Death by Toilet Paper

by Donna Gephart

  “Yes,” I tell Mrs. Schneckle as she adds liquid soap to the washer, “my entry for the WaWa contest was ‘My Piled-High, Mile-High, Please-Pass-the-Pie Sandwich.’ ”

  “Clever,” Mrs. Schneckle says, poking my head with her finger. “You’ve got a big brain in there, Benjamin. How do you keep track of all these contests?”

  I shrug. “I write down each contest I enter and whether it was mail-in or online. Then, when I read about who won on the sweepers online message board, I cross it off my list. I have about thirty entries out to different contests right now.”

  “That’s fantastic,” she says.

  Her compliment makes me feel good. “My aunt Abby used to sweep. She got me into the hobby a few years ago, but she doesn’t do it anymore.” I turn to go. “Well, I’ve got to work on my entry for Royal-T’s new contest. I’m going to win the grand prize this time, Mrs. Schneckle.”

  On my way upstairs, she calls, “When you win, don’t forget the little people!”

  I laugh as I let myself into our apartment, because Mrs. Schneckle is little. Even though I’m one of the shortest guys in seventh grade, I’m still taller than she is.

  In our apartment, I throw my backpack on the couch, spread my sweepstakes supplies on the kitchen table—paper, pencils, envelopes and stamps—and realize something’s missing. If I hope to create a grand-prize-worthy slogan, I’ll need inspiration … in the form of toilet paper.

  I go to the shelf in the bathroom and pull out all the rolls of lousy gray toilet paper we have and pile them in the center of the kitchen table, wishing I’d saved the good toilet paper from Toothpick’s house the other day. But I used it as soon as I got home.

  I grab a roll of the gray, scratchy stuff and write, “Be the best you can be with Royal-T.” Lame! I rearrange the rolls into a pyramid, stare at it and write, “Royal-T is tops—way better than using a tree.” Terrible!

  How am I going to come up with a brilliant slogan when I’m hungry? The school lunch lasts only so long.

  I lay my head on my hands and prepare to wallow in frustration when the front door opens.

  “Mom!”

  I hope she brought something good to eat, even though lately it’s been nothing but the All-Pancake Channel when she comes home.

  “How’s my favorite son?” Mom asks, dropping a take-out box in front of me.

  I push it off my paper, knowing exactly what’s inside from the smell. “I’m your only son,” I remind her. “And I’m doing FUNtastic.” Use Royal-T. It’s FUNtastic.

  Ugh!

  “I’m working on a slogan for Royal-T,” I say, pointing to the toilet paper; then I tap my head to remind Mom to take off her paper piggy hat.

  “Oh!” Mom says, pulling out clips and grabbing the Piggy’s Pancake House hat off her head. “I can’t believe I left this idiotic thing on while I was studying at the library.” Mom jams the hat into her back pocket. “No wonder people were looking at me strangely.” She plops into a chair. “Why are you fantastic?”

  “FUNtastic,” I correct.

  “Why are you FUNtastic?”

  Mom smells like maple syrup and bacon.

  I’m not really FUNtastic. I’m hungry, and I need to come up with a great slogan for this sweepstakes, but my brain is sludge. “How’d studying go?”

  Mom leans back. “Well, financial accounting and reporting are not exactly exciting topics.” Mom yawns, as if to prove her point. “But I kept at it, because I have to ace the big test.” She gives me a playful punch in the shoulder. “Right?”

  “Absolutely,” I say. Mom has to pass the fourth CPA exam to get her license. Then she’ll land a great job as an accountant instead of working at Piggy’s Pancake House. It’s all part of Dad’s Grand Plan.

  Dad came up with the Grand Plan before he got sick. He stuck it to the fridge with our HAVING FUN IN FLORIDA magnet and said, “This document is like the Constitution. It can be amended, but the core principles must remain intact.”

  Since then, Mom has made exactly one amendment to the Grand Plan.

  GRAND PLAN

  1. Dad will work extra hours so Mom can study for and take the four CPA (Certified Public Accountant) exams.

  2. Mom will pass all four exams with flying colors and receive her CPA license.

  3. With her license and work experience, Mom will get a GREAT job as a CPA.

  4. Dad will then be able to work fewer hours, so he can spend more time at home, painting and hanging out with his favorite son, Benjamin.

