“Do you know karate? ’Cause your body’s kickin’.”
I actually say that.
And she must know karate because she knocks my backpack to the floor and I’m apologizing like a madman and she’s running away and I’m scooping the brochures off the floor and grabbing candy bars by the fistful and …
“I was wondering if we might have a little chat.”
I don’t say that, but I wish I had instead of the guy behind me, whose deep voice feels frightening and familiar. I know that voice. I hear it every day. During morning announcements. He taps me on the shoulder. I turn around and look up.
The principal is wearing a gray shirt and red tie.
“My office,” Mr. Softee says. “I think it’s time we had a chat.”
THE TRUTH
His name may be Mr. Softee, but his office doesn’t smell like ice cream. It smells of leather and printer paper. I just hope his softee reputation holds up.
A football rests at the corner of his brown desk. A signed photo of Phillies legend Mike Schmidt hangs cockeyed on the wall. Pictures with his arm around former graduates. They’re smiling and he is, too. These are all good signs.
He tells me to sit, so I do. I place the briefcase at my feet.
“I know what you’re up to, Mr. Murphy,” he says, staring at me from behind his desk. He peeks at my hairdo and scowls, then scratches his leathery face, folds his hands, and leans back in his chair.
“I’m sorry, sir.” Better to play it safe, not to give anything away, though I wish he wouldn’t call me my dad’s name: Mr. Murphy. Not exactly a compliment.
“It’s against school policy, you know,” he says, raising his bushy eyebrows.
What is? Harassment? Money? Candy? Bribery? Cutting? Failing classes? Befriending the lunch lady? How many social and school laws have I broken?
“I apologize, Mr. Soffer, sir. It won’t happen again.”
“You see, Mr. Murphy, that’s the thing. I don’t believe you.” He checks his wristwatch. “I’ve been doing this for a long time, a very long time.”
“And may I add, sir, you’re doing a fine job.”
“Going on thirty years now. Thirty years of experience has taught me a lot, such as the value of honesty. Level with me. Why are you selling candy?”
I’m tired of lying. He wants honesty. Might as well give it to him. “For a business. I’m selling candy for a dance company. Trying to raise money to get it started.”
“What’s the name of the business?”
“International Monetary Prudential. Incorporated. TM.”
He frowns. “Trademarked already?”
“You know it, sir.”
“Well, Mr. Murphy, the name of your business makes absolutely no sense.”
“Right, well, ah—”
“Still, I appreciate your entrepreneurial spirit.” He grins, leans back again. “You may not know this, but I have a background in business. Graduated from the renowned Wharton Business School.”
Pride written all over his face, he points to a framed diploma to the left of Mike Schmidt.
“Wow, Mr. Soffer, Wharton is a great school. Your credentials blow my universe. You’re quite a smart man.”
He doesn’t answer. His gaze is stuck on his diploma. Still stuck. And … still stuck. I bet I could sneak out of this office and he wouldn’t even notice.
“Jeez, I bet those were the best days of your life.”
He jerks from his reverie, chair forward, eyes blinking away the memories. “Right, uh, yes. Since you’ve leveled with me, Mr. Murphy, I’ll level with you. I’m aware of your loss, and as I mentioned to you many times, I am deeply sorry. I really am.”
“Thank you.”
He nods. “It must have been … well, having an outlet for all of that, ah, stuff, is important, and well, I respect your business spirit. Just don’t sell in class. Teachers and janitors have been complaining about wrappers in the halls and lunchroom. If you pick each one up at the end of the day, you and me are A-okay.”
“Wow, sir, a businessman, a principal, and a poet. You’re the total package.”
He chuckles. “The total—yes, that’s nice, Mr. Murphy, very nice.”
“I must say that while I am partially responsible for the mess, the Gum Dealer is the main culprit here.”
“The Gum Dealer?”
“Ronald Latimer, sir. He just gives away candy all day to become popular. Boxes upon boxes of king-size candy bars free. It’s sad, sir, it is. Plus, he has no business spirit like you and me.”
