“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m just a little worked up. Caught a bit by surprise. You’ll have to excuse me. I’m not used to entertaining boyfriends around here.”
“Mom!” Sabrina’s face flushes.
Her mom twiddles her thumbs. “Oh no, I meant friends that are boys. Sorry, dear, I guess I’m out of practice, is all.”
“Mom!”
Sabrina may be horrified, but those warm chocolate chip cookies look delicious.
“Mind if I take a few, ma’am?”
“Oh, please do. It’s what they’re here for.” She holds out the tray.
I reach in and take two.
“Oh, don’t be shy. Take more, I’m sure not eating them. If I eat any more, I’ll be rolling down the street. Rolling like a big ol’ soccer ball.”
I look down at her waist, slim as a tabletop. “Ma’am, believe me, you’re in good shape. You should see my dad. Really, have a few cookies. They look delicious.”
“Well, that’s so sweet of you, dear,” she says, playfully brushing my shoulder. “You’re welcome here anytime.”
“We’ll be in my room,” Sabrina says, pulling me down the hall and into her room.
“Remember, Sabrina,” her mom calls, “keep that door open. Or no—”
“Boys, I know.”
Even with the door open, I still feel like we’re alone as we sit on the corner of her bed. I lock eyes with her and want to tell her everything: I.M.P., the dance, everything. I know it’s the right thing to do because females are relationship beings and it’s better to be rather than to seem and love is the feeling you get when you appreciate another’s virtues—and whatever else Marsha told me that seemed smart at the time but is harder in practice. Love? How am I supposed to leap off that board?
“So I want to get to the group project,” she says, “Denny, I do—” and there she goes, saying “I do,” and I can hear the wedding bells ringing downstairs or maybe it’s the oven buzzer for the chocolate chips cookies, but either way those wedding bells are coming and boyfriend and girlfriend and love and I can hear Marsha’s words forming in my head. A woman will tell you she wants to talk … all she needs is attention and love … and to be reassured that you ain’t goin’ nowhere. Oh, you’ll see. And of course I see now but—
“—but first,” Sabrina says, “I want to show you the opening scene from Les Misérables.” She pulls over her laptop and types into YouTube and voilà. A five-minute break from the real reason we’re here: to talk about what happened at Victoria’s Secret and whether it’ll stay a secret or whether we’ll be an item, a date for the dance, maybe. I mean should she, I mean will she, I mean would she like to go with me and be a couple, a married couple with 2.5 children and how will I provide for her and which profession am I considering after middle and high school and college and whether I’ll wear a bow tie, or just a tie or a tie and vest to our wedding.
It’s actually really good—the opening bit from Les Misérables, I mean, which is pronounced Les Miz or Lay Miz for short, meaning The Miz, which rhymes with The Biz, like the candy business, which is something I know more about now than I used to and soon Sabrina will, too, which makes my legs shake like a hula dancer’s even though I don’t feel at all like dancing. The main character is Jean Valjean, which is a cool name. It’s like me being named Denny Valdenny. He’s this guy with a great voice who is unfairly imprisoned for nineteen years for stealing a loaf of bread. He’s forced to do slave labor while looking down. “Look down, look down!” the guards shout as he slaves alongside dozens of other prisoners.
It’s dark and depressing, but the action gets really good, really fast—unlike in Death of a Salesman, which trudges along until a flashback punches you in the teeth. But there are definitely similarities between the two plays, and I can see how a mashup, like a video montage in which we film ourselves in scenes from both plays and insert modern dialogue and modern music with modern chocolate chip cookies (maybe?), could really work. The feeling of imprisonment, being trapped in a life you hadn’t dreamed of for yourself, escaping, sleepwalking through a nightmare, fighting for your life and your love, and children relying on you for food and support, and a flabbergasting ending that she says will leave you breathless.
Sabrina tells me the ending, but I don’t lose my breath.
When she kisses me, on the other hand …
I mean, when she kisses me on the lips, I lose my breath. Not when she kisses me on the other hand. If she kissed me on the hand, that’d be weird. That’d be like kissing a king or queen. On the hand, I mean. Which is weird. And so is this whole breathing thing because I don’t know how to breathe and I think I’m breathing my nose breath on her cheeks which can’t be good, and the only reason I’m breathing nose breath on her is because I don’t have any mouth breath so it’s either nose breath or NO breath and I don’t want NO breath because I don’t want to die, not now, not ever, but especially not now.
