Sorry You're Lost (17 page)

 

MARKET RESEARCH

“Coward.” Manny wags a finger at me beside my locker before lunch. He smells of Lucky Charms, which is a great smell, but he also smells of milk and coffee. The combo isn't working. And neither are we because apparently I had an assignment this morning and Manny acts the part of a disappointed teacher.

“The fact that you have yet to even begin to compile market research is not only flabbergasting, but it makes you a coward,” he scolds. “If you refuse to further our enterprise, you are a scammer hater. I have warned you many times against scammer hating.” He looks me up and down. “Look at you. Like a kid on the high dive afraid to leap.”

I ignore that last bit, though it's exactly how I feel. Often. I want to do something bold, but my feet won't follow. I want to tell Sabrina I like her and tell Mrs. Q it's all an act, tell my dad he's got to—

“I don't understand, Manny. You want me to walk up to a random girl and see what attracts her? What type of car she likes?”

He grabs my shoulder. “This is not a focus group. We are not approaching just anyone and asking for their opinion. I mean, seriously, who wants a random person's opinion? There is no better market research than from the primary source. We are after the real thing, and in the words of men much more cinematically Italian than I am, we are not after a Fugazi—we are after the gold. By ‘gold' I mean…”

He doesn't need to finish that sentence. I'm already two steps ahead. Really, I am. I know Allison's schedule better than she does, so I'm well aware that she's behind me in the middle of the hall, talking with a circle of friends. I know who she hugs and who she kisses (Anna, Chad), which books she carries before lunch (science, history), and which ones after lunch (English, health). I know her locker number (175), which pen she prefers (blue, ballpoint), and which gum she chews (Orbit, green).

I know which sneakers she wears every other Wednesday (Pumas, brown), which period she goes to her locker (third), how long she spends there (two minutes, forty-seven seconds), so I know just when to walk up to her and say, “Hello, Allison. I'm Denny. Denny Murphy. We're neighbors. You know that, right? Okay, good. We have a lot in common, like … we're neighbors. I already said that? Okay, well, we also both like lunch. We both eat lunch fourth period. You're in eighth grade and I'm in seventh but we both go to Blueberry Hills, so we also have
that
in common. My dance is coming up. What do you think of Porsches? Why am I asking? Because I can drive you in one. Well,
I
can't drive you because even very mature middle schoolers like me can't drive, but I'll be in there and you'll be in there and we can play all the Justin Bieber songs you want. What—you like the Biebster? Great, we can go meet him after the dance and—of course we can meet him, we're best buds. Homeys, that's what Biebs and I are, best homeys for life. BHFL. We're even tighter than me and the Rockafellas. Who are they? Nobody of importance. Biebs and I have so much in common we complete each other's … sentences. That's how he would've finished that sentence: with the word ‘sentences.' What? You like his hair? Funny you should say so. I have an appointment at this swank stylist because she swears she can give me the Bieber do. But only if—you do? You'll go with me to the dance? That's super. I mean, flabbergasting. I mean, good. So we're on like filet mignon? Oh, steak sounds good to you? Sure, I'll buy you dinner beforehand. Filet mignon it is. Pick you up at seven? Yuppers, I mean, yup, yes, I'll see you there.”

“Go,” Manny says. “Get it done. Now.”

But now is obviously not the time to approach Allison. I mean, I sorta don't even want to go with her, because Sabrina, well, maybe, hopefully kind of likes me and I maybe kind of like her, and even if Sabrina
doesn't
like me, I can't approach Allison now. With her friends so close by, I'll end up buying the whole group filet mignon, which doesn't quite fit the budget.

“Too many filet mignons,” I tell Manny.

“Huh?”

“Too many people, Manny. I'll talk to her later.”

“Unacceptable, Donuts. I am disappointed in your cowardice, but also in your lack of perceptiveness. You are not seeing this scene correctly.” He looks over my shoulder. “One of them is crying, Donuts. There was a breakup.”

“A breakup? Great! Good for business.”

“Indeed, it is. And guess where I heard it?”

“Through the social pipeline?”

“You are so very intelligent, dear friend.”

