“Did you know, Sabrina, that my surfing performance in Mrs. Q’s room was inspired by Bruce Springsteen? True story.”
“Since when does Bruce surf?”
Good question.
She leans on her chair, looking so relaxed, so confident, so at ease in her questioning. Add that to the fact that she also bested Manny in a debate. She should seriously be a lawyer.
I give it my best shot anyway. “Bruce totally surfs. Listen to the song ‘Atlantic City.’ There are tons of beaches in Atlantic City. I bet you he surfs there all the time.”
“How much you wanna bet?”
She puts her hand out. I’d love to touch it, but I need to hang on to all the $339 I’ve raised so far selling candy. “Not a betting man,” I say.
“‘Atlantic City’ is not about surfing. Like most of his songs, it’s about a last chance. Getting beat down by life and trying to get back up. It’s about pain.”
She’s right, I know it, but it’s easier to pretend. “He probably fell off his surfboard,” I explain. “Believe me, falling off a surfboard is pretty painful. When I fell off that desk and into … Here, let me reenact.”
“No!”
I look around for something to leap onto, but all I see is her bed, which looks so nicely made I don’t want to mess it up. I settle for an alternate performance. I strut up to a long mirror and strike a pose. While I’m here, I might as well strike a few more. “This mirror is a magic mirror, Sabrina. It makes me look really good.”
She picks up her Death of a Salesman book. “Denny, stop acting.”
“Acting? That’s a negatory. ‘Homey don’t play that’—as you know, that’s what Mr. Morgan likes to say. I also like to say this when people encourage me to fraternize with thespians on the stage. I’m just keeping it real, Sabrina. Telling it like it is, and the way I see it, I’m having a terrific hair day, wouldn’t you agree?”
I wouldn’t. My hair is blasting out on the sides.
She peeks down at her watch. “We should probably get started,” she says.
“I would get started, Sabrina, I really would, but first I gotta dance a bit, loosen up, limber up my limbs—you know, get the blood flowing.” I know I should stop but my legs are juking and jiving on her carpet, my hands crabwalking into breakdance position.
“Denny, I can’t—please stop pretending. You don’t need to pretend around me.”
I stop in mid-breakdance, which, you should know, is difficult. “Pretend? I’m not a pretender, I’m a contender. Been training for the Golden Gloves for months.”
“Denny, come on—”
“Don’t believe me? Here, check this out.” I nod toward the mirror. “Watch my shadowboxing skills.” I throw playful punches at my reflection. Jab, jab, right cross, uppercut. “Check out these stellar combinations.”
She stands up. “Denny, I saw you at the restaurant. I saw the whole thing.”
“What thing?” Jab, uppercut.
“Dinner. Chinese. Hunan Palace. Your dad…”
“Oh, that? Psshh, doesn’t everyone’s dad do that?”
“Mine doesn’t.”
“Well, mine does. Yes, he certainly is very passionate about Chinese cuisine.”
“Will you stop boxing for a second. Does that happen a lot?”
“Well, ever since—I mean, ever since he discovered the flavorings of the Orient.”
“Flavorings of the Orient?” she mouths. “Sounds like something Manny’d say.”
“Who?” Better to distance myself now.
“Your friend, Manny. You know, Mr. Perfect.”
“I don’t know anyone by either name.”
“Denny, stop. Can’t we have a five-second conversation without you pretending?”
“I told you, Sabrina. I’m a contender, not a pretender. Been working on my jab a lot lately, though it makes my left shoulder sore. Should probably get it checked out.”
She leans closer and puts her hand on my arm. “That must have been hard for you, what happened at the restaurant,” she says. “Seeing your dad get so—”
“It’s no biggie, really. I mean, he’s a biggie. But it’s no big deal. My mom would’ve come but she—was at home, rapping to a rap song by a rapper on MTV.”
She doesn’t dignify that with a response and I don’t blame her. There’s something about the softness in her eyes and the soft teddy bear on her bed and her soft touch on my arm. “She died,” I say.
“I remember, Denny … I was so sorry to hear. I still am really sorry. My mom said she was a wonderful lady, said she loved working with her on the PTA. I’m so, so sorry.” And you can tell she means it.
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “My dad’s got a real good handle on things. As you saw, he knows where and how to receive the best food in town.”