I DREAMED A DREAM
Something about the way the night ended …
And what didn’t happen. I didn’t tell her anything about me. About the dance. Our relationship. Love. Like. Something in between, or something else altogether.
And I walked out in that cold February night as scared as I’ve ever been. And I’ve seen some scary movies in my time. Some of the scariest scenes in the scariest movies and I didn’t even leave a single more than two lights on to fall asleep.
Sabrina drove me home in silence. I mean, her mom did, in a royal blue station wagon with a MY CHILD IS AN HONOR STUDENT bumper sticker, and after I trimmed my Mohawk and hit the pillow that night, I felt such paralyzing guilt and fear—and thirst. Kissing, it turns out, makes you very thirsty, so I drank a bottle of Yoo-hoo, ate a bag of Doritos, and counted over two hundred sheep before I dreamed an interesting dream.
* * *
“I love you,” she says.
I freeze up. No, lock up. A zipper across my mouth, locks across my neck, forearms, and I’ve swallowed the key. The locks are voluntary. I want it this way. I want a force field around me. A moat. A river. An ocean. She’s trying to talk to me and speaking my native tongue, but I don’t understand a word she’s saying. All I hear is my own voice shouting GET AWAY, TOO CLOSE, GET AWAY, RUN, RUN FOR YOUR LIFE!
“Denny, I love you.” She leans in. Locks eyes.
Oh, God. Don’t look at her. Look somewhere else. Look down. Not up again. Down. Look down. Like Jean Valjean in Les Misérables. Look down, look down, 24601 … Is that a zip code? Maybe it’s in Hawaii. I hope it’s in Hawaii. Aloha, Hawaii 24601. That’s where I belong. Stop looking up, look down. Stare at the … dust. Dirt. Candy wrapper. Those ANIMALS leaving wrappers on the ground! Keep calm, keep calm, look away. Look at the … paper, hair, shoelaces. My goodness those are some clean shoelaces. I bet they have that new shoe smell. I would smell them if she weren’t looking at me. Into me. Into my soul.
“Denny, I said ‘I love you.’”
MY those shoelaces are clean. They sure are clean. Like Mr. Clean. Smooth and clean like Mr. Clean. Clean like Mr.—this isn’t working. Think of something better. Tastier. More enjoyable. Like Doritos. Yeah, Doritos. Think about Doritos.
“Denny, say something. You’re supposed to say something.”
Cool Ranch Doritos rock. They really do. They’re spicy and refreshing at the same time. Like Red-Hots. Like an Atomic Fireball. Like salsa. Zesty salsa. Yeah, Cool Ranch Doritos are definitely zesty. Zestily refreshing. I don’t know if “zestily” is a word, but it should be. It really should.
“Denny! Come on! Say something.”
Those Cool Ranch Doritos are making me thirsty. Really thirsty. My throat feels like a web. A cobweb. A spiderweb. An old web in a closet that smells like mothballs. If I don’t get liquid soon, I’ll die of thirst, which is a terrible way to die because all you need is a faucet and even if the water is contaminated at least you won’t die of thirst. You might die of contamination, but nobody ever really dies of contamination unless t
here’s lead in the water, and then at least you could sue and score a million bucks, which doesn’t go as far as it used to, but a million bucks never hurt anybody except rock stars, who don’t drink water anyway. I don’t know what they drink, maybe Yoo-hoo.
“Denny, look at me. I care about you. I’m putting myself out there. Denny, I said, ‘I love you.’ Now it’s your turn.”
Yoo-hoo, now there’s an underrated beverage. Delicious. Refreshing. Almost zestily refreshing. I love Yoo-hoo.
She grabs my shoulders, shakes me. “DENNY, tell me what you’re thinking!”
“I love Yoo—”
“Awwwwwww, Denny.” It looks like she’s melting.
“—hoo. I love Yoo-hoo.”
She looks dizzy, disoriented, like I just spun her around twenty times in a relay race. “Denny, what are you talking about?”
“Yoo-hoo. I love Yoo-hoo.”
“WHAT!!!!?”
“That’s what I was thinking about. You asked me what I was thinking about. I’m just being honest. You always told me to be honest. I was—”
That’s when she punches me. (As she should.)
(And I wake up.)
MY DANGEROUS LIFE AS A JANITOR
The weeks that follow are a blur of wrappers and lower back pain.
