Sorry You're Lost (11 page)

The doors open.

They don't
burst
open, but they open. See, I forgot to mention that Blueberry Hills students are usually late. It's not really our fault. I mean, we don't drive, remember? We rely on other people for rides. If they're late, we're late. If they don't care about being on time, then we get yelled at by teachers for not being on time.

Anyway, so the doors open. Slowly. People trickle in. By “people” I mean mostly sixth graders. Seventh and eighth graders are fashionably late. By “fashionably late” I mean “sort of late on purpose.” By that I mean their parents are sort of late on purpose because we can't drive.

Manny smacks me on the arm. “Watch this,” he says, lugging his backpack to the first sixth grader through the door.

“Candy is a dollar!” Manny hollers. “Help support I.M.P.”

One order form checked. One sale.

And another. “Support the I.M.P. foundation. It is for a good cause.”

Manny can't resist turning to me and whispering, “It is for a good cause be
cause
the money is going to me.”

Back and forth he goes, announcing his product and whispering to me:

“Here you go, candy is a dollar. You have made an excellent investment.

“[An investment in
my
future.]

“Support I.M.P., part of the United Adolescent Foundation.

“[
I
am that adolescent and I am united with this box.]

“It is tax deductible.

“[Not that you have even the
slightest
idea what that means.]”

Nobody questions Manny or says a single word, until the seventh and eighth graders stroll in. “Buy your candy here for a good cause!” Manny shouts. “Support I.M.P.”

Reaching for his wallet, some smart-aleck puffs out his chest and says, “Oh yeah, what's I.M.P. stand for?”

“International Monetary Prudential,” Manny answers, unblinking.

The kid freezes.

“I assume you
have
heard of it,” Manny adds.

The kid nods his head slightly. “Well, ah, whatever, give me a Snickers.”

Once he passes, Manny chuckles. “He has no idea what International Monetary Prudential means.”

“Manny, I don't even know what that means.”

“Neither do I. But I.M.P. does stand for something.” He stifles a laugh. “It stands for In My Pocket.”

As the crowd continues to shuffle in, I take a deep breath and make an important public service announcement: “School draggin' you down? Eat a Mounds! Tired of the school's laws? Suck on Sour Straws! Candyman, Candyman here. Just your friendly neighborhood fund-raising Candyman who won't linger, so get at that Butterfinger!”

Even Manny has to give me props. “Catchy,” he says, “now make a sale.” Well, he
means
to give me props. And soon he has to.

A minute later all I see is a blur of desperate fingers and dead presidents on green paper. A tap on my shoulder, a tug on my backpack, dollar bills waved in my face—“No, I don't have change for a twenty”—“but now I do”—a poke in my arm, tap on my head, Skittles, Skittles, Skittles, two fingers in the air, now four, Milky Way, Snickers, no
two
Milky Ways and
four
Snickers.

Snap your fingers. I just sold four more candy bars.

Snap them again. I sold another five.

I love snapping my fingers but I can't now because they're busy. Order forms in my right hand, candy in my left, an X, another X, an X in the right box, an X in the wrong box that's okay here's your candy, fund-raiser, candy, candy, candy, support I.M.P., Candyman is here and wanted and ready and willing and able to seize this school by its sweet tooth. X, another X, hello yes I have what you're looking for no need to look any further you understand, yes you do, pats on the back, smiles, crinkling wrappers, tearing wrappers, it's for a good cause, good cause, wrappers twisting to the floor, at my feet, I step on them, they're everywhere, “hey clean up after yourselves, you monkeys!” I'd like to say but all I hear are wallets, zippers, freezing firm cash, three Sour Patch Kids, two Swedish Fish, three X's, two X's, no
three
Swedish Fish,
two
Sour Patch Kids, two X's, three X's, another Swedish Fish and I ditch the order forms. Way too slow and my wrists are on fire and my hands are tired and my trapdoor backpack is getting more complicated and my fingers are losing their grip, but the end product—someone to dance with, reach my arms around, and kiss?—pushes me forward.

