Sorry You're Lost (3 page)

It's raining seventh grade dance: “What are you doing after?” … “Which after-party are you going to?” … “Hold on, you don't
know
what you're doing im
med
iately after
the dance
?” … “You mean, like the
second
after, or like
after
after?” … “You don't
know
what you're doing after? You're just gonna sit on your couch and watch movies with your parents … L-A-M-E-O, and Lame-O is your Name-O.”

No, Lame-O is
YOUR
Name-O,
I want to shout at everyone except Mrs. Q, but it probably sounds lame because it is. Comebacks always sound better in your head.

Mrs. Q tugs at the clunky projector, lines up a flimsy Xeroxed sheet of problems, and watches them flicker on the front board. The bulb is running on fumes and looks like it will die any second.

“Denny, go ahead. Class, listen up!”

I grab a blank notebook and trudge to the front of the room, toward the sound of the rumbling projector. Mrs. Q hands me a skinny black marker. The projector's blinking light hurts my eyes. I say a silent prayer that I don't do anything too weird or embarrassing or just plain dumb; that even though the marker in my hand isn't permanent, what I write won't do any permanent, irreparable damage to myself, others, my family, especially my mom, or my reputation, which is already damaged as it is.

I scribble an eight … a three … a plus sign …

I roll the marker in my hand and look at the projector, then at my blank notebook, then back at the projector. My current English teacher and role model and hero, Mr. Morgan, taught me that when struggling with writer's block, I should write what I know.

I don't know math. So I write what I know. “Hit it, Rockafella!” That's what I write, three words in a sloppy hand. My Rockafella crew drops the beat: “Boom chicka boom chicka chicka chicka boom. Boom chicka boom chicka chicka boom boom…”

Finally, laughter from the dance fanatics. Even Sabrina cracks a tiny smile.

Boom chicka boom chicka chicka chicka boom …
What Mrs. Q doesn't realize is that we really
are
at a rock concert. That I'm a rock star. That the school is my stage.

From the back row, clapping, encouraging chants, a thumbs-up. My audience in Mrs. Q's class wants a show. What am I supposed to say, “Thanks for the memories but after such a prolific year so far, show's canceled”?

The robot dance is my specialty, in which I jerk my body from side to side and karate chop the air in a halfhearted impersonation of a robot.
What what, boom chicka boom chicka chicka chicka boom. Yup yup, boom chicka boom chicka chicka boom boom
. I'm not half bad at the caterpillar either, which requires leaping into the air and hitting the ground chest first, with my body slinking like a caterpillar. But because my Rockafella crew throws those “chickas” into the beat, it's only appropriate to bust out the chicken dance. The hand motions are fairly boring—flapping beak, wings, tail feathers, followed by four claps—but the refrain is joyous and liberating.
Du, nun, nun, nun, nah nun, nah nun nun, du, nun, nun, nun, nah nun, nah nun.
I think you're only supposed to spin in circles or do-si-do your partner like in a square dance, but I'm in a classroom with lots of space, and a concert begs improvisation anyway. I mean, if concertgoers heard the same exact thing at a concert that they could hear on a CD, they'd stay home. So it's obviously necessary that I throw in a few wild elbows, spin up and down the aisles as my classmates sprinkle me with laughter—sweet, sweet laughter—and chant my name like a rock star: “DO-NUTS! DO-NUTS!” A few pats on the back, a few light punches in the arm. “DO-NUTS!” I go up and down the rows of armrest desks and continue my show, which is good clean fun, appropriate for any audience, except for maybe Mrs. Q, who flails her arms so wildly that I can't tell if she wants us quiet or if she simply wants out of there, to spread her wings and soar out the window.

Or maybe she's doing her own version of the chicken dance. That's obviously what she's doing, and since Mrs. Q is joining in so graciously, I take my performance to new heights.
Yup yup, what what, boom chicka boom.
New Jersey's own, Bruce Springsteen, the ultimate performer and my dad's favorite rock star, would be proud of my next move. My dad … not so much, but Bruce would. In the front corner of the room, near the door, I spot an empty chair with an unused armrest desk. A perfect stage.