The good news: Sayonara, February. You look much better in my rearview mirror. The bad news: I don’t have a rearview mirror. And even when I am old enough to drive, there will be no rearview mirror. My dad’s Buick is “the family car,” which is a nice way of saying “the only car.”
More bad news: that lower back pain I just mentioned. While it’s clear that Mr. Softee’s name fits him well, it’s also clear that business as usual won’t cut the mustard, because we don’t sell hot dogs or anything else that requires mustard. And more important, our current business model is unsustainable.
Too many wrappers = a shutdown, some type of detention-filled crackdown, and though Mr. Softee may be as weak as the soft-serve ice cream he’s named after, that soft-serve ice cream is onto us. He knows my name, my game, even the name of my game. I don’t tell Manny that I mentioned I.M.P., but I do tell him about the meeting because he saw Mr. Softee lead me away. And because he’d be proud of my nimble escape. (Because it rocked.)
But, to be honest, I don’t even know why we’re selling anymore, because of Sabrina—a date—maybe I could have a date—with her—I think I—hope I could—be lucky enough for her to go with me—but there’s Manny and I promised him and I’ve already come this far and how often am I going to raise this type of money to rent cars and maybe pay the mortgage and buy dinners other than fried chicken and Chinese food?
But if Manny and I are still selling, we need to do something now, because we’re running out of time.
At the Warehouse, Manny draws similar conclusions. “I think we are running out of time and we need to change our methods,” he says, slamming his locker.
I hate to say it, but he’s right. But because I hate to say it, and because I’d never hear the end of it if I said it, I simply ask how much we’ve raised so far.
He reaches for a notebook, flips it to the first page, and adjusts his glasses. “At last count, together we have raised $1,438, only a few days from our goal, and two and a half weeks until the dance. Your share of the money is still safe and sound, yes?”
“Of course.” I tap my left foot against my right foot so I can feel the thick roll of twenties against my ankle. “So what’s the plan, Manny? What do we do next?”
“Were you not listening? The plan is this: our goal is $2,000. We will only get there if the wrappers are cleaned up, mopped up, picked up … however you do it, get it done. We will be increasing our distribution for our last push. The Gum Dealer is a threat, but good luck to him giving candy to everyone at school. We must distribute. Wildly. One last mad dash. But you must be careful and pick up wrappers. This is in your hands, Donuts. Those hands may be sugary, chocolaty, and peanut-buttery. But it is still in your hands.”
“Why don’t you pick up wrappers, Manny?”
“I believe it was the principal who asked you to do it, yes?”
* * *
Eating candy loses its luster quickly. You get that sugar high and you want to swing from the rafters and hug the planet for creating something so delicious and energizing and inspiring, and then you die. Fact of life.
No, that’s not true. I mean, you run out of energy, fall from the rafters, crash, hit the floor, smack, crack, and splat.
Turns out, selling candy is exactly the same. At first, it’s all fun and games and tens and then hundreds and fistfuls of freezing firm cash. And now, instead of a simple “Thank you, come again,” I’m forced to say, “Thank you, come again, but don’t drop the wrapper” … “Come on, clean up after yourself, man—what do I look like, your maid? Have you no soul? Have you no sense of dignity? Have you no shame, man? You’re killing the environment. The ozone is melting and so is the chocolate on your wrapper and you don’t even care, spoiled brat!” … “Yeah I’m talking to you. Remember not to eat it in class, be respectful, be responsible, you filthy animal” … “What, you’re never coming back? Fine by me, I just added you to my ‘no-sell list.’ What’s a no-sell list? It’s like a no-fly list: you go nowhere and get nothing. Next time you want candy, I’ll suggest the nearest corner store” … “Hey, seriously? In the middle of class, who raised you? How old are you? Don’t you think it’s about time you act your age and grow up? I mean, really, grow up, man. Grow up. Yeah, you. Grow up. Hey, pick that up! What? No, you suck! You’re the scum of the earth, you know that? Please come again. My name is Denny and I sell candy.”
* * *
I am the janitor. I am the manners police.
I am my own worst nightmare. I am a nagging teacher.
* * *
With every step I take, I’m back at her funeral, picking up Juicy Fruit wrappers.
They may say Snickers, Milky Way, Twix. But they smell like Juicy Fruit.
* * *
Wrappers are like a family of ants: you don’t see them until you look for them, and where there’s one, there are thousands. Under chairs, on top of chairs, under tables, under desks, in desks.