  Result: Mom and Ben will have a better life.

  The Grand Plan has been hanging on our fridge a long time, but I still glance at it every day, and it still motivates Mom and me to do what we need to.

  Mom leans over and kisses the top of my head, which probably stinks because we had to run a mile in PE today and I haven’t showered since. There’s no way I’m ever going to shower after PE with Angus Andrews in my class. He’d probably steal my clothes and drop them in the toilet or throw them out the window. I don’t know why they mix eighth graders with seventh graders in PE.

  Angus already has stubble, a deep voice, stinky armpits and enough underarm hair to braid.

  So far, I have only the stinky-armpits part. But it’s not too bad.

  Mom grabs my paper and reads my lousy Royal-T slogans out loud. “New contest?” she asks.

  I show her the sweepstakes information from Royal-T.

  “Whoa, Benjamin! Ten thousand dollars? That’s a doozy!”

  “I can win it,” I say.

  “I have no doubt.”

  “And I got more mail today.” I hand Mom the coupon for the free four-pack of toilet paper.

  “Oooh,” she says. “I’ll pick it up next time I’m at the ACME.”

  I love seeing Mom so happy over something so small. I’d never thought about it, but maybe she’s as disappointed as I am that we had to switch to the cheap stuff. I reach into my pocket. “Can you use this?” I hand her the WaWa hoagie coupon, even though I was hoping to split a fat hoagie with Toothpick this weekend, to make up for all the food he shares with me at lunch.

  Mom wraps my fingers around the coupon. “No, Ben. You keep this. I’m sure you earned it.” Then she taps the take-out box with her fingernail. “Brought you home pancakes.”

  “Really? I’d never have guessed.”

  “These are different. Pumpkin pecan. A special flavor for fall.”

  I open the box, take a nibble and close it.

  “You must be sick of me bringing home pancakes,” Mom says, whisking the box off the table. “They’re coming out of our ears. Let’s see what else we have.”

  On my paper, I draw a pancake coming out of an ear. It looks like a Frisbee in a dog’s mouth. That’s why I enter contests that require a way with words, not art. You’d think I’d be good at art, since Dad was—Mom has a bunch of his paintings in her bedroom closet—but I guess I didn’t inherit his artistic gene.

  Mom returns to the table with crackers covered with thin slices of American cheese. We’ve had that coming out of our ears, too, but I don’t say anything.

  I grab a few crackers and chow down, pretending they’re hot, gooey slices of Kirk’s Pizza—my favorite kind. Unfortunately, when it comes to pretending food is something it isn’t, my imagination is weak.

  And my imagination is apparently weak when it comes to creating grand-prize-winning ideas, too. Royal-T, from the finest tree, makes you clean and happy. Awful. Use Royal-T and you’ll see it’s the best there can be. Hopeless.

  As punishment for my lousy ideas and in hopes of jogging loose better ones, I bonk myself in the head with a roll of our gray, scratchy toilet paper, probably giving myself abrasions from splinters!

  “Who’s winning?” Mom asks, cracker crumbs flying from her mouth. “You or the toilet paper?”

  “Not me,” I say, putting down the roll. “I can’t come up with anything good.”

  “Let me read the requirements,” Mom says.

  Ro
yal-T Bathroom Tissue is looking for a new slogan. In twenty-five words or fewer, tell people why Royal-T is the softest, strongest bathroom tissue available today. Grand prize: $10,000

  “That’s at least four hundred dollars a word,” Mom says.

  “Spoken like a true accountant.” I shove a cracker into my mouth and swallow hard. “Did you register for the exam yet?”

  “This morning,” Mom says. “And it wasn’t easy to fork over the ninety-five-dollar fee. Then when I get my confirmation packet, I’ll still have to pay one ninety thirty-five to sign up for the actual test.”

  “I know it’s expensive, Mom, but …”

  She reaches across the table and touches my hand. “It’s part of the Grand Plan.”

  I glance at Dad’s empty kitchen chair and feel tightness in my chest.