“So what's the news?”

I peek over a stream of moving bodies. Allison's crying.

“The news, Donuts, is that Chad is old news,” Manny whispers. “Before you get too excited, you should know that as an integral part of the social pipeline, I hear that these things unfortunately fluctuate. Romantic relationships fluctuate. Lovebirds break up. They piece things back together. They break up. They piece it together. They shatter it irreparably. Time is of the essence, Donuts. Find out her interests,
now
. Do market research,
now
.”

“So what you're saying is, I should ask her about cars?”

“Sure, that would be lovely. But if your nerve fails you, as I expect it will, break the ice and sell them candy.” He shoves me in the back. “That is your cue, rose peddler.”

I remove a box of Snickers from my bag.

“Meet me at the Warehouse,” Manny says. “You have three minutes.”

*   *   *

Allison has more friends when she's crying than I do when I'm rich. Well, almost rich. Together, Manny and I have raised over eight hundred dollars. But it sounds like pennies considering the name brands in front of me.

Seven girls in Polo sweaters and Diesel jeans clutch Prada handbags while they pet Allison's blond hair.

“You,” one of them says, “can I help you?” It's Anna Harden and I only know this because everyone knows this. Like I said, she's sort of the school's Number Two, to Allison of course. She's phenomenal at lacrosse and has a mouthful of white teeth and makeup and dimples that bend in three places when she smiles. Right now, she's not smiling. Right now, she has pink nails, a red headband, a furrowed brow, red sparkling shoes with heels—sharp ones like spears—and right now, she has one hand on her hip, one petting Allison's hair. “Can I
help
you?” she repeats.

“Romantic relationships fluctuate … I hear they do … I hear they fluctuate.” I don't mean to say this. I really don't, but something seems to happen to my filter in their presence. (It disappears.)

“Excuse me?” they all say. At exactly the same time. It's impressive, actually, like synchronized swimmers with matching caps and dance moves at the Olympics. Thankfully, I don't call them “synchronized swimmers with matching caps and dance moves at the Olympics.” Instead I say, “I mean, what you're doing, supporting a friend, is so very important and I feel terrible for pulling you away. But, well, I'm Denny and I'm selling candy and I was wondering if you'd like to support your friend and me, by—”

“Giving us some?”

“Well, each candy is only—”

Anna snatches five Snickers from my hands. “Now beat it. Scram!” She makes a peace sign with two fingers and says, “Deuces.”

Laughter, not the good kind, and a spotlight, which at least I'm used to. But I don't even know why I'm here. I miss Sabrina. My face flushes. I steal a peek at Manny.
Keep going,
he mouths between clenched teeth.

“I—I'm happy to help!” I proclaim, but then … I don't know if it's their reputation or my thirst or my nerves, but I lose my ability to speak. I lose my … I pretty much lose everything. I say, “Your Friendly Neighborhood Fund-raising Candyman is always here, all day, every day, from nine to five … that's nine a.m. to five p.m.… well, more like eight thirty a.m. to three p.m., but I often get here early around eight fifteen a.m. and stay till around three ten p.m., usually three fifteen p.m., to see if anyone from the band needs nourishment … and I don't normally sell on weekends, unless you live near my house…” I look between the ladies for a glimpse of Allison. “Anything for a neighbor.”

“Get lost,” Anna says.

I know I've already overstayed my welcome, but I can't pass up the opportunity. As Manny said, there's no better market research than from the primary source. I take a step away from Allison's crowd, then turn around, as if I'm forgetting something. “Which do you ladies prefer: a sports car or limo? To ride in. To the dance, I mean. To
and
from, round-trip. With someone of my age. Which is the most, ah, enticing?”

No answer. Probably because I'm babbling.
Be clearer, Denny, as clear as Windex on windows. Come on, speak!

“It's only a general survey, ladies, I was just wondering—hey, I couldn't help but notice that you're wearing nice shoes. Lovely shoes. What shoes do you prefer in a man? I mean, on a man. I mean, for a man to wear on his feet. While he's dancing at the seventh grade dance. And while he's
not
dancing at the seventh grade dance.”

