Nobody looks up.
Weird.
Trevor lifts an eyebrow, then quickly goes back to eating his lunch.
That’s when I get it. Someone’s standing behind me. I can almost feel the heat from the person, centimeters from my back.
I turn, and when I look up and see who it is, the bottom drops out of my stomach.
Mr. Sheffield, vice principal in charge of discipline, towers over me, lips knife-thin and nostrils flared.
I’ve never been to Mr. Sheffield’s office, but everyone knows he’s the guy who breaks up fights, gives out detention slips and suspends kids. I heard that if you do something really bad, he can even get you sent to juvie. I wish Angus Andrews would get sent to juvie so I wouldn’t have to stand near him and his stinky armpits in the locker room anymore.
I grip my four candy bars a little too tightly.
“What do we have here?” Mr. Sheffield asks in a deep voice, but I can tell he doesn’t expect an answer. He’s asking a rhetorical question. In this case, “rhetorical” means I’m in huge trouble!
Delaney Phillips stands beside Mr. Sheffield, smiling, but not her nice high-wattage smile that sometimes makes my cheeks feel warm. She’s sporting an evil smile that goes well with Mr. Sheffield’s tight-lipped scowl.
“See, I told you, Mr. Sheffield,” Delaney says, crossing her arms.
“You may go back to your seat now, Miss Phillips,” Mr. Sheffield says in a quiet voice.
Quiet voices are sometimes scarier than loud ones.
I watch Delaney strut back to her lunch table, like she just brought the late uber-criminal Al Capone to justice or something.
“Hand it over,” Mr. Sheffield says, holding out his unnaturally large palm.
At first, I think Mr. Sheffield wants me to hand over the money I earned today, and my heart goes into overdrive, because there’s nearly a hundred dollars in my backpack—our rent money. And Mr. Katz is coming today to collect. So there’s no way I’m handing that over. Even to Mr. Sheffield. Even to keep from getting suspended. Or thrown into juvie.
Since I’m holding four slightly smooshed candy bars, I place them on Mr. Sheffield’s outstretched hand.
He wraps his fingers around the candy and motions for me to follow him.
“Ooooh!” kids taunt as I walk out of the cafeteria.
Delaney looks over at me, a satisfied smirk on her face.
Traitor! What have I ever done to you, Delaney Phillips, but admire you and buy your lousy Golly Pops?
Toothpick catches my eye. He looks like he feels sorry for me. I feel sorry for me, because Toothpick’s eating a gigantic sandwich that is probably filled with delicious things and I won’t be able to help him finish it.
In Mr. Sheffield’s small, messy office, I sit in one of two chairs facing his desk, which is covered with papers and file folders.
“Name?” he asks, focusing on his computer screen.
I consider giving a fake name or someone else’s name—like Angus Andrews—but simply squeak, “Benjamin Epstein.” Then I silently pray, Please don’t call my mom. For once, I’m glad she doesn’t have a phone, but I know she gave the school Mrs. Schneckle’s number in case of emergency.
Mr. Sheffield types, and I sink lower in my chair. What if he does call, and Mrs. Schneckle goes to Mom’s work to tell her? Mom can’t take off from work.
He nods at the screen, then turns to me. “Apparently, Mr. Epstein, you fancy yourself an enterprising entrepreneur.”
The words feel like a compliment, so I allow myself a small smile.
“But you can’t sell candy on school grounds.”
My smile disintegrates.
“In fact …” He presses his palms on his desk and leans toward me. “You can’t sell anything on school grounds. Do I make myself abundantly clear, Mr. Epstein?”
I swallow hard and nod, but I know this isn’t fair. Before I can stop it, words explode from my mouth: “Delaney Phillips sells Golly Pops. That’s candy.”
Mr. Sheffield lets out a breath. “She’s supposed to sell candy, Mr. Epstein. It’s a school-sanctioned project to support the band’s upcoming trip to Hershey.” He pushes his glasses up on his nose, and for some reason, I do the same with my glasses. “No one’s buying from her, Mr. Epstein, or from any of the other band kids, because they’re buying your candy bars.” He taps one of my four slightly smooshed candy bars lying on his desk. “Can we have that happen, Mr. Epstein?”