She rubs her forehead. “I remember the whole class wrote you notes after she passed away. I wish I could’ve done more.”
“You don’t have to do anything. I don’t need a pity party or anything.”
“It’s not—it’s just, I wanted to help.”
“It’s okay, really, it is. I’m sorry. And with our project, don’t worry. I know more about Death of a Salesman than I let on in class.”
She grins. “I know you’re smart, Denny. You just play too much.”
“But if you knew I was smart, why didn’t you want to work with me?”
“Because you play too much.”
“Right.”
Behind her, there’s a poster with a girl and the words “Les Misérables” behind it.
“So what’s the secret?” I ask.
“Secret to what?”
I point at the poster. “How do I become less miserable?”
She grins. “It’s a play. My favorite one. But it’s not about becoming less miserable. It’s about how miserable everyone is, at least at some point. Les is the plural word in French for ‘the.’ Like, all of the miserable people.”
I shrug. “Makes sense.”
“It does, actually,” she says. “Misery loves company, you know?”
“That’s why I like this book,” I explain, suddenly oozing with confidence. “Willy Loman is miserable and so is his family. They sort of sleepwalk through life until it’s over. For Willy. The whole play feels like a dream that nobody wakes up from until Willy’s asleep for good. So what if we … hold on, we’re supposed to act out at least one scene with rewritten dialogue, right?”
“Right.”
“In some ways, it’s similar to your less miserable play. We could film it as a dream or as a mashup of the miserable play and Salesman.”
My ideas may not make any sense to Sabrina, or even to me, but it’s the clearest I’ve felt in a while, talking to her, being honest, not wanting to hibernate. It feels … I don’t know how to explain it. It feels nice.
“But you haven’t even seen Les Misérables,” she protests.
“I won’t tell Mr. Morgan if you don’t tell.”
“But you really should see the play, it’s fantastic.”
“Remember, Sabrina, homey don’t play that. I am homey and plays are that.”
“And to think we were making progress…” She smiles. Her lips look smooth, nice. I don’t get near them, nor am I a betting man, but I bet they feel nice.
GONE
The phone is warm and greasy. “Hello?”
“Donuts, report your problems.”
I think that’s what he says. My dad is blasting the TV down the hall so loudly it’s hard to hear. “Dad, turn it down!” I shout, and he shouts back, “You turn it down!” which makes about as much sense as Chad telling me my meat is sour. “You’re not making sense!” I holler. “I don’t have the remote for the TV, Dad, and I can’t turn the volume on a phone down. There’s no volume switch on a phone!”
I realize after I say it that there is a volume switch on the phone, but that’s not the point. Since his Chinese meltdown last week, the point of our conversations (or lack thereof) has escaped m
e even more than usual. Sometimes I think one of us is actually speaking Chinese. Hopefully it’s me. Everyone knows the ladies dig a bilingual man.
Manny is once again in my ear. “Donuts, you do know there is indeed a volume button on the telephone, right?”
“Yeah, I know. But honestly, Manny, I don’t want to report my problems to you.”
A pause, and then, “Huh? Do I sound like the school social worker?”
“No, but you told me to report my—”
“Profits, Donuts. I told you to report your profits.”
I feel my face go hot. “Right, uh—hold on.” As I reach inside my backpack for the latest tally, I notice my dad has turned the volume down a smidge. What a trouper. “As of this afternoon, Manny, including sales on the way home, I’ve made $414.”
Silence.
“Manny?”
No answer.
“Manny, you there?”
“Flabbergasting…” He clears his throat. “It seems you have bested me thus far, Donuts, but we are a team. My profit is only slightly less than yours—$359—but still an impressive sum between us—$773—especially given the time constraints. And remember, the idea for the company was mine.”
“It’s not a competition. Your sales are very impressive, Manny.” Having to massage his ego is such hard work, but like most things that are hard work, it’s necessary. “You are the king of candy sales. All hail King Manny, Master of Perfection.”
“Indeed. Indeed.” Manny pauses. I hear him take a deep breath and then ask, in a softer voice, a timid one that sounds of sadness: “Is it working?”
“Is what working?”
“Our scheme.”
“Well, we have made over seven hundred dollars.”
He sighs. “No, I mean is it working? Has—has it been a distraction?”
