Sorry You're Lost (4 page)

The same can't be said of our school's test scores (low), lunch food (mostly untouched), or mascot. It's a Flying Dog. With big old ears and slobber coming out of his mouth. His job is to get students to sing and bark along to the official song: “Who Let the Dogs Out?” Yeah, it's like that.

Still, Blueberry Hills—it sounds delicious. Sounds like a picnic in the park with a blanket full of homemade sides that everyone eats from buffet-style. In fact, the first thing I learned about Blueberry Hills was that it really
is
a buffet. At orientation last year, the gray-haired director of student activities stood at the front of the auditorium, held the microphone against his bottom lip, and after clearing the phlegm in the back of his throat, boasted, “Blueberry Hills is a smorgasbord, or as you young folks like to call it, a buffet. You better have room for seconds, thirds, even fourths! We offer football, tennis, basketball, baseball, soccer, student government, yearbook, chess, checkers, drama, tutors, computers, a recycling club called Recycle or Die—they got to pick their own name, see—and then there's art club, French club, Spanish club … heck, if you don't find our smorgasbord to be filling enough for ya, you can start up your
own
club.”

Manny tried to start a debate club—“found and charter it,” as he put it—but nobody came to the introductory session. Still, Manny wanted a varsity debate jacket with “Captain Manny” or “Mr. Perfect” stitched across the front lapel. When the director of student activities refused to pay for it, Manny stormed into the principal's office to file a formal complaint, a restraining order, and any other legal action he could take. The principal, Mr. Softee, whose real name is Mr. Soffer but everyone calls him Mr. Softee because he's soft on student punishment, nodded with his fingers over his mouth. After Manny had concluded his speech, Mr. Softee said that he admired Manny's tenacity and would love to talk further. Then he couldn't hold it in anymore and burst out laughing.

“I will be back—with signatures!” Manny cried, slamming the door behind him.

He tried to recruit my help, but no way was I gonna risk my cred for a few lousy signatures. Can you imagine the hit I'd take roaming the hallways with a clipboard in my hand and a Captain Manny bumper sticker on my butt? The bumper sticker read “Help me pass this important legislation, or I'll pass gas.” His idea, not mine.

*   *   *

The hallways at Blueberry Hills Middle are as wide as the organic maple syrup meadows the name sounds like. It's best to picture the hallways at my school like three-lane highways on each side. Not like in elementary school where you only think the hallways are so huge until you visit years later and can barely fit two people side by side. Or how you used to think your backyard was so huge it could swallow you whole, until you wake up one day and realize it's little more than a patch of grass you can cover in four seconds flat. I haven't timed how long it takes to walk the width of the Blueberry Hills Middle School hallways because that would be weird even for me, but I can say confidently that the wide hallways do wonders for Manny's business schemes.

(Before Manny's boycott of contractions, his favorite expression was “Don't be a scammer hater.” Postboycott, it became “Do not be a scammer hater.” Either way, what he meant was to get out of the way of his “perfectly designed schemes executed to nothing less than perfection.” His words, not mine. But you gotta hand it to him, some of his scams are A1. A
+
. Aces. Last year, he told his science teacher, Mr. Halbright, who hung posters of Albert Einstein around the room, that not only was he Einstein's great nephew twice-removed, but also the proud and humble owner of an Albert Einstein autographed beaker. “It is a family heirloom, destined for eBay,” he confided to Mr. Halbright between classes, “but if you fancy it, I can procure it from my mother's safe.” Mr. Halbright, a constant sweater—perspiration, not the clothing—could barely contain himself. He wiped his wet face with his starchy sleeves as Manny took him down: “Swear to me, Mr. Halbright, that our transaction will remain confidential.” Mr. Halbright swore. He is now one hundred dollars poorer. He also owns a glass measuring cup signed by one Emmanuel “Manny” Templeton.)

This year, it's candy. And oh how business is booming! He makes more now than ever before: over $55 a day. A
day
! According to Manny, “Business must change with the times. Record shop owners were smart to get out before the iPod. But candy is timeless, as timeless as good friends and, so I have heard, fine wine and cheese. Well, cheese ages well but it does get moldy; however, candy is eternal, like diamonds, unless you keep it in your pocket for too long. Or sit on it, spit on it, or melt it. But no refunds, that is my policy, for the customer is never right.”