I shake my head to show Mr. Sheffield I agree with him, even though I don’t. It’s not my fault the candy I sell tastes better than Golly Pops and people would rather spend their money on them. That’s capitalism for you, Mr. Sheffield. Besides, the reason I need to sell candy bars is way more important than the band kids going on a dopey trip to Hershey.
“I see by your file from last year that you’re a good kid, Mr. Epstein—excellent grades, never in trouble.”
I nod and swallow hard.
“So I’m going to let you walk out of here with a warning.”
I let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “Thank you.” Then, even though I feel dumb, I say, “Sir.”
“Don’t thank me.” Mr. Sheffield points at me. “Watch yourself. If I catch you selling anything on school grounds again—anything!—I’ll not only confiscate it, I’ll suspend you. Got it?”
My throat constricts, but I manage to squeeze out one syllable: “Yes.”
“Okay, then.” Mr. Sheffield drops my four melting candy bars into his trash can. “Get to class, Mr. Epstein.”
“Yes sir!”
I run toward PE, then remember the rule about not running in the halls and slow to a fast walk.
When I reach the locker room, it’s so late everyone is already in the gym except Angus Andrews. He’s in the same row, only three lockers away from mine, and I can smell his stinky armpits even though we haven’t even had gym yet.
I yank off my regular clothes and throw on my gym clothes in record time. Then I remember there’s nearly a hundred dollars in my backpack. I glance at Angus and shove the backpack into my locker.
“Got any more?” Angus asks, stepping closer.
The little hairs on my forearms stand at attention. “More what?” I ask, slamming my locker door and spinning the lock.
Angus nods toward my locker. “You’re the kid selling candy bars. Right?”
Those are more words than Angus Andrews has ever spoken to me. “Was selling them. Not anymore.”
Angus puts his foot on the bench next to me, and I fight the urge to step backward. “Why not? ’Cause Sheffield told you to stop? I heard what happened in the cafeteria.”
“You did?”
Angus nods. “He won’t do anything to you.”
“Huh?”
“Sheffield. He won’t really do anything. I should know.” Angus laughs, but nothing is funny.
“Maybe you’re right.” I stumble out of the locker room, hoping Angus doesn’t find a way to break into my locker and steal my money while I’m in the gym.
The moment my sneaker touches the gym floor, Coach yells, “You’re late! Give me ten laps.”
I’m almost glad to run around the perimeter of the gym while everyone else practices setting and spiking the volleyball. It gives me time to think, to figure things out and relieve the stress of being in such close proximity to Angus Andrews.
Angus is an idiot, but maybe he has a point. Maybe Mr. Sheffield won’t do anything to me. I’m a good kid who never gets in trouble. But I’m on his radar now, and he did threaten to suspend me. I can’t get suspended. That would hurt Mom too much.
Then I remember exactly what Mr. Sheffield said in his office: “If I catch you.”
What if he doesn’t catch me?
But what if he does? Or if Delaney Phillips rats me out again?
I’ll have to come up with another plan. Maybe I can sell my spleen after all. I wonder how much spleens go for these days. I wish the Royal-T contest were sooner, b
ut the deadline isn’t until October second, a whole week from now, and they still need time to choose the winner after that.
What else could I possibly do to earn a lot of money right away?
I can’t sell my other winnings from the prize closet. No one wants to buy lame T-shirts and baseball caps with company names on them.
As I pound around the perimeter of the gym, I notice Angus Andrews slip out from the locker room and join a game of volleyball, completely unnoticed by Coach.
How does he do that?
Jogging the rest of my humiliation laps, I hope Mom’s gotten some amazingly generous tips the past couple days.
After PE, I hurry to the locker room to make sure my backpack is still in my locker with the money inside. It is. But I know that even though almost two hundred dollars is a ton of money for me, it’s not nearly enough for Mr. Katz. And today he’s going to ask for the rest of the money we owe. I hope there’s a grand-prize check from some sweepstakes or contest waiting for me in the mailbox at home.
