[I shrug.]
[Dad glares at me. Then stares at his plate.]
Me: “How was your day, Dad?”
Dad: “Fine.”
[Two minutes of silence. Cycle repeats.]
So, yeah, I’m not showing the letter to my dad. For these reasons, and another: The second letter is just as inappropriate as the first one. Best-looking-lady-of-the-year? I’m about to rip this one up, too, when the phone rings. An actual working one. It rings four times before my dad answers it, which means he’s showing wonderful social skills in wiping his hands on toilet paper instead of rubbing grease on the phone. My dad hollers down the hall: “Denny, it’s Manny. Let’s talk when you’re off the phone.”
Sure we will.
I put the phone to my ear.
“Donuts, prepare yourself. We begin tomorrow. Key word being ‘we.’”
“Manny, wait, what—”
He hangs up and doesn’t call back.
My dad must have schooled him in how to have a conversation.
THE PLAN, REVISED
“Aloha, goddess of mathematics! Your earlobes look magnificent!”
I can’t say this because I’m banned from class. As Mrs. Q puts it, “You can return after a parent comes in for a conference.” In other words, I’m banned for eternity. (No way the Natural Schmoozer’s coming in. No way will I let my friends colleagues see him and hear him and … no thanks.)
Mrs. Q breaks the news to me outside her door the day after my desk surfing.
“But, Mrs. Q,” I protest, “I wrote you a letter of apology. I really did. I’m sorry.”
She clenches her teeth. “Give it to me at the parent conference.”
“But, Mrs. Q, what will Mr. Softee—I mean, Mr. Soffer—say to this lifetime ban from the Learning Zone? I am a willing and able learner who has got to get in my zone. What would he say to you stunting my academic growth and banning me from my zone?”
“He needs to—he will support it. The decision is final.” You can tell she’s trying to sound tough, but her voice lets her down. It shakes like branches in a storm, rustles like pom-poms. “Come back, Denny, when we have arranged a parent conference. Bye, now.” And shuts the door in my face.
Dear Mrs. Q, Good for you.
That should be the letter I give to her. It’s short, concise, and it rhymes. And it’d be the most work I’ve submitted to her all year.
* * *
No matter, there’s still a great deal to learn at Blueberry Hills Middle, and Manny is eager to teach, as long as the coast is clear and the air is filled with fries.
Having downed his thermos, Manny sips a carton of chocolate milk at a café table for six but seating two. After asking him what’s so important that he called my house, I rip open my own chocolate milk as Manny gets down to business: “In order to make this happen, Donuts, and to do it right—and by ‘right’ I mean host and sponsor the hippest of after-parties for only the hippest of hippopotami, or offer a helicopter ride or a sports car—we are going to require money. An overwhelming amount. I mean … look at us.” He points at my french-fry-oil-stained T-shirt and torn jeans, then points to himself. “And I am underappreciated as a male commodity. While I have recently increased in value, I remain undervalued. I mean, my compatibility quotient, our compatibility quotients are, well—”
“You mean we’re both losers.” It’s not a question.
He rubs his chin. “You more than I, but precisely. That is why I am examining business strategies. Are you following me, Donuts?”
“Whatever.” It’s hard to focus on Manny. I just got dumped by a teacher and the warm air is making me woozy.
Manny presses on. “I have studied food-selling methods for some time now. It is a popular tradition with many models worth emulating. I have followed Girl Scouts as they knock on doors and pawn their Thin Mints and—”
“Wait, you followed them?”
“Indeed I did. I am not a creep or anything, but I did creep behind trees so they would not see me. And let me tell you, Girl Scouts are a force, they are bulldozers. They do not even have to bang on doors anymore because their whole organization is a bulldozer. Uniforms, order forms, cookie variety, cookie freshness, cookie uniqueness, years of reliable service. I envy them, plain and simple.”
“So … you’re gonna become a Girl Scout?”
