. Any of it. But I promise, Mr. Morgan and Mrs. Q, that I'll bloom in the very near future.”

My dad grimaces. “You'll
what
in the very near future?”

“Bloom,” I say. “I'll bloom.”

“Bloom?”

“Yes, bloom. It's from
Leo the Late Bloomer
,” I explain.

“Leo the Late—what are you talking about?”

I stiffen. What am I talking about? That was Mom's and my favorite book! He doesn't even know what books Mom used to read me. He doesn't know anything.

“I know what I'm talking about,” I say slowly, so that I don't seem upset.

His chest swells. “No, you don't know what you're talking about! You haven't said anything at this meeting!”

“Well, you don't say anything at home!” I thunder. “You didn't even mourn for her! You just watch TV all day and night and you never talk about her. You never even cried, not once! You didn't care! You still don't!”

I don't mean to say that. I really don't, especially with Mrs. Q sitting next to us. My dad's face gets really red and he makes this weird noise that sounds like “hul.” Then he looks over at Mrs. Q and apologizes for my “inappropriate behavior.”

“Inappropriate?” I fire back. “Suddenly it's
inappropriate
to have a conversation? It's ridiculous to open up in a meeting? I'm sorry, gods and goddesses of your respective subjects, but I thought this meeting was about opening up and getting to the bottom of things, was it not?”

“I don't … well, yeah … but I—” Mrs. Q stammers.

I turn to Mr. Morgan. “I thought we came here to reflect, did we not?”

He shakes his head without moving his head. The movement is in his owl eyes.

“I came here to reflect, Mr. Morgan. I wish the same of my dad.” I don't see my dad's hand swinging down until all I hear and feel is a
thump
and my head is a foot to the left. I think I bit my tongue and in front of me there are little white lights that look like stars. Mrs. Q gasps. My hand flies up, but it doesn't know where to go, whether to rub my head or hit him back. So it sorta hangs there, like I'm stretching my shoulder. It's funny, this in-between position, like when you try to shake someone's hand and they want to give you the fist bump so you end up fist-shaking them instead. But right now I don't see the humor in this shoulder stretch, with Mrs. Q touching her face and Mr. Morgan's owl eyes now looking like the biggest-owl-in-the-forest's eyes. He grunts—Mr. Morgan, I mean, like he wants to say something but doesn't know exactly what to say, and I understand because I feel the same way, except my hand is still in the air.

If there was ever an appropriate time to curse at my dad, this feels like the moment. The curse would pale in comparison to his
thump
, which means they'd sort of cancel each other out and I'd still be the victim and we'd both be wrong. But Mrs. Q is here and my mom taught me never to curse around women, so I try a different method.

“You look upset,” I tell him, my voice steady despite the storm inside me.

He blinks. “I
what
?”

“It's just an observation,” I say coolly. “You look upset.”

His mouth twitches. No, his whole face twitches. He looks like some old-school robot about to self-destruct and explode into smithereens. I want to keep watching, I have to keep watching, but Mr. Morgan stands up and yells, “Enough!”

And you know, when Homey don't play that … he don't play that.

And my hand is still in the air.

And my dad is crying.

 

LOSING

I have to tell him in person. It's only fair. A day after the meeting of the minds, I meet Manny at the Warehouse and try to break the news.

“Such a jokester, you are,” Manny chuckles. “A regular court jester, this one.”

“No, Manny, I'm serious. I'm sorry.”

“What is this? Are you scammer-hating? What am I missing?”

“I'm not kidding. Chad took it.”

“Chad with the crazy calf muscles even bigger than Mr. Perfect's?”

I nod. “He took it. All of it. About seven hundred dollars.”

“Uh-huh. Right. Where is the hidden camera?”

“I promise, I'm telling the truth. He jumped me in the halls and stepped on my face and took it from me. I swear, I'm telling you the truth. It pains me to say it. The truth hurts and this truth
really
hurts, but I have to give it to you, I have to tell you because we are or were business partners, and I really am very, truly, very, very sorry.”

