Sorry You're Lost (19 page)

Melinda looks up. “Hold on a sec, will ya, boys?” Then she whispers in the phone, “I gotta go, Lucinda. I have new clients. Yeah, they're young, too. They look like charmers.”

“We
are
charmers, are we not, Donuts?”

“You can't be serious about this…”

Melinda hangs up the phone and opens her arms. “Well, look what the wind blew in this aft-a-noon. Hello, boys, how can I help you?”

Manny clears his throat. “We are looking for makeovers. Well,
I
am. My friend Donuts here is a bit squeamish about change.”

Melinda nods in my direction. “Well hello, Mist-a Donuts. Funny, I believe I ate you fa-breakfast. You were powdery and had those little coffee cake crumbs on top.” She kisses the inside of her orange fingertips. “Delicious!”

To keep from laughing, Manny smothers his mouth. I'm not sure what's so funny or why we're even here in the first place. I mean, I understand getting aggressive with our strategy to improve our compatibility quotient, as Manny would say, but I look fine the way I do. Don't I? And anyway, aren't makeovers for girls?

“Don't worry, Mist-a Donuts, sweetie.” She waves an arm in the air, then bends it at the wrist. “Melinda'll take care of yous.”

Manny pipes up. “Greetings, Ms. Melinda. I am looking for the perfect haircut and style to attract members of the opposite species and leave them flabbergasted.”

“Species? You mean, like aliens?” Melinda rubs the back of her arms. “They give me the heeber jeebers.”

“No, not aliens. Females. Though sometimes I get them mixed up myself.” He sighs. “They do often confound me. Especially now. We have a dance coming up.”

Melinda puts a hand to her heart. “Oh my! Prom season is upon us already! I should redeem my gift certificate now for that Swedish massage before my shoulders get too stiff, all jammed and jammy.”

“No, not prom. It is the seventh grade dance.”

“Oh my, the seventh grade dance, quite a rite of passage. Like multiple Bar Mitzvahs at your school at the same time.”

“Yes, uh, I had not thought of that and, anyway, unlike most spineless students at our school who migrate to dances in flocks of ten and twenty, Donuts and I would like to bring dates to our seventh grade dance.”

She raises her pink-outlined eyebrows. “How ambitious you two are. Are you sure you're only
seventh
graders? Oh, honey, you look
much
older.”

Manny grins. “Indeed, but we are not necessarily going for an old look. More of a different look. A perfect look. That is it! I want to look like Mr. Perfect, former World Wrestling Federation Intercontinental Champion.”

She frowns. “Unfortunately, sweetie pie, I'm not quite familiar with wrestlers. Do you have a picture?”

“Only in my locker. At school.”

“Oh, that's too bad. Can you describe it for me?”

“He has curly blond hair, oily, that falls from his head in spirals, curlicues … like oily curly fries hanging on all sides of his head.”

“Oh my, that doesn't sound so good, honey.”

Dejected, Manny asks Melinda what she recommends.

“Honey, I have hundreds of other styles to choose from. They're all numbered.” She hands over a book of hair. I mean, a hair book. I mean, a book of hairstyles. “I can pretty much do whatever you'd like, honey bunches. I'm a very versatile stylist.”

“See, Donuts? That is what everyone said on Yelp: ‘very versatile.'”

I wish Melinda hadn't called us honey bunches. Too similar to my mom calling me Honey Bunches of Oats, but I have to focus now. On my hair.

And Manny's already in the chair, ordering a blond #45.

 

THE KITCHEN SINK

Oily curly fries. Now that I think about it—I mean, look at it—it's the perfect way to describe the Mr. Perfect do that Manny wanted. And got. So badly.

“Honey, as the politicians
should
say in their commercials on my television set: My name is Melinda and I do
not
support this message,” Melinda kept saying, but Manny assured her it was for a good cause.

Assured me, too. For my hair, I mean.

I
was
tired of the wings on the sides of my head, but …

To chop off all the hair on the sides of my head and replace it with an orange Mohawk, hair-sprayed to full attention …

This was Manny's idea, which I wasn't on board with, but his chants of “Mo-Hawk, Mo-Hawk, Mo-Hawk” brought me back to the days of “Do-Nuts, Do-Nuts,” and I liked that performance feeling, leaping outside myself into another body. Plus, it goes perfectly with my desk surfer persona, if anyone remembers my trash can shenanigans.

“Aloha, new look!” I actually say that in Melinda's chair. “I
do
like the new orange do.”

Manny scolds me for embarrassing him with lame jokes, then pulls out a wad of dollar bills to pay Melinda for her “versatile services.” Then he tells me to pay for half, so I reach into my sock.

“My pleasure, boychicks. Now good luck boogying down at the dance! Make sure you get a nice suit. You don't want to look shlumpy.”

“Shlumpy?”

“That's right. You don't want to look like a shlump. You want to look nice.”

We wave goodbye to Melinda.

With my orange hair dye and Manny's perm included, we're still left with over eight hundred dollars but no dates. Until tomorrow.

At least, that's the plan.

*   *   *

What do I have to lose? What do I have to lose?
That's what I keep telling my new Mohawk self walking into school today—at 8:30, not 8:15. The less time I have to spend in school in front of other people the better.
But what do I have to lose?