“Negatory, I am just saying that I have studied their business model and think we can borrow from it. They are not the only model, though. I have also examined candy sales by rising young entrepreneurs such as myself. My mom recently sent me to stay with relatives in the Bronx for the weekend and, turns out, kids can make $150 per day selling candy on the New York City subway. They pardon the interruption, very polite, you see, and say, ‘I ain’t sellin’ candy for no basketball team; I’m sellin’ candy to put money in my pocket so I can buy more candy and make more money in a positive way.’”
I steal a peek at Allison. She’s twirling Anna’s lacrosse stick like it’s a baton. She just dropped it again. Allison may be a cheerleader, but she’s not a very good one. That’s okay. I forgive her.
“The point, Donuts, is that we need to up our sales if we will have any shot at attractive dates. Like the one you cannot divert your eyes from.”
I shoot him an innocent look.
“I see you staring.” He takes a sip of his chocolate milk. “Okay, here goes. Remember yesterday, when that sixth grader—”
“Had no fear and bought a Three Musketeers?”
“Indeed, it is a catchy jingle, which I tailored to test-taking clientele, for it is common to turn to candy to steady one’s nerves. But there are other groups of potential buyers whom I have ignored. Allow me to present my plan.” He reaches into his backpack, pushes past his secret compartments, and pulls out a piece of paper and a pen. “Let us make this interactive, shall we? Okay, when do people eat candy?”
“When they’re hungry.”
“Excellent. You are smarter than you look.”
Level 1, he writes. Hungry people.
“Now, when are people the most hungry?”
“During lunch.”
“Precisely, which means I need to be a more active salesman during lunch. But people also crave food—and lucky for us, they crave junk food—when they are stressed, such as that kid before his big science test. But there are other stressors that we teens face on a daily basis. Not you and me, Donuts, but a lot of teens.”
Level 2, he writes. Breakups.
“As I have discussed previously, I am an integral part of the social pipeline, so I have access to copious quantities of information, which I can use to my economic advantage. For instance, when there is a recent breakup and the girl is alone, I will walk up to her and say, ‘You look like you are in pieces. How about a Reese’s?’ Catchy, yes?”
“Very.”
“And if the girl is surrounded by her friends, I will waltz up to the whole group and offer candy. How can they possibly turn me down? I will be like that guy who walks into restaurants selling roses to anyone who looks like they are on a date. Good luck saying no to that guy. Guys cannot possibly turn down the rose peddler in front of girls, so they grudgingly make a purchase. So, too, will girls be unable to say no to me when their friend is in a time of need.”
“Genius, Manny.”
“I am aware. Now these are just a few ideas. We do not have much time to waste. The dance is in less than two months. Let us, together, begin selling this instant!”
My stomach tightens. “Together? What about the airplane? You know, help yourself first and then—”
“Look, even I cannot do this on my own. You will need to be an active salesperson and business partner. It will be good for you, beneficial for you, trust me, it is the distraction you need. Besides, from what I hear, you now have some time on your hands, considering your ban from Mrs. Q and all.”
“How did you—”
“Social pipeline, Donuts, social pipeline.” Manny raises his carton of
chocolate milk. “You can do this. You have nothing to lose and you can do this! A toast, to a successful business venture. And date-filled adventure!” His eyes are aflame. The intensity is frightening. It gives me goose bumps. “This will only be a successful distraction if we go ALL OUT! Selling candy is our oxygen. It is our everything. And we must work together. Now raise your glass and toast with me!”
“We don’t have glasses.”
“Your milk carton. Raise your carton and toast with me!”
His plan is bonkers. Or genius. Either way, it makes me smile. And Manny’s right about at least one thing: What do I have to lose? A night of disappearing under my football covers? A night of watching my dad rub fried chicken grease on toilet paper?
I need to change the narrative. Manny was right. I need a distraction. Something life-changing. And he’d be proud of me if I pulled this off. My dad, I mean. He’d ask questions and I’d want to give the answers. We’d have something to talk about. Always.