“I’ll look into it. But until then, if I find wrappers around, I will shut down your operation. And if you don’t listen, detention it is. But I don’t want to give you detention. Thirty years has taught me that it doesn’t work and it’s time-consuming for teachers and students. We’re trying to move away from traditional methods of punishment, and in due time, more progressive consequences such as community service, tutoring, Xeroxing, mural painting, will altogether replace that time-waster named Detention. One of the great things about my school—our school, excuse me—is that we all try to respect each other’s time.”
“Jeez, Mr. Soffer, as a businessman, you sure understand the value of time. And since you do, I must tell you that I have an English class I am eager to attend.”
“Ah, yes, of course. How are your grades, Mr. Murphy?”
“Stellar. Fantastic. You pick the adjective.” Hideous. Terrible. Nonexistent.
“You know, I can easily access your transcript from my computer. Another one of the great things about our school.” He raises a finger to the keypad to get me to crack. Won’t happen.
“Go ahead, sir,” I say, chin up. “I stand by my record.”
He puts his hand back on the desk. “A proud student, such a breath of fresh air. And may I add, your haircut, while not in the least bit stylish or attractive, is as unique as your business approach. You’re dismissed.” He points to the exit.
I grab my briefcase, leap to the door, then look back. I just can’t help myself. “Thanks for the chat, Mr. Soffer. And feel free to call me Denny.”
“Will do. Have a great day now, Denny.”
Another great thing about our school: the principal is a sucker.
HIGH DIVE
One more good thing about my school: Sabrina goes here.
As I’m on my way out of school, having bested Mr. Softee, Sabrina approaches me at my locker. “Interesting choice of hairstyle,” she muses, running her hand atop my spiky dome. “Hadn’t pegged you for the orange Mohawk. Figured you’d go green.”
“Why green?”
“I don’t know, why the Mohawk?” she asks.
“Because I like the name Mo and I appreciate a strong, ferocious bird.”
She smiles. “Is that what you are, strong and ferocious?”
If this is flirting, I like how it feels. “Oh yes, very ferocious. Wild, even. Ferocious and very wild, with a very sensitive beak, a helping hand—claw—and heart.”
“Is your middle name Mo?”
“No, which rhymes with Mo. But my middle name’s not Mo. It’s Donuts.”
She rolls her eyes, which ends the flirt session. “Seriously, why the Mohawk?”
Because the old look wasn’t attracting enough fish in the sea, and Manny and I are willing to try anything to catch those fish. Not that women are fish. I mean, it’s just that we thought—he thought—the haircut would look good, but it doesn’t.
“Change of pace.” I shrug.
She smacks me playfully on the arm. “Hey, speaking of which, if you want to meet up this afternoon to work on our project, I’m free. You could lend a helping claw. I just need to pick something up at the mall first, so if you want, we could walk—”
“Yes! I do!” I don’t let her finish her sentence. I know I’m supposed to play it cool, like I’m not all that interested so she gets more interested, but unless I’m reading this scene incorrectly, a girl has invited me to the mall. And unless I’m read
ing that incorrectly, a girl—a live and human one—has asked me on a date.
For the last year or so, I’ve fantasized about this moment. It looks like this:
The mall is packed. Shopping bags everywhere. The best-looking people in the neighborhood are window-browsing. My girl and I are walking hand in hand. Her palms are sweaty because she’s nervous. She’s never been to the mall with a man, and I am one. A very manly one. (She is becoming aware of this important fact.) We pass The Gap. I ask her if she wants anything, and she says, “All I need is right here with me.” She squeezes my hand tighter. It’s her signal for love. I give her hand two quick squeezes, which is my signal that I love her back and always will.
We head to a bookstore. As she browses the shelves for a new novel, I flip through a stack of magazines, rip out a bunch of cologne samples, and rub them all over. Armani Exchange on my neck, Polo Sport on my left arm. If she wasn’t aware that she was walking with a man, now she knows. A very manly man, I am. And she—
“Are you ready?” Sabrina’s shaking me. “Do you want to go to the mall or not?”
