“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 pi
ck 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.”
“You’re my hero, Chad.”
“Thanks. Hey, you know what I heard?”
“What?”
“That he wants a date for his little seventh grade dance.”
“Ha! I heard that, too!”
“You know what else I heard?”
“What?”
“He pretends to be a clown so no one will make fun of him.”
“But we’re making fun of him anyway. Ha!”
“Isn’t that funny?”
“It is funny! Ha!”
I don’t hear them too well, but I think Allison adds something about Manny’s and my stupid spy mission and her being the ladybug and how we’re the biggest loserasauruses on the entire dinosaur and human and nonhuman planet. Chad agrees and says that we’re better off extinct. Then he mentions something about my mom.
I don’t feel too bad because I’m able to tune them out, which is easier than you might think because I’m selling so fast I’ll soon put the lunch ladies out of business, which I do feel the slightest bit bad about, so when my four boxes (forty-eight bars each) sell out in under nineteen minutes, I step over a sea of candy wrappers to visit my favorite lunch lady.
It also doesn’t hurt that Sabrina’s on the line, too, buying a drink. Her strawberry shampoo overpowers the smell of the lunchroom. This is a good thing.
“Hi, Denny.” She’s wearing a green button-down shirt with a cat at the upper left corner instead of a man playing polo or a sailboat or flag. I point to it and ask, “Is that the cat on your roof?” It’s a dumb thing to say, I know it is, but I love that she’s not one of them, not a slave to the logo. I love it so much I feel like singing. So I do.
“Too much,” she says, “tone it down.”
“It’s the bass, isn’t it? Too much bass in my golden pipes?”
She can’t help but laugh because my game is oozing like cheese fries. Speaking of which, Marsha, the lunch lady, beams when she sees me with Sabrina. “So maybe I do have to worry about you running off and disappearing with a woman,” she cackles, flashing me an exaggerated wink. “Remember that women are relationship beings and that men—”
“Are not.”
Sabrina seems impressed. “True story,” she whispers.
“Right you are.” Marsha scratches at her hairnet. “Now tell me, how are your classes going? Gonna pass this year, aren’t we, baby?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I explain. “Straight A’s. I’m very much looking forward to the honor roll celebration at the end of the year. I hear it’s a potluck dinner this time around. I think I’ll bring some of my dad’s famous fried chicken.”
“You tellin’ the truth, baby?”
“Told you you’re a terrible liar,” Sabrina says.
Marsha nods. “Like I always said, it’s better to be rather than to seem.”
“Can I get some fries please, Marsha?” I reach into my shoe and pull out a wad of twenty-dollar bills. “For safety,” I whisper to Sabrina. “Every businessman should have street smarts.”
She gives me a stink face. “All that money in your sock? That’s gross.”
“Your wish is my command,” Marsha says, filling up two trays. “Here we go, double order of french fries, made with you in mind.”
I thank her.
“You got it, sugar, and remember now. It’s better to be, rather than to seem.”
“Roger that.” I tuck the change in my sock.
“I like her,” Sabrina says, following me away from the lunch line. “It’s better to be than to seem. You should listen to her and stop pretending. Her advice is spot-on and smart. Your money system on the other hand…”
“Sorta gross?”
“Yeah.”
“At least it’s safe. And it’s not all ones or anything. I’ve exchanged them for a bunch of twenties and a few hundreds because it’s all about the Benjamins.”
She rolls her eyes. “What do you need the money for so badly anyway?”
“Yes, Donuts,” another voice cuts in, “what do you need the money for so badly?” I don’t realize the table isn’t empty until we’re already sitting down.
Manny has a grin the size of Antarctica on his face. “Tell us, Donuts, what do you need the money for so badly?” I try to kill him with my eyes, but it doesn’t work. He presses on. “Why go through the trouble we have been going through, buying boxes, organizing inventory, selling before school, after school, between classes, during classes? Why all the trouble? For whom? For what?”
I wish he’d stop talking. I know why he’s angry, I get it. I’m sitting next to the person who drove him so mad during their stupid debate. For this, though it sounds stupid, I can’t help but feel the slightest bit guilty. I feel like a cheater, which makes me feel weird because I’m not married to Manny or anything, but, well, sometimes it feels that way. And in the case of selling candy, I am married to him—in profits, in I.M.P. We’re supposed to get dates. Together. Sabrina isn’t part of the plan.
Though I want her to be part of a new one. An honest one. A real one.
Manny’s eyes flicker back and forth between Sabrina and me. “What are you—what is she doing here?”
“I brought her here.”
Sweat sprouts on Manny’s nose, a dead giveaway he’s about to burst. He wipes his sweat on his sleeve and says, “So, where did you two lovebirds meet?”
Sabrina laughs. “I don’t know about lovebirds, but…” which sort of hurts my feelings. A better answer would’ve simply been “In class. We met in class.”
“English project,” I tell Manny. “We’re partners.”
“Interesting.” He rubs his chin. “I thought we were partners. Business partners. Remember, Donuts? What was the purpose of that business again?”
I look at Sabrina, then to Manny.
“For a car,” I say. “To buy a new car. For when I can drive. Years from now.”
He slaps his knee playfully. “Ah, th
at was it. Forgive me, I recently aged another year, became thirteen. My memory is not what it used to be.”
* * *
Outside of the lunchroom, Manny pulls me aside and pushes me against a locker. Oohs and aahs ripple through the crowd. “Catfight!” someone hollers.
Might as well have called “Fire.” The masses swarm, circling around us. The squeaking of sneakers, the clomping of boots. Cheers, fists, a bloodthirsty mob. In seconds, we’re trapped like animals inside a cage, which is fitting because the sneer on Manny’s face isn’t human—until he realizes the scene he’s created.
He loosens his grip. “No, no, not a fight,” Manny announces, dusting off my shoulders. “Just two growing men disagreeing is all. A friendly, rational conversation.”
Grunts of disappointment as the crowd shuffles down the hall: “Really could’ve used a fight today.” “Would’ve been epic.” “Had twenty bucks on Donuts.”
Once they’re out of earshot, Manny’s back at it. “Are you serious, Donuts? You are macking with the cheese with Sabrina?”
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