They trade puzzled looks.

“Only asking, you know, because I shop at all the finest stores and, you know, where would you recommend picking up attractive clothing? For middle school males, I mean. Like me. Well, not
for
me, but…”

Prada. That seems to be the general answer. And that's the last word I see as a bag hits me upside the face. Yup, Prada. I see it again. And again.

And again.

 

FAST AND LOOSE

To make up for my generous donation to Allison's support group and for the time lost icing the side of my face, I gotta do what a man's gotta do. Such is the biz. Fruit Roll-Ups, which previously were only fifty cents, have doubled in price. It takes me all of about seventeen seconds in the lunchroom to make up for the lost money.
Level 1: Hungry People
has never looked so good.

And it better be. Because we've got competition. At least according to Manny we do. “We have competition, Donuts,” he says to me at our lunch table, nodding over my shoulder at a crowd around Ronald Latimer, a tall, already-mustachioed seventh grader who, despite his braces, chews gum incessantly, and since I've known him has gone around the school giving out free gum and Jolly Ranchers. Girls have always shamelessly flirted their way to handfuls of sweets—or as Ronald calls them, “sweeties”—and ever since
that
caught on, whole groups of females have swooped to Ronald's locker between classes, like packs of starving pigeons, cooing, “Sweeties, Ronald, sweeties, sweeties…” That's what they're cooing right now.

I turn back to Manny. “C'mon, he only deals out gum and sucking candy. You don't need to worry about him. He's not a threat to our business. He's just a … well … he's just the Gum Dealer.”

“The Gum Dealer is indeed a threat to our business. Look closer.”

“Manny, seriously?”

“I promise you will be flabbergasted.”

I don't even need to turn around. Ronald's flock has already dispersed across the lunchroom, clutching bite-size Snickers and Twix. Yup, chocolate candy. Just like the candy we sell for a dollar.

“Crap,” I mutter.

Manny snarls his face and balls his fists. “Gum Dealer!”

Ronald must hear Manny because he looks our way and smiles a chocolaty grin.

“In your braces!” Manny hollers for everyone to hear. “Chocolate in your braces! Old chocolate! Expired, I think! Poisonous! I would definitely go see the nurse!”

Ronald nods but refuses to give Manny the satisfaction of seeing him pick his teeth. Instead, he picks his nose, at least I think he does. Sometimes it's hard to tell the difference between a scratch and a pick. Anyway, once Manny has calmed down, we test the market to see the impact of Ronald's free candy enterprise.

Thankfully, it's minimal. Ronald may be onto something, but the bite-size candies aren't enough to satisfy a whole lunchroom. Ronald makes a dent in our operation, but no more, because the lunchroom is a gold mine, the forty-five-minute period a gold rush. Manny and Denny, Suppliers of Gold. Might as well be our new name. I take the left side of the room, Manny the right. I don't sit down the entire lunch period. Don't have time to. If someone took a leaf blower to a pile of garbage, that's what the scene looks like. A bull rush to the Suppliers of Gold, then a tornado of wrappers. Minus the burden of order forms, my merchandise is fast and loose. Fast in sales, loose in bargains. Five for four? Sure, why not? With the increase in Fruit Roll-Up profit, I'll more than make up for it. Frequent buyers card? Sure, I'll look into it. Anything for a loyal customer, and everyone in the room fits that description. Even Allison's table springs for a few bars. Half-off this time, which is better than free. For anyone else I'd charge more, but I've had enough of Prada and Chad's sitting with them. I guess Manny was right about how quickly things fluctuate in the romance world. They're
already
back together?

I try to keep my distance and ignore their conversation and laughter as I'm walking away. I can't really hear them because I'm a terrible member of the Secret Service, but any moron can guess what they're saying.

“Look at him go,” Allison's whispering in his ear.

“Who?” Chad asks, his voice deep and firm.

“The kid with the candy. Do you know him?”

“Of course I know him. I punched him in the stomach.”

“Awwww, why'd you do that?” she says, gripping Chad's biceps.

“Because he was walking the halls and said something about my mother.”

“Oh, well in that case he deserved it.”

“I told you.”