Manny's face tightens as the possibility of the truth sets in. He hits the floor as if a drill sergeant said to “drop and give me twenty,” but instead of doing push-ups Manny grabs my shoe, hikes up my pant leg, and tears into my sock. I feel his fingernails scratching against my ankle. There's no money there. Nothing left.

“Manny, I'm telling you, it's gone. I'm so sorry. We've come so far and worked so hard, but there was nothing I could do and there's nothing I
can
do and I'm sorry.”

Manny adjusts his glasses. “This is beyond flabbergasting,” he mutters, slowly getting to his feet. “Flabbergasting. Simply flab-ber-gast-ing. Flabbergasting.”

Shoeless and sockless, I try to give him a hug. A man hug. A chest bump. A
Star Trek
handshake. Anything to prove we're still friends. That we'll survive the dance together. That our friendship will last beyond this.

“You are on your own,” he says, shoving me aside.

*   *   *

Friendless and broke, I'd wander the halls alone for the rest of the day, but everyone in the whole school is herded to the gym like a pack of mindless cattle. The basketball team is holding a pep rally in the gym today before their last game against Monroe Middle School. Pep rallies. Really big deal. Like the crowd is really gonna change how the team plays the following day. Like a player's gonna drive to the hoop, leap between two defenders, and realize,
Oh yeah, there were
so
many happy cheering faces at that pep rally.
And only then does he decide he wants to make the shot.

“Flying Dogs! Go Flying Dogs!” Allison shakes her pom-poms as the speakers blast our official school song of “Who Let the Dogs Out?” and everyone barks. Like, really barks. Pep rallies … I'm telling you, the worst. A bad use of time. Bad music. Barking. And everything's for show.

Sabrina's standing next to me, leaning on the railing on the top floor of the gym—which the school uses for extra seating but never really needs because nobody comes to games or cares about pep rallies—so we're alone, and she's looking at me, waiting for an explanation, and I can no longer be all for show.

I owe it to her. I can't be as lame and phony as this pep rally.

I watch Allison do three cartwheels and a backflip. Her face flushes as she gains her balance and raises her pom-poms. “Go, go Flying Dogs!” Barking fills the gym.

“Denny, what's wrong with you? What happened to you?”

She tilts her head and looks at me the way my mom did when she knew I was keeping something from her. It makes me feel like I'm walking through a full-body scanner at the airport. Which is fine. Because I need to tell the truth. To everyone.

*   *   *

The truth: I don't drink orange Gatorade anymore because my mom always handed it to me on the soccer field. It makes me sad.

The truth: “Sabrina. I like you. I want us to romance—be romantic—be partners in a middle school romantic romance. But I'm afraid.”

The truth: “Dad, it's my fault, too. I don't like to talk either. I still don't, but I'll try if you do. I'll need you to go first, though.”

The truth: I used to wish Mr. Morgan was my dad. I don't anymore.

The truth: “I'm sorry, Mrs. Q. I think you'll make a good teacher. You really will. Your three-strikes-and-you're-out policy is a good idea. If you used that on the first day of school, I never would've messed with you. But it's not your fault. It's mine.”

*   *   *

“Sabrina, I need to tell you the truth.”

“That'll be nice,” she says.

“Okay, here goes.” Deep breath. “Manny and I had a business.”

“With the candy…”

I nod. “We had a business. To increase our compatibility quotient—”

“Huh?”

“Popularity. For people to notice us. Like us. Or at least want to go with us to the dance. As dates, real dates, instead of groups. We were desperate, we were losers, and then I met you and I didn't feel like one anymore. That kiss under the table in Victoria's Secret, that was … my first. I felt for you. I fell for you. But Manny has been my friend since I was two, and this fund-raiser that wasn't really a fund-raiser…”

She looks dizzy. More confused than angry.

“We made a lot of money that Manny wanted to use to ask eighth graders—”

“What? Like who?”

