Death by Toilet Paper

by Donna Gephart

  It’s just me and Angus and my backpack, which is lying exposed on the bench. My backpack, which contains nearly three hundred dollars and eleven slightly melted candy bars.

  When Angus forces something into my palm, my whole body tenses. But I allow my fingers to uncurl, and I see a crumpled dollar bill. That’s when I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. Angus just wanted to buy a candy bar. He was messing with me when he slammed my locker door.

  “Well, I gotta get ready for gym now,” I say, inching toward my locker.

  Angus heads me off and blocks my locker. “Actually, I’m reeeeaaaal hungry, Ben. You have any more?”

  “Sure,” I say, the weak feeling in my legs creeping up through the rest of my body. “I definitely have more.”

  I pull out the rest of the candy bars and lay them on the bench. I almost say You can have them for free, just leave me alone, but my need for money overrides my need to stay alive and I say, “Eleven more bucks.”

  Part of me still thinks this will turn out okay. Maybe Angus has enough cash to buy the rest of my candy bars, and I can be done for the day and get to gym.

  Angus throws the candy bars into his locker.

  I hold out my hand, trying to keep it steady. “Eleven bucks.”

  When Angus stands there, I say a little louder, “Eleven bucks … please.”

  “Eleven bucks, please, huh?” Angus steps toward me.

  “Yeah,” I squeak, and wonder if I should say “please” again.

  Another step. Too close.

  I hold my ground, but I’m sweating in places I didn’t know I could sweat, which Angus can probably tell, because I’m not wearing a shirt.

  “Yeah,” Angus says, “I seen you putting the money in there yesterday. I’ll bet there’s a ton of money in that backpack. You probably don’t really need my eleven bucks. Do you?”

  A weird noise gurgles up from my throat.

  “How much money do you have in there, wuss?” Angus’s eyes get really wide. “A lot. Right?”

  A whiff of onions and BO hits me along with his words, and my stomach flops.

  That’s when I know.

  I’m screwed out of the last of my candy bars from today. He’s not going to pay me the eleven bucks, and I paid fifty cents for each of them at WaWa. This is so unfair! Angus probably doesn’t even need the money like I do. I consider slipping past him and grabbing my candy bars back from his locker, but I know I’m not going to do that.

  I’m too much of a wuss to do that. Angus is right.

  “I mean,” he says, “it’s not like you can tell Sheffield about this, because technically”—he gets even closer, and I feel his damp, stinkin’ breath on my face—“you’re not supposed to be selling them. Are you? You can’t say one word about this to Sheffield.” Angus looks around. “Or anyone else. Right?”

  My stomach has the same feeling I remember having the moment I plunged over the crest of the giant roller coaster at Great Adventure—when I won tickets from radio station WMMR. Except I’m standing perfectly still now. The only thing moving on me is sweat, which is running in rivulets down my sides from every pore in my armpits.

  I wish the bell would ring, signaling the end of gym, and everyone would flood back into the locker room, but I know the period isn’t even halfway over. Not even a quarter over, probably, even though it feels like I’ve been in this lousy locker room with Angus for a month. And not a short month like February either. A long, dark, dreary month, like January or March.

  “But you said …” The weakness in my trembling voice matches the weakness in my body, and it embarrasses me.

  Angus laughs, and I realize I was an idiot for thinking he would ever buy the rest of my candy bars. Now I’m out twelve bars with only one sweaty dollar in my palm to show for it. I know eleven bucks isn’t a ton of money, but it’s not right for Angus to steal my stuff. Anger fills me, and I clench my fists.

  Angus moves even closer. He smells so bad, I’m afraid I’ll barf.

  I want to shove him away, to grab my backpack and run, like I should have done when I first got that warning feeling. I want to pound Angus in the face for taking my candy bars and ripping me off. I want—

  “Wuss,” Angus whispers, standing directly in front of me.

  The tip of my nose almost touches his chin. I can see blackheads in the pores on his face. “Sure, sure,” I say, survival instinct kicking in. “You can have them, Angus. It’s cool.”