“Hey, Donuts!” he shouts across the wide halls, wearing a tan fishing hat, the floppy brim all the way around his head. “Wait up, my good friend!”

At least he isn't selling me candy. How do I know? Manny's candy sales are discreet. He sells it like a ticket scalper. It's supposedly against the rules for him to sell candy on school grounds if it's not for an official fund-raiser, but there's no rule against buying candy, so instead of asking if anyone wants to purchase candy, he wanders the halls murmuring, “Anyone
selling
candy? Extras anyone? Anyone got an extra bar? I only need one.”

I keep walking. You have to be in the mood to talk to Manny—especially now, when he's zigzagging through the halls shouting my name with his book bag on his chest. He carries it that way for easy access to his candy. “Easy access” meaning he doesn't have to remove his book bag, but the access is anything but easy. He smuggles candy like I imagine a kingpin smuggles drugs through an airport: a combination lock at the zipper; a layer of ragged clothing at the top, the smell alone a deterrent from searching any farther; underneath, a pencil case crammed with packs of M&M's; hollow highlighters stuffed with Jolly Ranchers, Atomic Fireballs, Warheads; folders of candy straws; a five-subject notebook with all the paper torn out and boxes stapled to the dividers with a surgeon's precision, filled with five varieties: Skittles, SweeTarts, Sour Patch Kids, Swedish Fish, and gummy worms; and underneath that, a three-ring binder linking a hole-punched box of Butterfinger. I haven't even gotten to the bulk of his profits because I haven't mentioned the fake bottom—three-quarters of the way down, a long piece of Velcro around the perimeter. Tear
that
off and you find the real treasure: two more boxes of candy, forty-eight bars in each package.

“Donuts! Hold up!” Manny barely moves his arms when he walks, so he moves like a robot—and with his ban on contractions, he talks like one, too. He just sort of beams himself down the hall, which, as a fan of
Star Trek
, is a source of great pride. For Manny. I don't get it—the
Star Trek
obsession
or
the trapdoor backpack. I can't help but shake my head as he approaches me and begins the laborious process of removing his bag that, even with Manny in the seventh grade, is heavier than he is by thirty pounds—at least until the end of the day if sales are good. And sales are always good.

He's breathing hard by the time he pulls his bag off his chest, adjusts his glasses. His “Nobody is perfect. Except me” T-shirt hangs loosely, for Manny's all elbows and bones. His lack of shoulders makes his neck appear long and looped like a fishhook, or a clothes hanger, or a question mark.

A cute brunette with a ponytail walks between Manny and me. Instead of offering candy, Manny tips his fishing cap, thumb and index finger against the front brim, bends slightly at the waist, and says, “M'lady … good day, m'lady.”

(“M'lady” is the exception to his ban on contractions. He says it's bad to formally remove charm from an expression when he's trying to be most charming. I know about the m'lady rule because he tries it a lot. And gets rejected a lot. Like now.)

To prove she's not his lady, she makes a gagging noise, rolls her eyes so far back I worry they'll get stuck. Then she makes an “L” sign with her thumb and index finger and shoves her hand into Manny's chest. I think about telling her it's dangerous, that it's easy to jam your fingers that way, but she storms off before I can get it out. Laughter fills the halls. Manny rubs his chest as he stares furiously into my eyes. As always, he probably has a vital question for me.

“Donuts, I am glad I caught you. I have a vital question to ask you.”

See. Told you.

“Not now, Manny.”

He smirks. “I heard a flabbergasting rumor just recently. Did you break your wrist falling off that desk in Mrs. Q's class?”

My face goes red. “How did you—”

“Hear so quickly? I am well connected to the social pipeline in this neck of the woods. Though I may not be the foundation of the pipeline, I am an integral part of it, and information is prone to leak out to all its integral parts.”