“It's morning, as stale as a fart. Buy a bag of SweeTarts!” I announce … and now SweeTarts sell like hotcakes. I don't know about selling hotcakes or pancakes or flapjacks or whatever you want to call them in the middle of the halls, but I know this much to be true: candy is the new hotcake. Manny was right about selling in public. The candy flies out of my backpack so fast it must have wings.

I couldn't get my clients to stop buying even if I tried. By 8:40, I've raked in $47, Manny $33. I must admit, I feel good.

*   *   *

With adrenaline and good vibes running through my veins, I tell Manny my next plan of action. “I'm going to sell in the bathroom. In the stalls.”

“What! Flabbergasting!” His eyes bulge. “First, that is a downright strange and convoluted idea. But, more important, that is a highly ineffective use of time, for as everyone knows, you never know who is actually in the stalls.”

“Some people may not know but I always know. I like to stick my head under the door to see. Sometimes attach a mirror to my shoe, like in spy movies. And sometimes I do a pull-up on the stall door, peek down, and yell, ‘Spell ICUP! Spell it!' And if they don't spell it, I help 'em out: ‘It's spelled: I SEE YOU PEE!'”

“You must be kidding. Tell me you are kidding.”

“I am. Sort of.”

I may be kidding about selling inside the stalls, but I'm not joking about moving merchandise outside the bathroom. So, first period, while Manny's in math class and I'm still banished from the Learning Zone, I waltz up and down the halls near the bathroom, feeling good, scouting out potential buyers.

Bathroomgoers, it turns out, are a reliable clientele.

Do I sell candy in the stalls? Heavens, no. Don't be ridiculous. I just wait outside, and when they approach the bathroom, I go in for the kill.

“Taking a pee? Buy candy from me.”

“Dropping a deuce? Buy Starburst, the juice is loose.” That one's a stretch, but so is our whole operation. How we'll ever convince girls to be our dates is beyond me, but why worry about such things when business is so good?

How good? In ten minutes, I sell thirty-three candy bars outside the boys' bathroom.
That
good.

Nearly as predictable as a bathroom break is Manny's
Level 2: Breakups.
You can hear them from down the hall, sniveling, pulling tissues from their lockers, blowing their noses like foghorns. A big breakup involves a support group, circling around the victim like a moat around a castle—cue Manny's rose-peddler strategy—but a smaller one, such as that involving this girl leaning on a locker on the right side of the hall, is a solo operation.

Above the girl's head, a reminder of my mission: a poster, written in purple glitter—
SEVENTH GRADE DANCE, APRIL 3RD
—which means that if I want a date but don't raise enough money to entice one with fast cars and after-parties, I have less than two months to ask a blowup doll if she'll go with me, convince Manny to wear a girly wig, or move to Canada where they don't have dances.

Anyway, the girl is maybe four feet tall, wearing a baggy red shirt and sweatpants. She looks like a sixth grader, but with girls you can never be too sure of anything. Except the obvious signs of heartache. Nothing screams breakup like sweatpants and boogers.

A big ol' wipe and she stuffs a palmful of wet tissues in the pockets of her sweats. Might as well tattoo “Property of the Neighborhood Candyman” across her nose.

I comb my fingers across my eyebrows and slink up to her, smooth as silk. In my most sympathetic, soothing tone, I say, “My heartfelt apologies for the interruption. I don't mean to startle you, but if there's any way I can help, please don't hesitate.”

I hold up two packs of SweeTarts.

She dabs her eyes, pouts her lips, but there's a smile under that blanket of sadness, I can see it. “You're better off without him,” I say. “Look at you, your beauty could move continents.”

And there it is, like a rainbow after a storm, a smile behind a string of braces as she says, “You really think I could move the United States?”

No wonder she got dumped. “Absolutely,” I say. “The United States is a fine continent. You could move it for miles. Across the American Ocean.”

She giggles—at me, at herself, at her breakup? Hey, all that matters is that this geography whiz pulls a five out of her wallet and cleans me out of Snickers.

Of course, I'd personally recommend SweeTarts, but who am I to argue?