I raise my chocolate milk carton and bump it against Manny’s. Our excitement is so powerful that it erupts and overflows. I mean, what really overflows is a wave of milk that spills over the top and, as if in slow motion, rises in a tight blob, reaches its peak before my eyes, spreads itself out like an octopus flaring its tentacles, and comes crashing down on my shirt. I can feel the wetness against my stomach.
“Your tableside manners are flabbergasting,” Manny says, shaking his head. “We are not off to such a stellar start. But fear not, we will rally. It will get better.”
“Not soon enough…”
LIFE
And I am correct. Which is more than I can say about my current English teacher and hero and role model, Mr. Morgan, who offers great wisdom when it comes to writer’s block and all other matters of writing and literacy, but gives blatantly false, wrong, incorrect information on each work sheet, as part of the heading. “Life is good!” it says, right there smack at the top underneath the date. Life is good! Well, he’s wrong and inappropriate for spreading this message. Propaganda is what it is.
Since it’s frowned upon to argue with teachers and thus get banned from (more than one) class, I haven’t said anything. To him, I mean. To his work sheets, I’ve said plenty: Life is good a rare baseball card, a rare coin, a rare diamond because it is rarely good. Life is good a rare piece of meat that is edible only if you have a strong stomach or are a lion or a tiger or a bear or a dog or another thing that barks or roars and is lucky enough not to be human. Life is good a drink or food or medicine that can only be swallowed in small doses. Life is good the sun or another bright thing that makes you want to turn away and go inside and put on sunglasses.
Life is good a roller coaster with a few ups and a lot of downs and a long boring line with annoying people in it that say annoying things like “essentially” and “it is what it is” and talk about things you don’t have. Life is good a roller coaster that has a really long line but you wait anyway and stuff your face with clouds of blue cotton candy and when you get to the front they close the ride because it’s broken. Life is good a loop-de-loop roller coaster that makes you smile even if you don’t want to because it’s fast and thrilling, but then you get off and go home and turn on the news to see it’s been swept into the ocean by a hurricane, washed out to sea.
I hate to be Denny Downer on my work sheets, but someone needs to tell the truth: that one day your mom is beside you laughing at home movies while eating ice cream sandwiches and the next day you’re hoping for another chance, begging for another year, and then you’re watching Judge Judy tell you your case is a poor one, buddy, it’s all over, say your goodbyes. Life is good a rigged game of cards. Life is good a vending machine that only accepts other people’s quarters. Life is good a friend named Manny with big ideas and promises but no guarantees. Life is good a candy scheme that’s dangerous and desperate and wrong but is the only distraction big enough to keep me from ripping my hair out and crossing off “Life is good!” on every single work sheet I get.
And life is good a bucket of your dad’s fried chicken that looks and smells delicious but isn’t fresh and is still on the kitchen table when you walk into your house. Life is good hearing your dad flush the toilet and walk into the kitchen without wiping his hands, and when you throw your bag down on the floor, you realize your bag isn’t zipped, probably hasn’t been zipped in a while, and all of your papers suddenly come tumbling out on the floor. Life is good watching your dad see a whole stack of papers with the heading “Life is good!” scratched out and replaced with more accurate headings like life is good a roller coaster and life is good a candy scheme and life is good a bucket of fried chicken. He finds these edited handouts strange and touches them with his wet, quivering hands and wants to talk about it but you know he doesn’t want to talk about it but he’s already said he wants to talk about it so he figures he’ll give it a try.
“What are you DOING?” he roars, waving his arms, flinging beads of water in the air. “Why are you DOING this?”
Because it kills time. Because, like the candy operation, it’s a distraction. Because someday I’ll sell these work sheets on eBay for fifty years of allowance. Because I can and nobody cared until now. Because it makes me feel better. Because why not?
“Is this what you write during class?”
Usually, yes. Sometimes I draw pictures. Sometimes I list my favorite athletes. Sometimes I just write my name and practice my signature, again and again and again, which makes no sense whatsoever but I do it anyway. Sort of like why I go to school.
“Is this what you think life is?”
Not all the time. I mean, if there are fourteen waking hours in a day, I only feel this way for half of them eight of them twelve and three-quarters of them thirteen and one-quarter of them.