I take a moment before answering him: “It doesn’t bring her back.”
“Yeah, but it has been a distraction, has it not?”
I give him the same answer.
“I wish I could bring her back,” he says.
“But you can’t.”
“No, I cannot.”
We both don’t speak for a few seconds, which feels like a few minutes and then a few hours. Silence hangs between us like a heavy curtain until I mercifully, mostly for his benefit, say: “We are so deep in the money that people may nickname us money: Money Manny and Money Donuts.”
I can hear him smiling. “Can you believe that in one week we have raised more than seven hundred dollars? At this rate, we shall reach our goal in ten days, which cannot arrive fast enough, given the dwindling number of available babesicles on the market.”
“Babesicles? Tell me you didn’t just say that word.”
“I did. Now back to the issue at hand. I think we need to get a handle on the market. Perhaps my—our—monetary goal was too high, or heaven forbid, too low. That would be quite a travesty. That is why we must do some market research.”
Whatever he’s talking about, it doesn’t sound good.
“Not it,” I tell him.
“Au contraire, mon frère.”
“Manny, I don’t speak French. I only speak Chinese.”
“In your dreams.”
“Actually I speak English in my dreams. With a thick Jersey accent. Hey, Manny, I’m from Joisey. I like to wawk my dawg to the mawl.”
He sighs into the phone and sounds like Darth Vader. Haw. Ha. Haw. Ha. “You are such a bundle of joy to talk to.”
“Thank you, Manny. You know, according to Marsha—”
“Who?”
“The lunch lady. According to her, the definition of love is the feeling you get when you appreciate another person’s virtues. Do you feel the love?”
No answer.
“Of course you do, Manny. Thank you for loving me.”
Haw. Ha. Haw. Ha.
From down the hall: “Keep it down, Denny! I’m trying to watch my show.”
“Tomorrow,” Manny says, “we will ascertain exactly what it will take for us to secure company to the dance.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yes, tomorrow. We need to figure out our angle—what will best attract the babesicles to us. Food, clothes, entertainment, a makeover … whatever it is, time is of the essence. Now remember, feel free to stress to all the lucky ladies out there that it is good clean fun we are after. No ulterior motives. We are looking for a pretty face with which to take pictures. Girls like compliments, but do not creep them out. Simply mention that we want to take pictures and dance, and if she wants a smooch or two, well, we shall oblige.”
“I hope you don’t expect me to use the word ‘smooch.’”
“Au contraire, mon frère.”
“Remember, Manny, I only speak Chinese.”
“Fine, speak Chinese tomorrow. Use whatever words in whatever language you prefer, but tomorrow we move.”
“But, Manny—”
“We are done here.”
“Manny, wait—”
But he’s already gone.
The only sound I hear is from down the hall, where my dad’s parked by the television. I’d rather not go near him, but all that blabbering with Manny has made my throat dry. I tiptoe over to the kitchen, so as not to disturb the Natural Schmoozer, and find him in his usual position, lying across the maroon couch, face on the pillow, his eyes half-closed, saliva at the corner of his mouth. He’s gone, too.
Not gone as in gone from this world, or gone out to the store, or gone to bed. More like gone, here but somewhere else, gone.
And I get it … Manny and I distracted ourselves with our candy coalition, and my dad, like the relatives at our post-funeral gathering, distracted himself in the soft glow of television and hasn’t looked back since. Whole seasons on Netflix finished in one night. Action, adventure, bank robberies, prison breaks, singing competitions, comedies, comedy specials, standup comedy, thrillers. No dramas. Or trips to the gravesite, to the priest. No tears. No talks. My mom was here and then she wasn’t. There was a void. And he filled it with food, a couch, and a television screen until he was gone, too.
I get it but I don’t admire it, don’t want to be like that. Not now, not ever.
I pour myself a cup of water and walk past the living room. Body odor, hair not washed since last week. A dusty television set, a man half-asleep and less alive. Coward, I say to myself. And then I say it out loud. “Coward.”
Though I don’t know if I’m talking to him or myself.
LOSS
A week after my mom died, teachers organized poster-size sympathy cards from kids that read “I’m sorry for your loss,” and a few careless spellers wrote, “I’m sorry for your lost,” and one really careless speller wrote, “I’m sorry for you’re lost.” Or, in other words, “I’m sorry for you are lost,” which was the most accidentally accurate thing anyone had said to me. Sorry you’re lost.