I tell myself not to. Then I think of my mom—what she'd want me to do, what kind of man she'd want me to be—but there's no going back. I try, I really do, but after welcoming everyone to the revival, ratcheting up those good vibes, and working up a good sweat, it's hard to say, “Well, I've come this far, might as well turn back now.”

Bruce Springsteen would understand. He would completely understand why I leap onto that unused armrest desk. He would sympathize with me finding myself atop a plank of wood that so closely resembles a surfboard—an uncanny resemblance, absolutely uncanny—that I can't help but pretend to surf. While shouting “Aloha!”

Bruce would get that I'm not surfing for surfing's sake. That it's all a parody, a demonstration really, to raise awareness for Hawaiian stereotypes. The ignorance of those who think that
all
Hawaiians surf … shame on them!

Bruce would so totally get that I'm also trying to prove a point about the unsteadiness of armrest desks. That I'm merely drawing attention to the fact that Mrs. Q, as goddess of mathematics, deserves far better classroom equipment than an old overhead projector. That Mrs. Q doesn't have a Smart Board is an outrage! An outrage!

Mrs. Q, for her part, seems to understand the purpose of my demonstration, as her chicken dance has greatly increased in intensity, but she stops dancing altogether when I leap off the armrest desk.

I don't really leap. I actually sorta fall. Into the trash can. A small, green, round, metallic (and hard) can. I don't really fall
in
the trash can. It tips over on the floor. With me inside. My feet, I mean. It's up to my knees, really—the side of my knees (now that I'm on the floor). I try to transition into a caterpillar/worm dance to make it seem like I fell on purpose, but I banged my wrist on the way down and, well, I'm still in a trash can.

So, yeah, I fell in the trash. There's a whole lot of laughter, and not the good kind. Too much finger-pointing, too much covering of mouths. And eyes. And faces. And people looking away but peeking back to see if I'm still in the trash.

(I am.)

“Thank you, everyone, thank you,
South Jersey
!” I announce, then I make peace signs with my fingers (which is hard to do while you're lying sideways) and shout, “God bless you! And may God bless the United States of America!”

Bruce Springsteen would totally get the sign-off. Any rock star or president would completely understand. But I'm not a president and I'm not a rock star.

And I'm not the kid in the trash.

 

THE HALLWAYS OF BLUEBERRY HILLS

From the cold classroom floor, as I finally dislodge my feet from the can, I glance up at Mrs. Q. Her eyes are red, her lips parted. I take no pleasure in this. I want to punch myself in the face, but it's hard to punch yourself in the face with your brain screaming, “No, you idiot, stop!” and plus, everyone is watching, including Mrs. Q. I want to make her laugh, make her smile, comfort her, pull flowers from my pockets, but it's too late for that, and I feel itchy, like red ants are crawling up my leg.

They keep going. I can't stop them. I have to get out of here. But then someone throws a blue Bic pen across the room and I shout for him to mind his manners and treat the goddess of mathematics with some respect. Because I mean it. I even retrieve the pen and throw it back at him so he learns never to disrespect Mrs. Q. “Behave! Show some maturity! She is a great teacher who deserves your utmost attention!” I shout, but my messages are getting muddled and I know I'm being a hypocrite and I need to leave. I point out to everyone that “Aloha means hello
and
goodbye” and then I reach for my cell phone and head for the door. Mrs. Q tells me to sit down and put my phone away, and I want to at least listen to one of her orders and make her feel better and set a positive example for the immature pen-thrower, so I put my phone in my pocket as I walk out the door. Cheers of “DO-NUTS” follow me into the hallway, where the walls are covered with posters for the seventh grade dance in April.
Get your tickets for the dance on April 3rd—or forever be a turd.
Even though the words are nicer, that's how the posters make me feel.

Once it's safe and I'm sure I'm alone, I pull out the phone and put it to my ear. “Hello? Hey, Mom. How are you? I'm messed up—I mean, I messed up. Again. I know. I. I'm sorry. I'll try. Yeah. I'll tell Dad you said ‘hey.' Talk to you soon.”

I close the phone and bring it down to my side. I really do feel better. Not well enough to go back to the Learning Zone, but better. I think of giving Manny a call, but then I remember that my mom's phone doesn't work anymore.

