Sorry You're Lost (5 page)

Even for Manny, it's a bit over the top. “Oh no!” I cry. “Planet Xenon needs us!”

“That does not qualify as
Star Trek
vocabulary, nor is the sarcasm appreciated, especially given the enormity of the plan I shall unfurl. Now, I urge you to flank me—”

“
Flank
you?”

“Follow me as we depart for our desired destination.”

When I ask him where he wants to go, he explodes: “To the lunchroom,
Donuts
!”

You'd think by the way he stresses my name that I'm a donut-hoarder, which I'm not—I weigh 117 pounds, if you must know—but compared to Manny, I'm a Siberian elephant. I don't know why my elephant self is from Siberia, but everything sounds bigger if it's from Siberia. For example, which sounds bigger: a husky or a Siberian husky? I only mention it because by point of comparison, I'm the Siberian friend.

But compared to my daily pranks and performances, Manny's scheme is so big there's no room for it in America. It belongs only in the land of large huskies.

It belongs in Siberia.

 

THE PLAN

The lunchroom is filling fast, the heavy air filled with the smell of oil. Grease, salt, a deep fryer … yup, french fries, again. I feel my face breaking out before I eat a single fry, before I get on the lunch line, before I even stand up. I touch my cheek. No zits yet, but they're coming. I can feel them like an old lady feels the weather in her bones. I don't need to be an old lady to forecast the weather in the lunchroom: it's hot, thick, sticky, and sweaty with a likely chance of cliques and cruelty.

Manny takes a swig of coffee from a yellow Mr. Perfect thermos and pulls out a deck of magic cards. “I will deal first,” he says, seated across from me at our lunch table. I call it our lunch table because we're the only ones sitting there. It's not an overly long table, so it's not like we're complete outcasts, but the table certainly isn't meant for two. Mr. Softee helped install smaller, circular tables to give the lunchroom a more “café feel,” which I appreciate, but would it kill him to lower the humidity? Foolishly, I put my elbows on our table. And now they're stuck.

“We need to talk of a matter of vital, flabbergasting importance,” Manny says. “But first, look at your cards. It is not a difficult game. It is simple math. Addition, subtraction, and data analysis. To conquer this game, you do not need to be a math whiz;
I
am, but you do not have to be. Still, my mathematical skills do contribute to my domination in the world of Merlin the Magical Wizard.”

Manny peeks above his magic cards at a passing brunette so far out of his league—out of his orbit—he should be wearing a space suit. “Good day, m'lady,” he says, tipping his fishing hat. She pretends not to notice.

So does he. “What cards do you have?” he asks me.

I don't feel like playing, so I try to change the subject. “You don't know anything about girls.”

“More than
you
,” he fires back. Staring at cards of sorcerers, dragons, and balls of fire, he clasps his hands together, plotting his next move. “At least I kissed a girl.”

“She was your cousin!”

“But she
was
cute, you have to admit that.”

“And she
was
your cousin. Besides, she was wishing you a happy birthday. That's why she kissed you on the cheek.”

“Okay, fine. She only kissed me on the cheek, and thank god for that. Incest runs rampant where she lives. I would not want my kids to have six tongues anyway.” To prove the point, he loops his fingers around his eyes, swings his jaw from side to side, and rolls his pupils back so all I can see are the whites of his eyes.
“Blarrrrrlllll!”
he yells, twisting his tongue. “
Blarrrrrlllll!
Quick, Donuts, use Merlin's magic dust to bring me back to human form. Come on, this is really hurting my eyes.
Blarrrrrlllll!
Summon Merlin's powers, do it—do it now!
Blarrrrrlllll!
”

I toss my cards on the table. I fight an urge to switch tables … but where am I gonna go? “You're wasting my time, Manny. What'd you have to talk to me so badly about? What was so vitally important?”

Manny sighs, collecting my cards. “You have the patience of an antelope. I bet if I gave you a book entitled
Patience
you would not finish it. I see now that I must begin.” He packs his cards away, then locks eyes with me. As he opens his mouth to speak, his body stiffens. “You have been through—a lot—together—me, too—a distraction—what we need.” Out of character for Manny, his words trip over themselves. He stares for a moment at his shaking hands at the edge of the lunch table. “We need a distraction, have been through a lot, need a distraction. You especially.”