As she unwraps the first of her purchases and gives me a thankful smile, I feel an urge to keep her company, eat a candy bar by her side in this time of need. I haven't eaten breakfast yet, didn't even eat dinner last night, passing on another leftover fried chicken meal with the Natural Schmoozer. I
could
eat a candy bar—I mean, one of the great things about being the Candyman is instant food access—but Manny says it's incest to dip into your own candy supply. He also says it's flabbergasting to steal from yourself. Manny's warnings aside, a candy bar sounds about as appetizing as a cotton swab right now because I've never been this thirsty. All that advertising, those shouts to calm down and be civil and wait in line for my autograph. Being the friendly neighborhood Candyman has its side effects, and I certainly have a newfound respect for the many food men out there—Pretzel Man, Hot Dog Man, Bagel Man, Cotton Candy Man—because my throat is as dry as peanut butter.

I need a drink, not candy, and that's when I come upon a new level.
Level 3: Those who aren't thirsty.
And where can the least thirsty people in school be found?

*   *   *

Around the corner from the geography whiz's locker is the water fountain, which unfortunately for my thirst but fortunately for me is currently being used by a female with black leggings and a checkered purple top. I haven't practiced slogans for the water fountain yet and unfortunately it shows. “Your thirst is now erased, so how about some Skittles for your face? You know, for your mouth, which is part of your face.”

The girl picks her head up from the water fountain and brushes her hair from her eyes. Seeing that it's Sabrina, I decide not to waste my time making a sale. “Never mind,” I tell her. “I thought you were someone else.”

She looks me up and down. “Do people really buy those lines?”

“No, they buy the candy. Gladly from the candy. Man.”

She smirks. “Take your time on those rhymes.”

“Nice!” I tell her. “A poet, I like that in a woman.”

“Getting banned from Mrs. Q's class so I can learn. I like that in a man.”

“Wow, you
are
a poet. You just rhymed ‘banned' with ‘man.' I believe that's called off-rhyme. Mr. Morgan taught us that. We have him next period.”

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, like Mrs. Q. “If it's poetry you understand, then run away, play in the hallway—just stay away so I don't waste my day.”

“Noted. But first, might you care for a Milky Way?”

She grunts past me.

I really gotta work on my water fountain sales pitch. A perfect rhyme, a catchy jingle:
Now that your palette is refreshed, how about a Nestlé Crunch?
So close.

*   *   *

Skipping Mrs. Q's class due to banishment is one thing, but I never, ever—I mean
ever
(unless it's on a Friday)—skip Mr. Morgan's English class. Mr. Morgan isn't like the other gods or goddesses of the school. He wears jeans, rarely shaves, and rocks aviator sunglasses even when we're watching a movie in class with the lights out.

Mr. Morgan is more than the god of English. He is the supreme and unmerciful and omniscient god of English, or for short: S.U.O.G.E. I don't call him S.U.O.G.E. or supreme and unmerciful and omniscient god of English to his face because that would be long-winded, ridiculous, and inappropriate. And he told me not to. Many times.

I've also tried calling him “hero and role model”—or for short, H.R.M., pronounced “Herm,” which would be perfect if his first name was Herm. Or Herman. But it's not. When I asked him what his first name was, he said it started with an “M.”

“Michael?” I guessed. “Matthew? Mitchell? Marc? Manny? Marvin? Melvin?”

“Mister,” he said. “My first name is Mister.”

*   *   *

“Homey don't play that,” it says above
Mister
Morgan's chalkboard. He told our class he borrowed the line from some television show that he used to watch before we were born. Which makes him sound old. Because he sort of is. Older than Mrs. Q anyway, but unlike her, Mr. Morgan is a grizzled veteran, as grizzled as the grizzliest middle-aged grizzly bear in the grizzliest middle school forest in Grizzlyland. He said he was 138 years old, but nobody believed him. (I think he's that minus 100.) He also said he was a ninja warrior sent back through time to save the human race from children who don't do all their homework. I always know when he's making a joke because we're both skilled comedians and all skilled comedians know that timing is everything.

He tries sometimes to have good noncomedic timing by asking me after class how I'm doing, and if there's anything he can do for me. “Eliminate homework. And all other work,” I've told him, “ban it forever.” Lately, I've been telling him that more than anything I want him to make me strong.