Animals, I tell you, animals at this school!
(And yes, ants, too. Unlike me, they seem to enjoy wrappers.)
Lunch is the worst. The wrappers come down like falling leaves and I can’t stop them. I need a rake. I need a broom. I need a leaf blower. I need a new lunchtime activity. Before that meeting with Mr. Softee, each wrapper that fell was a symbol of my success. Now they’re proof, evidence, that Donuts was here. All anyone has to do is look down.
It’s pretty much all I do, all day, every day.
Look down. Look down. I’m like Jean Valjean in Les Misérables, toiling with my bare hands. Look down, and see the animals of Blueberry Hills Middle. Look down. Look down. Mrs. Q, what have I done? I deserve the pain, for I was a pain; I see now what I put you through, and I am sorry. You are the goddess of mathematics and I am trash. A worthless wrapper. I am so very sorry. I want you to know that.
While on the cafeteria floor, before I lose my nerve, I pull out a pen and some paper from my backpack and start writing an apology note:
Dear Mrs. Q, I was an idiot, a maroon moron. I know that now. I am sorry. I hope you are well and that things are peachy okay in the Learning Zone. My hearts and prayers go out to you.
I scratch that last line out because “hearts” is a stupid word to use because I only have one heart. And besides, “my hearts and prayers go out to you” sounds like a note you hand to someone who has lost a mom instead of to a math teacher you gotta make up with. “Sorry you’re lost” is a much better way of expressing sympathy, but it doesn’t fit this scenario. Plus, “peachy” sounds sarcastic, and I spelled “moron” like the color “maroon,” so I crumple it up and add it to the pile of trash on the ground and look down. Look down. Snickers, Butterfinger, Milky Way, Twix. This better be wort
h it. Better be worth it. Better be worth it.
No matter how many I pick up, there are twenty I can’t get to. Under tables, under Sabrina’s table. She’s still wearing blue Converse sneakers, the color fading like our relationship. I look up to tell her I’m now invested in the environment, doing my part for Earth Day, but something tells me she doesn’t believe me.
She says it, actually. “I don’t believe you.”
I don’t know what to say to her.
But I do know this: I feel like a moron, a maroon, a moron with a maroon face from sweating and grunting and picking up garbage all day.
And I do know this: I want to tell the truth.
And I do know this: I want to ask her to the dance.
And I do know this: my lower back hurts.
And I do know this: in a few days, when our goal is met, I’ll quit this job forever.
* * *
Every afternoon from 2:50 to 3:10 is the final sweep. Twenty minutes to do one last desperate cleanup before the janitor clocks in. It’s intense, the pace furious. It requires a superhuman burst of strength, exhausting each and every energy reserve. A miracle, a prayer is what’s required. Or, what I sell on a daily basis. See, it’s in these heart-racing, calorie-burning moments that I find my merchandise to be of assistance.
So, on a Wednesday at 2:48, I reach into the bottom compartment of my backpack, push past all the crumpled stacks of bills, and pull out two Milky Ways. No time for enjoyment, I scarf both of them down in eight bites. I swallow hard.
Propelled by a double dose of chocolaty nougat, I run from classroom to classroom, any garbage, ma’am, any trash? Haven’t you heard of global warming? Just trying to do my part … A last sweep of the lunchroom: look down, Denny, look down, I mutter, but it’s a faster version of the Les Misérables song, the techno version, look down look down look down look down look look look look down down down down, look down look down look down look down look look look look down down down down ’cause I’m runnin’ on caffeine and runnin’ out of time. Gotta get to the bleachers in the gym, the stairwells, the locker room. Don’t mind me, dude in the jock strap calling me a perv, dude in the shower cursing me out—just pickin’ up your garbage. Well, sure, I sold it to you, which technically makes it my garbage, but when it became your property it became your garbage, so why am I cleaning it up? Ask the principal, yes I’m leaving, shower in peace. My words are fast my heart is fast the cleanup is fast God bless you Milky Way you are seriously an out-of-this-world candy and my sugar high is in full blast—and good thing too because the stairwells are a mess and sure my hands get stepped on but I’m feeling so nougaty good it doesn’t bother me and I head to C wing, the last area to sweep, and I’m glad I come to C wing ’cause it’s there I stumble into a mountain of wrappers over a foot high in the corner of the halls.
Sorry You're Lost Page 16