“Uh … yes,” I say. “Let’s go to the mall. Together.”
“It’s not a date, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous.”
* * *
Because it’s a weekday, the mall is pretty empty. Sabrina and I barely talk as we cover the first floor, passing clothing store after clothing store, nutrition centers and pharmacies. Barely audible music hums in the background, the kind you hear in the dentist’s office while he’s yanking out your teeth. The errand she needs to run is to a bookstore, perfectly in line with my fantasy. She doesn’t find the book she’s looking for, but I find plenty of magazines with cologne samples to rub on my arms.
“The best things in life are free,” I tell her, wafting my forearms in her direction.
She laughs politely, then tells me the colognes smell terrible.
And then, well, I’ve passed Victoria’s Secret hundreds of times, most of them with Manny. Each and every time, he’s said, “Victoria’s secret is that she is a man. Her real name is Victor.” Manny once dared me to run inside and buy something. I wouldn’t, so he lowered the stakes and dared me to tiptoe inside, cross the threshold, and run out. I wouldn’t even do that. Victoria’s Secret is off-limits. Males aren’t allowed in. Even I know that.
“You sure look like you wanna go in,” Sabrina says, chuckling.
“No, no, I don’t think so.”
“Oh, come on.” She tugs my arm and directs me toward the store.
A woman with long black hair meets us at the entrance. She has a headset on. I don’t know whether she’s a bouncer, hostess, or bra salesperson, but no matter what, the headset is bad news.
“Looking for anything particular?” the bouncer/hostess/saleslady asks, a smile glued to her face.
“No, we’re just looking, thank you,” Sabrina says.
“Well, let me know if you need any help.”
Everything is pink and red and I can’t be here. I must look faint and disoriented because Sabrina says, “Are you fainting or acting?”
“Acting, definitely. I could win an Oscar in this place. There’s already a red carpet and red … dress-looking things.”
“They’re called nightgowns.”
I glance around to see if anyone is looking. Two girls with auburn hair have their backs to me. They talk to each other by the dressing room.
I think of doing something crazy to get Sabrina to laugh, but the two girls by the dressing room turn around. The one on the left has green eyes. No, please no. And freckles. No, please no. Three freckles. Three freckles on her left cheek in the winter, six in the fall, nine in the spring … Oh, God, no.
I hit the deck and take cover underneath a table.
“Denny, what’s the matter with you?”
The soft red carpet tickles my nose, but I bury my face in it and whisper, “Can’t talk now. I’m not here.”
“What?”
“Allison Swain,” I breathe. “She’s here. In the store.”
“So what?”
“Guys aren’t allowed in Victoria’s Secret,” I explain.
She chuckles. “What are you talking about? Of course they are.”
“No, they’re not.”
“Yes, they are.”
“Okay, fine,” I murmur. “Even if they are, I don’t want her to see me in here.”
“You can say you’re getting something for Valentine’s Day.”
“That already passed.”
“You can say you’re getting something for your girlfriend.”
Girlfriend? Does she mean her? Does she mean it?
Allison’s feet touch the ground … white sneakers … marching to a sweet song … piano keys … saxophone … her laughter … at me?… white sneakers … delicate ankles … a cushioned landing … laughter … at me?… knees bent back … and forward … white sneakers … delicate ankles … footsteps …
Before they leave, I think I hear one of them giggle and whisper something about me. I think I heard something about a donut or a nut and then something about a ladybug and they’re talking about me and they saw me and I am ruined, forever, ruined for all eternity, like those songs I heard on the radio after my mom’s funeral. Ruined, I am—no, I’m not, I hate that word. Nothing is ruined, because I’m still here and not alone. Sabrina is here and I don’t mind if they saw me.
For the first time since I can remember, I don’t mind what other people think, what they say. She’s … here, next to me, hiding. And I don’t want to hide anymore.
I turn back to Sabrina and look into her eyes. Well, first at the five pieces of red felt in her hair—that swanky red carpet is a pilling mess—and then into her eyes. She looks more nervous than I’ve ever seen her. She’s still here with me. The one willing to hide under a table with me. In an all-female store. Her lips look smooth again.