  A dose of stupidity surges through me, and I lunge for my backpack, hoping I’m fast enough that Angus won’t realize what I’m doing.

  He realizes.

  With strong, fat fingers, Angus grabs my wrist with his right hand and my backpack with his left. “Yeah, right!” Angus says, and throws my backpack—my backpack with my money inside!—into his locker. And slams the door.

  Then he twirls the lock dial.

  Game over.

  My money in the secret pocket in my backpack is trapped inside Angus’s smelly locker.

  I manage a feeble “Hey!” before Angus’s thick palm lands on the middle of my bare chest, and he shoves me backward.

  The back of my head connects with someone’s lock so hard I actually see stars—little pulses of light. Not the good kind either, like from my ceiling. The I-might-pass-out-on-the-locker-room-floor kind.

  I take a breath—of sweat and locker room stink—and a small step forward, rubbing my sore head, holding back tears that threaten to erupt like Mount Vesuvius.

  While I’m dazed from the clonk to the back of my head, Angus snatches the sweaty dollar bill from my hand, scratching me in the process. As if the humiliation and head injury aren’t enough, now I’ll probably get rabies.

  “That’s mine,” Angus says, jabbing me in the chest with his fat finger. He presses so hard, it feels like his finger might break through my breastbone and plunge directly into my heart.

  A weird noise bubbles from my throat that I hope sounds like the words “All right” but probably sounds more like an animal that’s been wounded in the wild and emits its final feeble cry.

  The inside of my head swirls, and I feel like I’m going to plotz. That’s when a brilliant idea pops into my addled brain. “Angus,” I say. “I have medicine in that backpack. If I don’t get it, I might, like, die.”

  “Yeah, right.” He looks at me and tilts his head. “What do you think I am? A moron?”

  Yes! I can tell Angus is wondering, though.…

  I have to get my money back!

  “No, really,” I say, pushing my glasses up on my nose and hoping I sound as honest as George Washington. “I need that medicine.” I make my hand shake so it looks like I’m already getting sick.

  Angus squints at me. “Well, let’s just see,” he says, turning the dial on his lock.

  When he opens his locker, I feel so much relief I’m afraid I’m going to wet myself. It takes all my energy not to grab my backpack and run.

  Angus starts unzipping pockets on my backpack, and he pulls out a couple loose Tic Tacs that were in one of the pockets. “This?” he asks.

  They were from Toothpick from a long time ago. I’m so glad they were in there. I nod, hoping he’ll believe the Tic Tacs are actually medicine. He is a moron!

  “Here.” He tosses them, and I scramble on the floor for them so he thinks they’re really important. After I swallow the Tic Tacs, I don’t know what I’m going to do next, but at least I’ll have fresh, minty breath when I do it.

  “Ooooh,” Angus says. “What’s this?”

  He reaches into the pocket inside another pocket—my secret hiding place—and pulls out the fat stack of crumpled cash.

  And I know I’m in even worse shape than before I tried the stupid medicine trick. I should tackle him and try to get my money back, but I don’t. Because I’m a coward.

  “Thanks, wuss! I can totally use this.” He tosses the nearly three hundred dollars into his locker and spins the dial on his lock. My backpack lies e
mpty and useless on the bench.

  In an explosion of foul onion breath, Angus spits: “Don’t. Tell. Anyone.” For emphasis, he pokes me hard in the chest with each word.

  I shake my throbbing head left to right. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. “I won’t,” I say, answering Angus and the voice in my head at the same time.

  Angus sizes me up. “Or else …”

  I’m still shaking my head side to side.

  Apparently satisfied, Angus nods once and takes off.

  I don’t move. I don’t even breathe, in case he comes back. If he hasn’t finished with me yet. Part of me can’t believe it’s finally over.

  I collapse onto the bench and touch my backpack. My stupid, empty backpack.

  The only thing I have to show for all my hard work is a throbbing headache in the back of my head, a scratch on my hand that looks like it’s raging with rabies infection and zero cash.