  “Don’t worry, Benjamin.” At first I think Mom’s talking about Dad’s empty chair, but then she says, “I have the money saved specifically for that last test.”

  My shoulders relax. “That’s good.”

  “But what’s not good is this.” She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a stack of ones. “Thirty-seven dollars in tips today.”

  That sounds like a lot of money to me.

  “And let’s not forget this bonanza.” She reaches into her pocket and pulls out two quarters. “Some jokers left my tip in a puddle of syrup. I had to wash the quarters off in the bathroom.”

  I press my lips together, hating the thought of my mom picking out those sticky quarters.

  She presses the heel of her hand into her forehead. “Mr. Katz gave me extra time to pay the rent again this month. But I’m still behind from last month and …” She taps the pile of ones. “So we owe most of August’s rent and all twelve hundred from September’s. I can’t believe how quickly we went through the savings, and Dad’s medical bills were …” Mom inhales sharply. “I don’t know how long Mr. Katz will be able to let us slide.” She spreads her money on the table. “And I’ll need a lot more of these if—”

  Someone knocks on our door.

  A deep worry wrinkle forms between Mom’s eyebrows. She smoothes her unsmoothable curly hair, walks to the door and opens it a few inches. “Hello, Mr. Katz.”

  “Shelley,” Mr. Katz says.

  I can’t see him, but I picture Mr. Katz’s thin lips and bushy eyebrows. He should mow those things.

  “It’s time to pay the rent,” he says. “Actually, it’s well past time.”

  At the table, I keep working on my slogan. I’m determined to win the grand prize this time. “Royal-T is good for your posterior. For your rear-e-or. Your—”

  “Give me a second, Mr. Katz. I’ll go get it.”

  Mom grabs the thirty-seven dollars off the kitchen table, then I follow her to her bedroom.

  Even though her back is to me, I see Mom take two envelopes from her bureau drawer. Not just the rent envelope but another one, too.

  “No,” I say, and grab the envelope marked GRAND PLAN.

  “Just this one time, Ben.” Mom touches my cheek. “To help pay the rent. I’m sure we’ll be able to build it up again.” And she snatches the GRAND PLAN envelope from me.

  “Mom, you need that money to take the last test!”

  The worry wrinkle between Mom’s eyebrows deepens. “I know, but—”

  “Hello?” Mr. Katz calls.

  “Be right there!” Mom leans down and whispers, “Benjamin, I have to.”

  The framed wedding photo of Mom and Dad over the bureau catches my attention. I feel like Dad’s looking at me, expecting me to do something.

  I grab Mom’s hand. “Please!”

  Gripping the envelopes as though her life depends on them, Mom glances at the wedding photo, then drops the GRAND PLAN envelope back into her drawer.

  A weight drops off my heart.

  I follow Mom to the door, but she nudges me back toward the table, on the other side of our living room/dining room/kitchen.

  I pretend to write but am straining to hear their conversation.

  “We’re still short,” Mom says.

  “How short?” Mr. Katz asks.

  If Dad were alive, he’d have said something smart-alecky, like “Oh, about four feet.” Actually, if Dad were alive, we’d have paid our rent on time, because he would probably still be working at the Inquirer.

  Mom’s quiet. I know she’s thinking of the $190.35 exam money in her bureau drawer. “We still owe you eighteen hundred dollars.”

  My heart pounds.

  “Look, Shelley,” Mr. Katz says. “I know what you’ve been through. If it were up to me, I’d let you slide a while longer, but my business partner won’t allow any more extensions. I’m sorry.”

  I press my pencil so hard it pokes a hole through the paper.

  “You’ve been more than generous,” Mom says. “But work’s been slow lately. I’ll need a little more time. Another small grace period.”

  The worried sound in Mom’s voice knots my stomach into a pretzel, but not the good, soft kind served warm with salt and spicy mustard.

  “Shelley, I hate to say this, but there are plenty of other people who would jump at a chance to rent this place.”

  A door creaks open, and Mrs. Schneckle’s voice erupts from the hallway. “Show me one person eager to rent that apartment! This place isn’t exactly the Palace of Versailles, you know. You’re lucky to have Shelley. She and Ben are great tenants!”

  Go, Mrs. Schneckle!