I peek down at the cheerleaders. “Allison,” I tell her. “And her friend. But I wasn't ever going to go with them anyway, because I like you, I do, I really do, and then I was robbed and—”

“You were robbed?”

“Yeah, but the point is I was going to use the money for us because I want to be near you—I mean, close to you—I mean, with you—and that's why I was acting so weirdly around you and just plain weird in class and why I couldn't stop laughing even though nothing was funny, Sabrina. I mean, we laugh at things together and I hope you think I'm a
little
bit funny, but I'm not being funny now and I still want us to be with each other—I mean, together, if not now, then after the dance—”

I want her to slap me, hold me, hug me, say something—
anything
—but she's walking away, and I want her to turn around and say something but she doesn't, and soon I'm alone on that second floor of the gym. From below, Chad is looking up at me, grinning. And barking so loud it rings in my ears.

I sit down and try to gather myself, but I feel broken, like there are too many pieces to pick up, and I decide that if someone comes up to me and hands me a sympathy card that reads “I'm sorry for you're lost,” I will correct their spelling.

It's supposed to read “I'm sorry for your loss.”

You
can
lose people.

 

DAYLIGHT

When I get home from school, prepared for a long night of self-loathing, I try to assemble my old G.I. Joe tent on the side of my bed, but the supports get all tangled and it takes more energy than I currently have. I'm out. Of energy, luck, and friends.

I count 874 sheep before I fall asleep and dream in black and white.

*   *   *

The sound of snapping plastic forces me to open my eyes.

“Your tent. I think one of the legs is almost bent,” my dad says, breathing hard. “It shouldn't have even been here in the first place, why are you sleeping, I said that I wanted to talk.” He sits on my green and white football sheets, covering at least sixty yards of the football field. The mattress creaks.

“Okay, we'll talk later,” I mutter.

“No, I said that I wanted to talk.”

“I was asleep.”

He wipes his forehead.

“Oops, I fell back asleep again.”

“Denny, come on—”

“I'm going to start snoring any second and I'm a pretty loud snorer.”

“I told you we'd talk after dinner.”

“You always say that. Let's talk when. Let's talk when. Let's talk when. It doesn't mean anything.” I don't mean to say that, but I've just woken up, and other than pretending you're still asleep, it's really hard not to tell the truth right after you wake up.

“Dad, you always tell me that you want to talk, but you never do. Why should I have thought tonight would've been any different?”

He looks puzzled, like I've thrown him off his script.

I sit up. “And I can't believe you smacked me during the conference. I know I shouldn't have cut class, but I didn't deserve that.”

“I—” he starts. I don't interrupt him; he just stops talking.

“I
what
?” I say, gaining confidence.

Again, that puzzled look. He's forgotten his lines, needs to improvise.

“What?” I say, continuing on the offensive. “What is it?”

He looks down at my bedsheets, rubbing his eyebrows with his thumb and index finger. I feel sort of bad for him, the way he keeps touching his face. I want to tell him that I'm sorry—for cutting class, for not initiating conversation, for not being a more successful son—but what comes out is this: “You shouldn't have hit me. And you shouldn't eat so much fried food and watch so much TV. And you shouldn't—”

He breathes heavily. “Now you listen to me. I don't tell you how to live your life. Why are you telling me how to live mine?”

“Don't you see, Dad? I wish you did. I wish we spoke about things. Not just the Phillies. And movies. And food. Lots of things. But we don't. I want to ask you about your day and your job, and I want you to ask me about girls and grades and dances and Manny and my gods and goddesses—”

“Gods and goddesses?”

“My teachers, I mean, and my afternoon and my hobbies and movies and shaving and hair and everything else. I want to just … I don't know,
talk.
I didn't always, but I wouldn't mind doing it now.”

Even though his eyes are open, he isn't moving. Not even blinking. Frozen. Like that football player on my sheets.

I think I see him move his head but it's just the sweat dripping down his face. He doesn't answer me. He's not going to answer me. I've opened up, said what needed to be said, what had to be said, what a parent should say, and gotten nothing. I'm talking to myself.