  I worked so hard for that money!

  I picture Mom going to court and having to explain that she doesn’t have enough to keep us from getting evicted. That she doesn’t have the lousy five hundred dollars we need because of what Angus did.

  Sitting in the foul-smelling locker room on the bench next to my empty backpack, I know with absolute certainty that I’m done selling candy bars. I can’t deal with this. I can’t work this hard only to have Angus take my money.

  Store closed. Out of business.

  The end.

  I check around the rows of lockers and, seeing no one, grip Angus Andrews’s lock and pull it with all my might again and again. It doesn’t open. I try different combinations, listening to the tumblers inside, but the lock holds firm. I yank on it really hard a few more times, but that only hurts my sore hand. No matter how desperately I try, the lock doesn’t give.

  Locks are stubborn like that.

  So I kick the bottom locker and scream a word I’m not supposed to.

  From outside the locker room, a deep voice bellows, “Anyone in there?” Coach’s voice. Why did I kick that stupid locker and scream? My heart goes into overdrive, but I press my lips together and wait silently. A little late, aren’t you, Coach?

  Sitting on the bench again, hoping Coach doesn’t come in, I put my head in the crook of my elbow. The back of my head throbs like an aching drum. My hand hurts from where Angus scratched me. Even my toes feel fractured from kicking the stupid locker.

  I hate you, Angus Andrews! I hate your stupid, stinkin’, miserable guts!

  I glare at his locker door like I have superpowers that will make it fly open so I can get my money and give it to Mom, like I planned. Our plan. The Grand Plan.

  Mom. I’ve let her down big-time, and she doesn’t even know it.

  I open my own locker and put my regular shirt back on, being careful of my glasses and of the place Angus repeatedly jammed his fat finger into my chest. It’s already blossoming into a bruise.

  I grab my stupid empty backpack and go inside a bathroom stall.

  There’s graffiti on the interior stall walls and door, and I decide I’ll stay there reading the dumb graffiti until gym is over, because there’s no way I’m going out to the gym now to run humiliation laps. No way! I realize I can’t stay in the stall, though, because the last thing I want is to be here when Angus returns. He might not be done slamming my head into lockers.

  “Jerk!”

  There’s some wet stuff on my cheeks, so I pull off toilet paper to wipe it away. One thin square rips off. I try again and get another single, useless square. And another. I throw the pieces in the toilet and wipe my cheeks with the back of my hand. “Why can’t I get decent toilet paper anywhere?”

  I shoulder my backpack and walk out of the locker room toward the gym.

  Some kids are doing push-ups, then jumping up in between and doing more push-ups. Other kids jog in place, then do jumping jacks. Looks like fun.

  I hide behind the wall near the doorway, put both arms through my backpack straps and peek out again.

  Coach is at the far end of the gym, showing some guy how to do a proper push-up. I glance at the door to the right that leads into school and the door to my immediate left that leads outside to the track and fields behind school.

  Outside.

  Not realizing I’ve made a choice, I start moving.

  Left.

  I’m at the door, slamming into the bar with my hip and praying it’s not alarmed or locked. I’m surprised when the heavy metal door flies open and cool air rushes in. But the door makes a lot of noise when it opens. I’m sure everyone is looking at me now. I feel their stares on my back. Even Angus is probably staring, but I don’t turn around.

  And I don’t look back when Coach blows his whistle, then bellows, “You. By the door. Stop!”

  I don’t stop.

  “I said stop!”

  I don’t.

  I

  R

  U

  N!

  I pound across the field to the track. Cool air whooshing past, I run along one side of the track faster than I ever have in PE, even when Coach was timing us and it counted for a grade. Gravel sprays up behind my sneakers.

  Coach must be chasing me now. I brace myself for the blast of his whistle or his body slamming into mine and knocking me to the ground, although the only footsteps I hear are my own. The only breathing I hear is mine.

  Still, I don’t slow until I crash into the fence that surrounds our school. Across from the fence are row houses, but nobody is outside. Thank goodness!

