Six Thousand Doughnuts

by Thomas Tosi

  Darkness.

  Still standing on the ramp out in the bright sunshine, I squinted to see inside the box of the truck but couldn’t. The driver walked forward, disappearing into its depth.

  Marlene’s laughter had settled to a smile.

  I smiled back.

  It was a beautiful fall day in New England—my favorite time of year. The sun was warm. The air was crisp with a slightly smoky scent of someone burning a pile of yard leaves nearby. Marlene and I were getting along great. I was standing on the edge of a doughnut truck.

  I can have everything!

  And I swear that what happened next happened in slow motion.

  Footsteps echoed in the blackness of the truck box, and the driver re‐emerged.

  “Here ya go.”

  Extending his arms, he offered me—my doughnuts.

  All twelve of them.

  I took the one paperboard box with a dozen Sweetly Crisp doughnuts from him.

  And nothing more.

  “Let’s go, kid,” the driver said, turning me around and guiding me down the ramp. “That’s my last delivery today, and I’m outta here. You know, you seem kind of bummed. You look like you could use a doughnut.”

  Marlene rolled over in laughter again.

  “I’m sorry,” Marlene said as we walked past my dad’s station wagon, which was parked by the curb, and up to the front porch of Bridget’s house. Marlene didn’t look very sorry. She looked like she still wanted to laugh.

  “I should have said something sooner. My dad’s business boomed like crazy after the show and everybody watching on TV and everything. I told him to make a peace offering to you,” she said, patting the top of the box that I had carried all the way over from school. “He was still a little mad but finally agreed to do it…in his own way, I guess.”

  I peeled back a piece of tape, opened the doughnut box cover, and peeked inside.

  “At least he included a chocolate frosted,” I said.

  “My favorite.”

  “Mine, too.”

  We could hear lots of little kids squealing and laughing on the other side of the front door. The sleepover was already cranking up. With the thundering take‐no‐prisoners horde of Franny, Peg, and the other screaming meemies, it would be a miracle if the house were still standing come morning.

  “Why don’t you leave the doughnuts in your dad’s car?” Marlene said.

  I studied the box. I remembered Peg warning me, through tears, about how bad it was to feel dumb. And even though she knew that, she told her secret on national TV anyway, saving me from the hoosegow.

  “I’ve got a better idea,” I said.

  Marlene nodded. We rang the doorbell.

  While we stood there on the front step, waiting, Marlene turned to me.

  “By the way, you asked me a question I never answered…”

  Question? What question? Oh crap! THAT question.

  My heart said, Hold steady. This is the moment.

  “Yes, I like you,” Marlene said.

  ONE like you, she only said one like you.

  She must have read that thought on my face.

  “Like you, like you,” Marlene Paczki said to me—right there on a Friday afternoon in my eleventh year on glorious planet Earth. I swallowed. My legs and arms felt so weak that I thought I would drop the box of doughnuts. I didn’t care. What were doughnuts, anyway?

  Marlene was waiting for me to reply. When you feel it, you have to say it, Bernard had said. I felt it, and I needed words that were amazing. Words from the depth of my soul. Words expressing the enormity of my emotions.

  “Wow. Wow, oh, wow,” I said.

  All things considered, I think that was a pretty good response.

  When she opened the door, Bridget and Franny’s mom looked like she wanted to escape. Instead, she invited us in.

  Dad, Faye, and Bridget were pressed up against the living room's flowered wallpaper, watching the mayhem. Franny, Peg, and all their friends were in their sleeping bags, hopping around like they were in some kind of crazy sack race demolition derby.

  I noticed that Peg had Mrs. Fuzzy Hair with her in the sleeping bag, after all.

  And then I noticed that all the other girls, every single one of them, also had a sleeping buddy stuffed animal or doll.

  “Abe!” Peg shrieked happily as she bounded around the coffee table and toward the front door, trying to hug me while still holding up her sleeping bag.

  Her hair was matted down with sweat, and her cheeks were glowing apple red, but she was beaming.

  “I brought you all something,” I said, opening the top of the Sweetly Crisp box.

  “Doughnuts!” all the girls yelled.

  By the time we finished passing out the doughnuts, everyone had taken one except Marlene, Peg, and me.

  There was one doughnut left.

  “Share it?” I asked Peg.

  “Sure.”

  We split a chocolate‐frosted doughnut three ways. I saw Marlene giggle as a crumb escaped from one side of her mouth.

  This time I didn’t mind the giggle.

  Acknowledgments

  I’m indebted to the following people for their contributions to Six Thousand Doughnuts. First, my wife, Heidi, to whom this book is dedicated. When I lost focus on what I wanted to achieve with this work, she brought clarity and a return to the joy of writing.

  Our daughter, Meaghan, who illustrated the book, got it immediately. Her style captured the tone and heart of the story. She truly has the soul of an artist.

  My thanks go to the rest of my family as well—not so much for direct involvement with this novel but for years of support and encouragement.

  Everyone needs a little kick-in-the-butt deadline. Mine comes from my writers’ critique group. These dedicated people commit themselves to meet on a regular schedule to tear apart my work and allow me to do likewise to theirs. For that reason, I thank Mary Ashcliffe, Shannon Fitch, Matt Forrest Esenwine, Deb Bruss, Kate Schoedinger, Julie Ward, Elyse Mabie, Martha Westlund, and Kelli Twiss.

  In addition to the writers’ critique group, a couple of other generous folks volunteered as beta readers for the novel. Thanks to Deb Slocum and Kevin Turner for reading and offering their insights.

  Finally, I sometimes read in acknowledgments “…this book couldn’t have been completed without….” I need to add my version of that by recognizing Dr. Stewart Levenson, MD, of Dartmouth-Hitchcock in New Hampshire, Dr. Adel Malek, MD, of Tufts Medical Center in Boston, Massachusetts, and the entire team of doctors, nurses, and staff of Tufts Neuro Critical Care Unit—my home away from home for six weeks in the fall of 2020. This book couldn’t have been completed without them because, quite simply, without their brilliance and determination, I wouldn’t have been here to finish it. My experience with them leaves me in a state of awe over the callings to which some people dedicate their lives.

  I’m forever grateful to you all.

  -Thomas Tosi

  About the Author

  THOMAS TOSI is a writer/filmmaker who, together with his wife, Heidi, has produced an award-winning children's website, educational multimedia games, and dramatic films which have aired on national television, PBS affiliate stations, and screened in numerous film festivals. He was born and raised in New Hampshire, where he and Heidi still reside. He takes pride in the fact that they now live in a solar-powered home where they grow and can organic vegetables.

  About the Illustrator

  MEAGHAN TOSI, after being born on April Fools’ Day in New Hampshire, has collected a BFA from Laguna College of Art and Design. She illustrated this book and graphic novel "Squashed" alongside author Thomas Tosi. She has also self-published "DWEEDY: The Imagined Adventures of My Deceased Cat." She now lives in Portland Oregon, for the art, coffee shops, vegan food, and the constantly lingering smell of rain.

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