We’re inches apart, the closest I’ve ever been to a girl. Dreams of Allison and what I’ve been wishing for my whole life … those dreams just left the store with her, and there’s no one else I’d rather be under a table with than Sabrina.
I want to kiss her. I want to kiss her. I tell myself, kiss her. And then I shout it, KISS HER! NOW! 3, 2, 1, NOW! 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 … KISS HER!
But I’m up on that high dive again and it’s cold and windy outside and my legs are stone and my ankles are shackled together. My feet are frozen to the board, icicles between my toes. The fall looks steep, is steep: miles below me, a freezing cold stream. Ice cold. I can’t jump. No way can I jump, no way. Can’t jump, can’t jump, can’t jump. Okay, 3, 2, 1, Jump! 3, 2, 1, Jump! Jump! I shout. JUMP! JUMP! JUMP!
And then something unprecedented happens on that high dive.
I jump.
It’s a softer landing than I ever could have imagined, and I want to stay there forever, or at least more than ten seconds, my lips resting on hers, puckering, then resting, but I don’t have time to get the rhythm because it only lasts ten seconds and someone’s clearing her throat and it’s not Sabrina.
The bouncer/hostess/saleslady clears her throat again, moves her headset mouthpiece to the side. “Um, excuse me, folks? Can I help you with something?”
I hear her and I know Sabrina hears her, but this moment only happens once in a lifetime and last time I checked I only live once.
I jump again.
* * *
“Help yourselves.” Sabrina’s mom greets us at the door with a tray full of warm chocolate chip cookies. I’m not even in the house and I’m already thawed out.
“Oh my,” she gasps at my Mohawk, which I had forgotten about until now. “I certainly hope you’ll be cutting that. Soon. Very soon.”
The only good thing about my hair is that she doesn’t seem to recognize me from the Chinese restaurant. Or from my mom’s work on the PTA. Or maybe Sabrina just warned her about me. Whatever the reason, I’m glad I don’t have to talk about
my mom.
“Tonight,” I assure her. “I’ll cut it as soon as I get home. It was for a fund-raiser.”
“I see. Would you like some cookies?”
“Mom, really?” Sabrina steps inside and puts her coat on the rack. “I’m barely in the house and you’re jumping up on me like a…”
Tiger, I want to suggest. A lion with cookies. But something tells me it won’t go over well.
“Well, you said you were bringing a friend for a project—and my, that is quite a lot of perfume, Sabrina. What were you thinking?”
I raise my hand. “It’s cologne, ma’am. My bad.” I step inside. “Got a little carried away there. Been testing out a few brands. Gonna surprise my dad for his birthday. They were giving out free samples at the mall.”
Sabrina’s eyes go wide.
“At the mall! Sabrina, you didn’t say you were going to the mall!”
“Denny’s just kidding, Mom. He’s a real kidder, aren’t you, Denny?” She elbows me in the ribs.
“Oh yes, ma’am, a regular court jester. My teachers, unfortunately, don’t appreciate my comedy in the classroom.”
“But, Sabrina, I thought you said he was a good student,” she huffs. “Why are you working with him if he’s not a good student?”
Sabrina stomps her foot. “I said he was a smart student, but, Mom, seriously? What do you—what are you—I seriously cannot believe you are—”
Sabrina’s mom isn’t looking at her anymore. She’s looking at me. I’m already backpedaling out of the door when she says, “Wait, did you say your name was Denny? Your mother was … Susan?”
I don’t feel like talking about her. Especially in the past tense. Besides, I’m not exactly used to working out conflicts with parents, and all the fuss is making me itchy. “It’s no big deal, really,” I say, backing up. “I should probably head home to do some light reading.”
Sabrina’s mom reaches for my sleeve and pulls me back in the house. “Forgive me, dear. Your mother was a special lady. So kind, thoughtful, selfless. I miss her.”
“Yeah, thanks, I should probably head home. Need to catch up on homework. And you two seem like you have things to discuss.”
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