I hope …
As usual, I touch Dad’s name on our mailbox for luck, but it doesn’t work, because there’s only one thing inside the slim metal box: the Sweeps-a-Lot newsletter, which arrives twice a month. Aunt Abby buys me an annual subscription every year for my birthday.
The newsletter was not what I was hoping for, but it is a lot of fun to look through.
Its pages are loaded with opportunities to win fun trips, free merchandise, new cars and amazing cash prizes. When the newsletter arrives, I have a hard time paying attention to anything else, especially unimportant things like homework, because I can’t wait to read about all the cool prizes I could win.
Of course, I’d be able to enjoy it a lot more today if I weren’t worried about Mr. Katz showing up and us not having all the money we’re supposed to pay him.
I drop my cash-filled backpack on the couch, grateful Mr. Sheffield didn’t call Mom. But I’m going to have to tell her where I’m getting all this money. I hope she’ll be happy, not angry.
I take the newsletter to the table. From my shoe box full of sweepstakes supplies, I pull out a yellow and a blue highlighter—yellow for online sweeps I want to enter and blue for mail-in sweeps that look promising. I’ll enter the online sweeps at Toothpick’s house or at the library. I’m careful about which mail-in sweeps I choose, because each one requires a stamp, and those things add up. Luckily, I still have stamps from my “payment” for helping Toothpick film and clean up after Guess Who We’re Having for Dinner.
I’m devouring the Sweeps-a-Lot “Page Two Profile” about Adeline Patchett from Memphis, Tennessee—who’s won eleven trips, two cars and over $28,000 in cash during her twenty-six years of sweeping—when Mom walks in.
“Hey there.”
“Hi.” My stomach flops, because I know I’m going to give Mom the money from my backpack and it’s still not going to be enough. Maybe her tips were great this week. I cross my fingers under the table.
Mom drops into her chair with a thud, like her body weighs a thousand pounds. “Tips have been extra lousy this week,” she says, closing her eyelids.
“Oh.”
Two minutes later, there’s a sharp knock at the door.
“Here we go.” Mom runs a hand through her hair, then pushes up from the table.
I clutch my newsletter as Mom opens the door.
Mr. Katz’s voice makes my heart hammer, and Dad’s words swirl around my mind. I know I have to do something.
When Mom goes toward her bedroom, I grab my backpack and run into my room. I gather all the money I’ve made—almost two hundred dollars—but something makes me hold out fifty bucks and stash it in the bag in my underwear drawer. Just in case.
I intercept Mom in the hallway, on her way back to Mr. Katz. She has only one envelope—marked Rent—in her hand. I’m relieved she still hasn’t touched the Grand Plan money.
“Here,” I say, shoving a fat stack of one-dollar bills at her. “It’s almost a hundred and fifty dollars.”
Mom’s eyes go wide, and she whispers fiercely, “Benjamin, where did you get this money?”
I swallow hard, thinking of Mr. Sheffield telling me I shouldn’t have been selling them. “I sold candy bars.”
“What? How?”
“I bought candy bars from WaWa for fifty cents each and sold them at school for a dollar each.” I think of how heavy the bags were. “Lots of candy bars.”
“They let you do that at school?”
My cheeks heat up. I don’t want to tell Mom what happened with Mr. Sheffield today. I don’t want her to know he threatened to suspend me. “Apparently—”
“Hello?” Mr. Katz yells through the open door. “Are you coming?”
“Thank you, sweetheart,” Mom says, gripping my money tightly. “I’ll pay you back. Every last dollar.” Then Mom touches my cheek and looks hard into my eyes. “With your money and my tips since Monday, we have about three fifty to give Mr. Katz. It’s not the eighteen hundred we owe, but it’s something.” Mom takes a deep breath. “Then we’ll owe only fourteen fifty. Only!” Mom laughs like a hyena, but nothing is funny.
When she steps outside our apartment with Mr. Katz, I sit at the table and look over my Royal-T slogans again. Pamper. Damper. Hamper.