  I do something I didn’t know I could: I climb the fence, even though the metal bites into my fingers. Then I drop to the other side—off school grounds—and I keep running.

  Past row houses and intersections and stores. Past old ladies with shopping bags and people walking dogs. Past a SEPTA bus, stopped at the corner, and the playground with the purple-dinosaur slide, where I used to go with Bubbe Mary and Zeyde Jake when I was little.

  I run. And run. And keep running farther and farther away … from that jerk, Angus, and all he took from me.

  I run until the bones in my legs feel like they might splinter and my lungs shred.

  When I finally slow and bend forward to catch my breath, a cold wind whips across my back, turning my sweat icy. I wish I’d stopped at my regular locker to get my jacket, but I don’t even have that. I stand tall and wrap my arms around myself.

  I hate you, Angus Andrews!

  Even though it’s not really that cold outside—it’s only October—my teeth clack together a few times. And I realize it’s because I’m fist-squeezing, lips-pressing angry. Angus Andrews ruined everything for us.

  Because of him we’re going to get kicked out. With Zeyde!

  Then the anger—mean and fast—slices around my brain like a red-hot blade and finds another target.

  The real target.

  I feel instantly guilty, and my heart aches so hard I double over. But I can’t stop the wave of feelings. I’m incredibly pissed. And the person I’m pissed at is my dad, even though he didn’t do anything wrong. Except die.

  The logical part of my brain knows it wasn’t Dad’s fault. He would have stuck around if he could have, but my racing heart knows it’s all his fault. Since Dad died, everything’s changed. For the worse. Even our lousy freakin’ toilet paper.

  I’m so angry I could rocket my fist through a brick wall. Or Angus’s head, which is kind of the same thing. I bend all the way over, pull my elbow back and punch the sidewalk. I manage to scrape the knuckles on my right hand hard enough to remind me of all the other places on my body that hurt.

  The back of my head still pulses where Angus slammed it into the lock. My hand throbs where Angus scratched me and probably gave me rabies. And every millimeter of my skin is clammy, even though on the inside I’m boiling and roiling with rage.

  All those angry feelings shift and morph into something else. Something that floats up from my belly and catches in my throat. Something that makes my body feel so heavy I can hardly
stand anymore. My legs are cement. My head’s a boulder.

  I drop to the bottom step in front of someone’s house, put my stupid boulder head in my hands and sniff hard, because I know one thing: I, Benjamin Epstein, am an epic failure.

  I failed to defend myself against Angus.

  I failed to get that money to Mom, which means I failed to keep us from getting kicked out.

  I failed Zeyde, because when we get kicked out, he won’t have a place to live or he’ll have to go back to Aunt Abby’s place and her fourteen smelly cats.

  Worst of all, I failed the one person I couldn’t afford to fail.

  “You were counting on me, Dad. I let you down.”

  Looking at the cloudy autumn sky, I let out a slow, defeated breath.

  Even though I know the stars are up there and I just can’t see them because it’s daytime, it feels like they don’t exist anymore. It feels like there’s not a single star left in the universe. Not a single glow-in-the-dark star left on my bedroom ceiling at home.

  Not a star left anywhere, because I just extinguished the last one.

  I blink and whisper to the stupid, starless sky, “I’m sorry, Dad.”

  I force myself to get off the steps, because I don’t want someone to come out of the house behind me and ask if I’m okay—Because I’m not!—or tell me to get off their property and go back to school.

  Since I couldn’t deal with any of that right now, I keep moving.

  I don’t even know where I’m going, just that I’m walking as far away from Angus as I can. Unfortunately, I’m also walking away from my money. He’ll probably have it spent by day’s end on some stupid video games or something.

  And since I can’t tell Mr. Sheffield what I was doing, because I wasn’t supposed to be doing it, there’s no way I can get my money back. There’s no one I can tell. Nothing I can do.

  I kick the back tire of a parked car, but it just hurts my foot.

  I wish I could walk away from myself and my problems. Just keep walking and never go home. But then what would Mom do?