I mean, you don’t lose a relative. You don’t misplace them like your keys. And it’s not the opposite of winning, either. You don’t lose them like you lose a sporting event or a card game. You don’t lose them. You don’t lose. The only losing you do is with yourself. I lost myself. For a while there (and okay, sort of still now, too), I was lost, so lost I acted the fool to mask the pain. And one kid—who should seriously apply to write cards at Hallmark—was sorry to hear that.
I’m sorry for you’re lost. I’m sorry that you are lost. Made perfect sense for me. Then and now. For my dad. And for me. But making perfect sense—the feeling you get when everything comes together—is as fleeting as a breath. (Unless it’s my dad’s chicken breath as I’m helping him off to bed. That lingers.) When everything makes sense, it’s a good sign that everything will fall apart, crumble, get blown over because life is good a house made of Popsicle sticks with no glue, and life is good a passing cloud, and life is good a sympathy card that only makes sense by accident.
MARKET RESEARCH
“Coward.” Manny wags a finger at me beside my locker before
lunch. He smells of Lucky Charms, which is a great smell, but he also smells of milk and coffee. The combo isn’t working. And neither are we because apparently I had an assignment this morning and Manny acts the part of a disappointed teacher.
“The fact that you have yet to even begin to compile market research is not only flabbergasting, but it makes you a coward,” he scolds. “If you refuse to further our enterprise, you are a scammer hater. I have warned you many times against scammer hating.” He looks me up and down. “Look at you. Like a kid on the high dive afraid to leap.”
I ignore that last bit, though it’s exactly how I feel. Often. I want to do something bold, but my feet won’t follow. I want to tell Sabrina I like her and tell Mrs. Q it’s all an act, tell my dad he’s got to—
“I don’t understand, Manny. You want me to walk up to a random girl and see what attracts her? What type of car she likes?”
He grabs my shoulder. “This is not a focus group. We are not approaching just anyone and asking for their opinion. I mean, seriously, who wants a random person’s opinion? There is no better market research than from the primary source. We are after the real thing, and in the words of men much more cinematically Italian than I am, we are not after a Fugazi—we are after the gold. By ‘gold’ I mean…”
He doesn’t need to finish that sentence. I’m already two steps ahead. Really, I am. I know Allison’s schedule better than she does, so I’m well aware that she’s behind me in the middle of the hall, talking with a circle of friends. I know who she hugs and who she kisses (Anna, Chad), which books she carries before lunch (science, history), and which ones after lunch (English, health). I know her locker number (175), which pen she prefers (blue, ballpoint), and which gum she chews (Orbit, green).
I know which sneakers she wears every other Wednesday (Pumas, brown), which period she goes to her locker (third), how long she spends there (two minutes, forty-seven seconds), so I know just when to walk up to her and say, “Hello, Allison. I’m Denny. Denny Murphy. We’re neighbors. You know that, right? Okay, good. We have a lot in common, like … we’re neighbors. I already said that? Okay, well, we also both like lunch. We both eat lunch fourth period. You’re in eighth grade and I’m in seventh but we both go to Blueberry Hills, so we also have that in common. My dance is coming up. What do you think of Porsches? Why am I asking? Because I can drive you in one. Well, I can’t drive you because even very mature middle schoolers like me can’t drive, but I’ll be in there and you’ll be in there and we can play all the Justin Bieber songs you want. What—you like the Biebster? Great, we can go meet him after the dance and—of course we can meet him, we’re best buds. Homeys, that’s what Biebs and I are, best homeys for life. BHFL. We’re even tighter than me and the Rockafellas. Who are they? Nobody of importance. Biebs and I have so much in common we complete each other’s … sentences. That’s how he would’ve finished that sentence: with the word ‘sentences.’ What? You like his hair? Funny you should say so. I have an appointment at this swank stylist because she swears she can give me the Bieber do. But only if—you do? You’ll go with me to the dance? That’s super. I mean, flabbergasting. I mean, good. So we’re on like filet mignon? Oh, steak sounds good to you? Sure, I’ll buy you dinner beforehand. Filet mignon it is. Pick you up at seven? Yuppers, I mean, yup, yes, I’ll see you there.”
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