I'm trying to remember the exact date my dad disconnected her phone service when someone tugs me on my arm. I look up to see Chad Watkins, his brown hair combed to the side, light and bouncy like an Herbal Essences commercial.

“Hall pass,” he says. “Now.”

An eighth grader, Chad's the goalie and captain of the soccer team, which is a really big deal in a state as backward as New Jersey. Chad wears shorts to school, even in the winter, which show off his bulging calf muscles. He really does have big calf muscles, but they
could
be implants. Bulging calf implants. At least that's what I tell myself. (And that the thick hair on his legs must be a result of either the implants or steroids.)

I only mention his hairy bulging calf implants because they're always on display. Everyone knows that Chad has worn shorts to school every single day since he got here, and you know he only does it for the streak, like it'd be some world crisis if he took a day off. His reputation would never recover, which you can tell matters to him a great deal because he has a crescent-shaped mark above his left eyebrow that looks too clean and convenient to be a real scar.

“Hall pass,” he repeats. “Show it to me. Now.”

Like most students, I've gotten acquainted with Chad in the hallways. I mean, my arms, shoulders, chest, and stomach have. Chad isn't a hall monitor but he owns the halls, and you're supposed to thank him
if by some chance
every single time he punches you, like it's some great honor that he reached out to you or something.

It'd be one thing if Chad was just some thick neck who dropped out and sold batteries in his garage, so you could sorta feel bad for him as he pummeled you, but his grades are good. Top-of-the-class good. And even though he's already got his life carved out in front of him, he remains treasurer of the student government, which supposedly makes him a swell guy for helping when he doesn't have to, like he's doing everyone such a great service by counting the school's money.

And because he's so smart, he eats healthily. You'd figure he'd gnaw on red rope licorice or beef jerky all day, but he eats carrot sticks. Baby carrot sticks. That's what he's eating now with his right hand. With his left, he's poking me in the chest, demanding a pass.

I obviously don't have one, nor do I feel like taking any crap after a performance that made me want to punch myself in the face. Maybe Chad will do it for me.

“Your mother,” I say. It's the only thing I can think of.

Chad reaches into his bag and pops another carrot stick into his mouth. “I'll ask one more time,” he says, crunching the carrot between his teeth. “Hall pass.”

“And I'll tell you one more time. Your mother.”

His nostrils flare. “Where are you supposed to be?”

“You're not hearing me. I'm supposed to be with your—”

I don't see his fist until the air has already escaped from my body. I grab my stomach and crumple to the ground, my face against the hallway floor, breathless. I gasp, gasp, but my lungs are shut, can't breathe, at all, not a single pull, of air. Breathless. Not like it is in a freezing cold shower where there's some air, but like it is in space, where the atmosphere isn't made for human lungs, so unless you're wearing some souped-up space suit, you'll die instantly of asphyxiation and shrivel into a raisin. As I lie there in the middle of the hallway—already half man, half raisin—I reach into my pocket for my phone.
Mayday,
I want to say,
Help me,
but I can't speak because I don't have any air, because the atmosphere is out of whack and I don't have a space suit or space shoes, or at the very least a space helmet. And last time I checked, they don't stock space helmets in the halls of Blueberry Hills.

*   *   *

That's the name of my school. Blueberry Hills Middle. It sounds like a maple syrup factory or some organic meadow where bluebirds sip from fountains and children frolic in the grass with corduroy overalls rolled up to their knees.

Blueberry Hills. It may sound real nice, it may even look nice from afar, but up close, our school is a carton of berries with a few pretty blue ones like Sabrina on top and piles of purple ones with moldy white cottontails underneath. Those blueberry hills aren't so smooth, either. They're worn with jagged rocks that trip you up if you get careless and complacent and start to find your stride. With a student body of over eight hundred in grades six through eight, kids can't help but fall through the cracks. The hills are sloped, the fall steep, the ground like concrete. You don't skin your knees at Blueberry Hills Middle. You break them. And then there's the lousy one-piece desks, the old teaching equipment, Chad, the stupid dances … I guess you could say that permanent, irreparable damage to students is what we're known for, and that a local meteorologist named Bobby “Tornado” Thompson went here, which is why the Jersey school board is considering shutting us down. For the permanent damage to students, not “Tornado” Thompson. That dude is legend.