As usual, I'm supposed to meet Manny in the hallways, but “usual” is the last word I'd use to describe him. Brushing the blond curly fries from the front of his face, Manny struts toward me, orange leather shoes clapping against the hallway floor. A loose-fitting black suit hangs on his wiry frame, a blue shirt and pink tie underneath. In his side pocket, a yellow handkerchief matches his new hair.

For the first time in years, his backpack is behind him instead of against his chest.

“Brooks Brothers,” he says, slowly spinning around, modeling his new (and expensive) transformation.

“But, Manny, all the money!”

“Clearance rack.” He brushes the lint off his shoulders. “I am indeed a smart shopper—and a sharp one, too, eh? Eh? What do you think?”

“I think we look ridiculous.”

He gasps. “I certainly do not, but I admit that you do. You look flabbergasting.”

I look down at a red-checkered shirt tucked into dark green pants. With my orange Mohawk, I look like Christmas on fire. I know that because Manny tells me so.

“Okay, Christmas on Fire, listen up. Here is the plan…”

Thankfully, Sabrina hasn't seen me yet. Maybe she'll be absent. Maybe she got picked to sing in
Les Mis
. Maybe she's working on our project from home. Maybe …

“Are you listening, Donuts? We need to keep selling candy and do our very best to raise our compatibility quotient—and see if we have
already
done so with our new looks. It is my hope that our makeovers, combined with a renewed push to complete our market research, will make for a successful day. ‘Successful' meaning a day of dates. From now on, D-Day will be a national holiday to celebrate our Day of Dates. The day perfection was finally achieved by a rising entrepreneur and his pastry-named friend.”

The first part of his plan—the selling part—sounds fine. It can't hurt to raise more. If it miraculously works out with Sabrina and I don't need to rent a car or plane or limousine or hang glider for someone else to go with me, I'll give the money to Manny. Or keep it to buy my own car or plane or limousine or hang glider. Or a new food group for the Natural Schmoozer. And top-of-the-line paper towels for him, too.

It's just that second part of his plan—complete market research and actually get a date—that doesn't sound so easy. I mean, Sabrina's not even here.

“You are first,” Manny says, nudging me in the back. “Go get them, tiger.”

“But where? Who?”

“That one,” he says, pointing to an eighth grader with curly red hair and dimples, unloading books at her locker. “Find out what attracts the opposite species. And this time, Donuts, I am watching.”

“But I don't even know her.”

“Then acquire information for me. Better yet, acquire a date for me.”

He hands me a briefcase. It's not heavy but certainly not light. “What's in there?” I ask.

“The kitchen sink,” he says.

“A whole sink in a briefcase?”

He rolls his eyes. “It is an expression. The kitchen sink means ‘everything,' which in our case means information on everything we can possibly offer. You will find brochures on transportation, a guide to the concert series next month, a spreadsheet of all the hippest after-parties, pamphlets on cooking classes and science museums and formal attire for you and her in hundreds of styles and colors, and coupons for pocketbooks and necklaces, oh, and extra candy bars…”

His voice trails off as he nods in the direction of Ronald Latimer, who is handing out candy bars (regular size this time) at his locker, free of charge. The pigeons swoop in for a complimentary snack. “Sweeties, Ronald, sweeties, sweeties, sweeties…”

“This may be our last shot,” Manny says. “Do not let me down. Make her feel comfortable, inquire about her availability, toss a pickup line in there if you must, but get in, get info and/or a date for me, and get out of there. That is an order.”

*   *   *

It feels wrong. But for Manny I'd do anything. Well, almost anything. No way am I asking her to the dance. No way will I bribe her in any way. And no way I'm using any lame pickup lines. Information is all I need. Good ol' safe market research. The redhead is slamming her locker. My hands are sweaty and cold, especially the one gripping the briefcase.

I look over my shoulder. Manny raises a fist.
You can do this,
he mouths.

Do what? I have no idea what I'm doing. But it's too late to turn back now.
For me,
I see him pleading.

I clear my throat. “Excuse me,” I say. “Excuse me.” But she's already walking away, and though I tell myself not to, I'm following her. “EXCUSE ME!” I say, loud enough for her—and everyone else on that side of the floor—to hear me.

The whispers fill the halls:
Yo, look at Donuts's Mohawk. Dude looks like he got his fingers caught in an orange outlet. Dude lost his marbles, except the orange ones. His hair looks like orange Gatorade froze while being dumped on his head. You'll never believe how many orange icicles Donuts glued to his head … Check it out …

I wait until the crowd finishes checking me out before I start speaking to the redhead.

She has fair skin and an easy smile. She looks like an orange daisy.

“Excuse me,” I say again.

“Yes, I hear you,” she says. “What is it?”

“We have similar hair color, but yours, of course, is better-looking. As are you, compared to me.”

“What?!” She's already walking away and I haven't even shown her the brochures for sports cars and helicopters and launching pads and laser tags and I'm failing, failing again. I've failed Manny and he'll always be alone. Alone. Alone. I'm not cut out for this, any of this, and I've failed myself and failed Manny and I might as well give up, give up on myself, but I can't give up on Manny and—

“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?”