Mom comes in, shuts the door and returns to the table. “We tried, Benjamin.”
“Tried?”
Mom pats my hand, which annoys me for some reason. “He said it wasn’t enough. And next month’s rent will be due in less than a week.”
“What’s he going to do?” I ask.
“He said his hands were tied. Said his business partner was breathing down his neck.”
“Eviction?” I ask.
“Eviction,” she says. And the word sounds so final. “He’s going to file papers.”
“What are we going to—”
“This is what we’re going to do,” Mom says, pulling a twenty-dollar bill from her pocket. “We’re going to the Country Club Diner for dinner.”
“Huh?”
“Some customer gave me a twenty-dollar tip for a cup of coffee and a single pancake. I tucked it away, and we’re going to use it to celebrate.”
“Celebrate?” Now I know Mom’s totally lost it. This feels like something Dad would have done. He was always “celebrating” dumb things, like the fact that I cleared my plate without being asked or said “Good morning” in just the right way. With Dad, just about anything would be an occasion to break out the fixings for an ice cream sundae or go out for a soft pretzel or a water ice at Rita’s.
Mom sits taller. “We’ll celebrate the fact that I have the most awesome kid in the universe.” She ruffles my hair with her knuckles, and it feels like she’s digging through my scalp to my brain. “Thinking of selling those candy bars to help out. My own little entrepreneur.”
I like the way Mom says it. She means it as a compliment, not like when Mr. Sheffield called me an entrepreneur and it sounded like I was a criminal.
“Hey, how did you get the money to buy the candy bars in the first place?”
“Finally sold that Genie’s Genius grill that was in my closet. Some guy bought it for sixty bucks.”
“Some guy?”
“We did it through SellSpace and met him in a busy public place.”
“Still.” Mom gives me that parenting look that means I shouldn’t have done that; then she says something that surprises me: “Best. Kid. In. The. Universe!”
I think of the universe Dad painted on my ceiling and I smile from Mom’s compliment.
“We’ll go as soon as I take a shower. I smell like bacon.”
I grab my Sweeps-a-Lot newsletter and jump into Dad’s recliner while I wait for Mom. I should get homework done before we leave, but it’s more fun to scour the newsletter and choose the sweepstakes I want to enter.
Curled up in Dad’s recliner, with the shower running in the background, I allow myself to imagine winning the biggest prizes listed in the newsle
tter: cash, trips and cars.
I’m going to win a grand prize soon. I can feel it.
I’m still thinking about winning a grand prize when we get to the Country Club Diner.
We each end up ordering a hot veggie hoagie, and we get a slice of lemon meringue pie—Dad’s favorite—to share for dessert.
“So how did you come up with the idea to sell candy bars?” Mom asks, putting her napkin on her lap.
“Delaney Phillips was selling Golly Pops to raise money for a band trip to Hershey. I thought kids would rather buy candy bars.”
“Hmm. I hope you didn’t cut into Delaney’s sales.”
I’m silent, praying Mom changes the subject.
“Benjamin, I can’t wait to take the test and start working at Mr. Daniels’s firm. I talked to him recently and found out I’ll be earning more than twice what I make now. Everything will be so much easier for us.”
“That’ll be great, Mom. When can you take the test?”
“The minute I get confirmation in the mail, I’ll schedule it. And it takes only about a week or two to get the results after that. We’ll have to hang in there a little longer.”
I’m trying.
“Hey, what should we do tomorrow after I get done with work? It’s Saturday. We should do something fun.”
I look out the window at the parking lot.
“Want to visit Dad?” she asks.
My chest tightens at the thought of going to the cemetery and seeing Dad’s name on the gravestone. “That’s not fun,” I say quietly.
“You’re right,” Mom says. “Of course not. What was I thinking? We’ll go some other time. What about taking a walk through Pennypack Park?”
That doesn’t sound like fun either. “Sounds great.”
“And Sunday?” Mom asks, taking a sip of water. “After I get home from work, why don’t we plan to clean the apartment. Then you can do homework and I’ll study?”
Death by Toilet Paper Page 4