“Do you know what life is, Denny?”
Yes, Dad, I do. That’s why I’ve written on these work sheets, see. But why don’t you tell me anyway, because when adults ask their own questions, you know they have an answer that they’re just dying to give since they think it’s right but it probably isn’t.
“Life is getting up every day and playing a game that you’ve already lost,” he says, and I don’t know how to respond because when people tell you the truth, or at least their truth, and what feels like my truth, it’s hard to make a comeback, even in your head.
“I’m trying, Denny,” he says. “I’m trying to get through it.” He eyes his bucket of three-day-old chicken. “It may not look like it.” No, Dad, it does look like three-day-old chicken. “But I am. You should do the same. You still have time.”
Before I can respond, which is probably his plan because he never wanted to have a conversation anyway, he grabs his chicken bucket, storms into the living room, turns on the television, parks himself on the couch, and stays there in the glow of movies and shows and commercials until he falls asleep. And when I wake him early in the morning, his breath smelling of chicken, I’ll lead him down the hall to bed, where he’ll sleep for a couple more hours before he wakes up and plays a game he can’t win.
But thinks that I still can.
CHARITY WORK
Manny walks beside me as we head from school to his apartment. Because, as he puts it, “we have not a second to spare in our preparations,” he’s walking at a blistering pace that is so blistering it must be giving him foot blisters. His arms are at his sides, his eyes dead ahead, his jaw clenched.
It’s necessary at this point to explain that there are two sides of my town and Manny and I live on the wrong one. It’s still the suburbs, which means malls and movie theaters and mini-golf, but there aren’t any country clubs or swimming pools or fancy cars, which would make it that much sweeter to drive in a Rolls Royce or a Bentley to the dance. Have someone drive us, I mean.
No matter which side of town you live on, if you don’t have a license or a car in the ’burbs, either you have a smiling parent as an escort, or you graze like cattle behind a fence, watching everyone el
se whiz by in their popular, mobile little lives.
I can’t even go “down the shore” when I want to, even though it’s less than an hour away. Not that summer’s anywhere near, and not that the shore is so special or anything. I mean, the water at the Jersey Shore isn’t even blue. It’s brown. Even at the end of July, on the sharpest, most glorious day of summer, the best it gets is light brown, or if you’re lucky, brownish green. Still, it’d be nice to go once in a while to check out the boardwalk, maybe eat an ice cream cone or funnel cake. Maybe fall asleep in the sand until a middle-aged hippie waves a metal detector over my body and rummages through my pockets for change …
If only that hippie knew how much more money he’d make selling candy in middle school. But it’d be weird for a middle-aged hippie to sell candy in the middle school hallways.
Manny takes a shortcut through a crowded shopping center with a giant Shop-Rite. Kicking stones softly through the parking lot to avoid hitting the cars, I can’t help but think we’re doing something terribly wrong. That we’re attempting to disturb the natural order of what naturally becomes popular and not popular. That this experiment is immoral and just plain wrong. That my mom would be embarrassed, my dad, too. And that I should probably apologize to Mrs. Q and everyone else and call this off before when it goes terribly wrong, but Manny grabs my shoulder—hard—and pulls me behind a parked car. It’s a Honda, not a Bentley. I notice these things now.
“Look at this,” he says, pointing.
He doesn’t mean the Honda. I rub my shoulder through my coat and look ahead where eight Girls Scouts have set up shop in front of Shop-Rite. In green uniforms, all well-ironed with sashes from their shoulders to their belts, they sit daintily at a table with boxes stacked above their eyes. Overseeing their sales to the side is a chaperone, or escort, or troop leader, or whatever you call a Lady Scout. Probably a Lady Scout.
“Flabbergasting,” Manny says, shaking his head. “Bulldozers.”
He’s right. Their smiles as sweet as candy, their labeled boxes and those fancy uniforms … customers don’t even need a sales pitch! They just see those uniforms and—bam!—here’s four dollars. There’s no denying their efficiency.
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