Sorry You're Lost (21 page)

“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.”

“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 there'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?”