I know what he's talking about, but I don't want to talk about it. Her. I don't want to talk about her. To him or anyone else. I know he misses her, but not like I miss her, and I don't want to talk about her.

I smile and say in my chummiest voice: “So what's this plan you want to tell me about?”

He shuts his eyes. “You do not have to—we can talk—”

“So let's talk. What's the plan, Stan?”

“We need a distraction because—”

“Yeah! The man with the plan! The Manny with the Plan-ny. Tell me!”

He nods thoughtfully. “Okay,” he says, and begins.

“My candy enterprise has expanded. You may have noticed a surge in my sales and a spike in my popularity—or as I like to call it, my compatibility quotient. It seems that the brown-haired beauty who just walked by has yet to receive the memo, but my compatibility quotient has recently risen at least two degrees. Alas, you also may have noticed—unless you are keeping something from me—that we both lack companionship for the dance, do we not?”

“Not?”

“You are still devoid of a group, an after-party, and a potential female dancing partner, yes?”

I nod.

He takes another sip from his thermos. “I am going to solve our problems, Donuts. By nature, I am a problem solver—my math teachers would agree—and I am going to solve our problems. Well,
my
problem first, and then yours, if we have time, which we probably will. It is like those airplane videos, where the flight attendant instructs you to put on your own oxygen mask before assisting anyone. Safer that way. Selfish perhaps, but much safer.”

A freckled sixth grader clutching a notebook approaches our table. He isn't there for me. I should be used to this by now.

Manny greets the kid with a smile. “Big test today, I hear. If your grade were a pizza pie, this test is a rather large slice, yes?”

“Yeah, unit exam. Environmental science. Thirty percent of my final average.”

“Wow, that
is
a rather large slice. Nervous?”

“Well, no. I mean, yeah, I mean, it's a big test.”

Manny looks both ways (on both sides of the lunchroom). “The scene is safe,” he whispers to me (apparently I'm in training), then reaches into his bag and says to his buyer, “Have no fear, eat a Three Musketeers.”

The kid slips him a dollar and tears open the wrapper before returning to his seat. Manny must see my mouth agape, for he grins and says, “It is all in the delivery.”

“But he didn't even tell you what he wanted…”

Manny shakes his head. “You tell the customer want they want. One of the many lessons I have learned along the entrepreneurial superhighway.”

“But how'd you know there was a science test today?”

“It is simple. Because I am an integral part of the social pipeline, I have access to copious quantities of information which I use to my financial advantage. That is what I have been telling you, Donuts. Unlike you, I have made something of myself, and made quite a large sum of cold, hard cash—or as I like to say, ‘freezing firm cash'—but however you refer to it, it is still money. Money that I will use, and, perhaps,
we
will use but only after I secure it for myself—see, that airplane motto once again—to help us acquire dates to the dance.”

“You mean go with a
group
to the dance, right?”

“Negatory. Why follow the masses in their groups when we can bask in the spotlight of the dance floor with dates in our arms? I am talking about dates. Not the dried fruit, either, though they are delicious and nutritious and great for your colon. I am talking about live, human dates. Can you imagine how our compatibility quotient will skyrocket with actual dates? This is what I have been needing to explain to you: my plan.”

It's easy to get sidetracked by Manny's blabbering, so it doesn't hit me at first. It comes in pieces. Money, plan, dates, dance … “Wait, Manny, you want to—”

“That is affirmative. I am raising money to boost our compatibility quotients and increase our chances of landing live, human dates.”

“Wait, we're
raising money
—”

He reaches across the table to cuff my mouth. “Quiet, you ignoramus.” His hand tastes like chocolate chip cookies.

I try to say sorry but his hand muffles my speech. All I can muster is “sry.”

“Can I trust you enough to remove my grip?”

I nod, so Manny lets go, then sighs. “I refuse to go down in the annals of this school as a bona fide loserasaurus, a math whiz who can count the girls he has danced with on no hands. As a rising entrepreneur, such negative attention would be an insult to my brand.” He pauses. “My motives are clean here, I assure you. I simply would like a date, especially for the pictures. Pictures are key, Donuts, because unlike you or me, they are as immortal as diamonds and candy that has not melted or been sat on. You see, pictures, like our reputations, will last forever. If we are successful in our venture, everyone until the end of time or at least until we get to high school will know we squired eighth graders to the dance.”