Manny is far from an integral part—except maybe in candy sales—and he knows it better than I, but it's not worth arguing with him. When Manny starts debating, he doesn't stop until he's right and you're bloody and beaten and admit that you're scum and he's royalty, that you're dumb as nails and he's smarter than Einstein. Some days even
that's
not enough. Some days, when he's really on his game and his ego oozes like melted cheese, he won't shut up until you proclaim that he's more powerful than God. But even
that's
not enough. “Which God are we talking about?” he'll ask. “Let us debate the merits of organized religion.”

So I leave it alone.

“Thank you,” I hear over Manny's shoulder. “Thank you.” “Thank you.” Chad's pounding everyone in their arms, one by one. “Thank you.” “Thank you.” “Thank you.”

Then me in the right shoulder. Smiling, he says, “Your meat is sour.”

“That makes no sense,” I tell him.

Chad ignores me, takes a step back, cocks his fist, and decks Manny in the arm.

“Muchos gracias,”
Manny says.
“Merci, arigato, danke, spasibo, grazie—”

Chad grins. “You're welcome,
m'lady
.”

When Chad's out of earshot, Manny rubs his arm. “Flabbergasting … the audacity of that brute. Well, at least my meat was not sour. What a buffoon. And speaking of buffoonery, did you break your wrist dancing this morning?”

“No.”

He shrugs. “Okay, now that we have gotten that insignificant detail out of the way, there is something I must discuss with you. But first, follow me to the Warehouse.”

*   *   *

The Warehouse is Manny's locker, where he stores extra candy boxes and wrestling memorabilia. His eyes are fixed on the inside of his locker, where he has taped a photo of WWF wrestler Mr. Perfect, looking mean and muscular in a yellow leotard matching the color of Mr. Perfect's signature blond locks, oiled up and curly, resting on the championship belt draped over his right shoulder.

“Again?”
I say. “Again with Mr. Perfect?”

Manny adjusts his glasses, tucks the wiry frames behind his big ears, and declares, “As the greatest Intercontinental Champion known to man, Mr. Perfect was the greatest wrestler on any continent, which, of course, is the very definition of Intercontinental.”

“I know, I know,” I mutter.

“Do you? Do you really know?” Manny traces his finger along Mr. Perfect's veined forearms. “If you knew about the raw power of Mr. Perfect, you would have a picture of him taped inside your locker.”

Even if I did, it wouldn't compare to Manny's shrine: coins, an autographed photo, a plastic figurine, a cheap plastic thermos Manny uses to drink gross things like tea and coffee, a wad of gum Mr. Perfect (supposedly) spit out and swatted into the crowd, a used white towel Manny scored on eBay, and a leg from the busted wooden stool that Mr. Perfect (allegedly) bashed over the head of a fellow wrestler.

“He used it, you know,” Manny says.

“Used what?”

“Do not insult my intelligence. I sensed you looking at my stool.”

If I had pronounced that sentence, Manny would've screamed it from the rafters—“Can you believe Donuts thought I was looking at his stool!”—but I let him continue.

“Mr. Perfect used that stool in the prime of his badassness, which is a word that I copyrighted with the Library of Congress so do not even
think
of stealing it.”

“Wouldn't dare.”

His eyes still glued to Mr. Perfect, Manny whispers, “I need to talk to you.”

“If you want me to leave you two alone, I can—”

“It is not funny, not in the least bit,” he hisses. “This is an urgent matter.” He grabs my shoulder, clawing with his fingers and nails as if his life depends on it.

“You gotta take it easy, Manny. It's not Game Seven of the World Series.”

“I live every day like it is Game Seven of the World Series, especially today.” He looks both ways down the hallway. His eyes are so wide and panicked they appear three-dimensional, like those of a cartoon character in midair before its plunge from a cliff.

“We are not safe here,” he breathes. “What I have to tell you is highly classified.”

I sigh. “If it involves Mr. Perfect, I'm out.”

“Shhhh.” He peeks to his right. “This does not involve Mr. Perfect. But it does involve a perfectly designed scheme that I will execute to nothing less than perfection.”

“But of course you will.”

“This is classified, Donuts. It could impact our whole nation, or at least”—he releases my shoulder and spreads his fingers into a
Star Trek
salute—“
our
nation. We are not safe here.”