  “Hello, Mrs. Schneckle,” Mr. Katz says, as though he’s totally worn out. Maybe being a landlord isn’t the easiest job after all. “I’ve got no problem with you. You always pay your rent on time. Please go back into your apartment.”

  My stomach knots into a hundred pretzels. Mom works hard and would pay the rent on time if she could. She’s trying!

  “Ah, give her a break,” Mrs. Schneckle says. “Be a mensch.”

  There’s a pause, then I hear Mrs. Schneckle’s apartment door slam.

  “Okay, Shelley,” Mr. Katz says. “But this is the last time I’ll be able to do this for you. I’ll be back this Friday, the twenty-fifth—in four days. If you don’t have the rest of the rent—the entire amount—I’m going to have to file eviction papers. I’m sorry, but my hands are tied.”

  I get up and quietly walk to a spot a few steps behind Mom. I don’t want her to feel like she’s alone.

  “But …,” Mom says.

  Her tiny word hangs in the air, a speck—a molecule—next to the giant word sucking all the air out of the apartment building: “EVICTION.”

  “I’ll try to get the money,” Mom says in a flat tone. “Thank you, Mr. Katz. I appreciate it.”

  I reach for Mom’s elbow, pull Mom inside and close the door.

  Her eyes are wide and glassy. She looks dazed, like she did the day we came home from Dad’s funeral.

  “You did it,” I say quietly. “You got us another extension. That’s good. Right?”

  Mom leans against the door and closes her eyelids. “Oh, Benjamin,” she whispers. “Even if I could get enough money by Friday”—she opens her eyelids—“which I can’t … only a week later October’s rent will be due. Another twelve hundred.” Mom lets out a ragged breath, walks to the kitchen table and sinks onto her chair. Gazing up at the ceiling, she asks, “How am I supposed to do this?”

  I know who she’s asking, and it isn’t me.

  I look at Dad’s recliner in the living room/dining room/kitchen—the one where he watched all the Eagles football games and screamed at the refs. I focus on the carpet in front of the couch, where we used to wrestle like maniacs until Mom made us stop. I think of the mural he painted and the glow-in-the-dark stars on my bedroom ceiling.

  Almost every memory I have of Dad is in this apartment. We can’t leave.

  I bend over my paper with the pencil-point puncture in it. “Royal-T is good for your posterior,” I write. “It’s super soft on your rear-e-or.” Good.

  “Ben?”

 
“Pamper your posterior.” Excellent.

  “Ben!”

  I look up.

  Mom’s worry wrinkle is the deepest I’ve ever seen it. “I’m going to have to spend the CPA exam money,” she says. “I wish I hadn’t sent in the ninety-five dollars to register. I wish—”

  “Mom, Mr. Daniels is your best customer at the diner. He said you’ve got a great work ethic and mad math skills. Remember when you fixed the check his waitress messed up and he asked you about your background?”

  Mom nods.

  “And when you told him about how close you were to becoming a certified public accountant and about your last job, he promised you a job at his accounting firm?”

  Mom bites her bottom lip and nods again.

  “Just as soon as you pass the fourth test and get your license.” I don’t say a job where you won’t have to wear that stupid paper pig hat. “A good accounting job!”

  “I know, Ben, and I really want that. But we won’t have enough time. I need eighteen hundred dollars by Friday. Honey, you know I make only about five hundred a week with salary and tips.” Mom presses the heel of her hand into her forehead. “How did we burn through the savings so fast?”

  “Dad’s medical bills,” I mutter.

  “Oh, there were all kinds of bills,” Mom says. “Hey, at least I’ll get the social security check for you at the beginning of October. That’ll be another six hundred. Unfortunately, it won’t come in time to pay Mr. Katz this Friday.” Mom sinks even lower in her chair. “I don’t know what we’re going to do, Benjamin.”

  “We’ll figure something out,” I say, squeezing my pencil so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t snap. I’ll figure something out.

  I take my paper and pencil and one roll of lousy toilet paper and walk down the hall toward my bedroom.

  “Ben?”

  I pretend I don’t hear Mom.

  “Benjamin?”

  Without answering, I go into my room and shut the door.