“Eighth graders!”

“That is affirmative. The general public will not know nor care to know anything about our candy enterprises. All they will see is a picture and pictures do not lie. They may not tell the whole story, but they do not lie.”

“But, Manny, where are you gonna get a date?”

His eyes dart around the lunchroom. “Here, at our school, fine academic institution that it is. I hope you can taste my sarcasm.” He licks his lips to exaggerate the point. “Of course, after all my work, I shall only select the most elite specimens. By ‘elite specimens,' obviously I mean”—he clears his throat—“babes, honeys, beauties, sweeties, and/or sweetie pies.”

He sounds lamer than that lamest parent calling the lamest pair of jeans
dungarees
. “But, Manny, how are you gonna convince the—”

“Babes, honeys, beauties, sweeties, and/or sweetie pies.”

“Right, how are you gonna get them to go with us? I mean, you. I mean—”

“‘Us' is fine, Donuts. I will shoulder most of the sales in the first month until we get a rhythm, and until I land a date for myself. I will always be the boss and C.E.O. of our candy enterprise, but we are in this together. Now, for the record, we are not
buying
dates; that would be loserasaurus-esque. We are
enticing
them. We are
raising
money to sweeten ourselves as dance commodities: a limousine, a gourmet meal, a fine suit, concert tickets—whatever it is, we shall indeed increase our chances of getting a whiff, however brief, of the sweet scent of popularity.”

“Will it work?”

“
Have you never seen a music video?
What year do you
live
in?! Every guy in a music video gets the girl because they all have something to offer: a fresh ride, a boat, an after-party in the hotel lobby. We may not have boats or after-parties in hotel lobbies or babes, honeys, beauties, sweeties, and/or sweetie pies lined up yet, but think of raising money now as a way of stocking our ammunition for battle.” He scratches his chin. “Someone wise once said, ‘Love is a battlefield.' Well, we shall be prepared for battle. I am talking big enough profits to give our image a metamorphosis: our hair, our shoes, our clothes, our swagger, our jewelry. Maybe some rapper bling. Really tasteful, though. I do not know if you have noticed, but I could use a new wardrobe.”

I steal a glance at his “Nobody is perfect. Except me” T-shirt. “Hadn't noticed.”

“Most important, Donuts, the more we raise, the more we can offer: access to the hippest of after-parties that are so hip only hippopotamuses are allowed in. Only the hippest of hippopotamuses … or is it ‘hippopotami'?” He scratches his chin. “Yes, hippopotami. The hippest of hippopotami can certainly splurge for a red carpet to walk on at the dance, a forest of rose petals, a designer dress designed by a designer for our dates, a meal prepared by an Iron Chef, a helicopter tour of New Jersey, a ride to and from the dance in a Ferrari, a Bentley, a Lamborghini—”

“Could we eat tortellini in our Lamborghini?”

He rolls his eyes. “Teachers say there are no stupid questions … they are lying. But I will answer it anyway. We can eat whatever we like. Filet mignon, caviar, escargot, tortellini, you name it, we can have it—offer it, I mean, as reason for live human female beauties to dance and take pictures with us. Speaking of such…” He pauses, then scans the lunchroom premises. “You can sense her, correct?”

Of course I do. Allison Swain, an eighth grader. Allison is aces. That is a universal law. The sky is blue. The grass is green. Allison Swain is aces. Allison's hair, a light auburn, bounces with each step she takes across the lunchroom. Those green eyes, full lips. Three freckles on her left cheek in the winter, six in the fall, nine in the spring, and twelve in the summer.

She's my neighbor, always has been. Her lawn is always cut. Her wallpaper is pink. She drinks skim milk. Her family gets the newspaper delivered every morning, but she only reads the front page. She used to wear pigtails, pink T-shirts, and pump sneakers. Once I spied on her in her backyard among a row of plants that curve like garter snakes, but I don't think she saw me, at least that's what I tell myself.