Sorry You're Lost (10 page)

But she wouldn't hear it. “The last thing I need is a child who thinks it's okay to urinate on himself. This boy needs to grow up and he better do it soon. No more diapers, no more change of clothes, and no more night-lights. My boy is still afraid of the dark. Can you be
lieve
that?”

I could believe it. I'd seen it. Not for a few years now, but Manny used to sleep at my house, especially after Manny's dad left. His mom used to drop him off for days at a time. For a break. That's the only explanation she ever gave. She needed a break.

“Well, are all of the goods accounted for?” After Manny emerges from the bathroom, and after he checks my candy count (twice) to make sure I haven't pocketed any merchandise, he wipes his hands on his shirt, pushes my new backpack to the side, and sits down next to me. “You should depart,” he says. “My mom will be home soon. You should not be here when she arrives. The candy, too, must go. She cannot see this.”

“Probably a good idea, Manny.”

He nods. “My mom, unfortunately, is not like yours is. I mean, was. I mean…”

His sentence lingers there for far too long. “She's not a
tense
, Manny!” I don't mean to get so upset but I'm at her funeral again, listening to the priest's CliffsNotes, his references to her in the past tense, and my shirt is getting sweaty and my face is red and the paint-chipped walls of Manny's apartment are closing in like a vise and my mom isn't a tense. Never was. Never is. I mean … is, present, present tense, presently … Manny is making this hard for me, and I know I'm probably overreacting, but I can't help it and don't want to help it and I'm already stuffing armfuls of candy into my new bag.

“I am sorry,” Manny says. “Really, I am, I did not intend anything by it. She was good to me, too, you know.” You can tell he means it. His face is scrunched up and he's shaking his head, but my eyes are about to leak—not cry, just leak—and I don't like letting other people see when they do that. I scramble for the front door and open it. I don't want to turn around but it's rude not to say goodbye.

“Thanks for the bag, Man—” I tell him. It's all I can get out.

 

THE LADYBUG

We are nine years old. Manny's mom is on her first break.

A camouflage shirt, a strip of black paint under each eye, a walkie-talkie in one hand and binoculars in the other, Manny is ready for battle, is ready for our mission: to spy on my neighbor, Allison Swain.

Standing beside me, he orders, “You go around back and I will stay in the front. Call me when you see the Ladybug.”

“Right, Ladybug … Wait, who's the Ladybug again?”

“You forgot already! You are such a boogiebrain! Allison Swain's code name is ‘Ladybug.' We agreed on that, remember?” He doesn't wait for a response. “Now go around back and make sure your walkie-talkie is turned
on
this time.”

“Roger that.”

“You do not have to say ‘Roger that' until we start.”

“Oh, right. Roger that.”

“What did I
just say
!”

“Not to—sorry, Manny.”

He shakes his head.

“Manny, wouldn't it be funny if your name was Roger. You know, Roger that…”

He shoves me in the back. “Move, soldier!”

I race around the side of Allison's house, toward the backyard. The latch on her gate is old and rusted, and the grass in her backyard is thick and sharp. The plants, all vines and garter snakes, are alive and breathing. They slither from the porch to the back fence. Thankfully, they don't eat me as I pass.

The high grass makes my legs itch. I want to scratch them but I can't because Manny gave his orders, so I dive behind a bush. And land on a pinecone. It digs into my knee like shards of broken glass and I can't help but scream. My walkie-talkie booms with static. “Come in, Eagle One! This is Fox Three, over!”

“Roger that, this is Eagle One,” I grunt, rubbing my knee. It looks deformed.

“I think I heard a girl screaming!” he shouts. “Was that the Ladybug?”

“Uh, yes, I think so, yes.”

“Confirm your location, Eagle One.”

“Uh, behind a bush, on top of pinecones, over.”

“Any sign of Ladybug?”

“Not yet. What about you, Manny?”

“My name is Fox Three,” he grumbles.

“Right, sorry.”

“No sign of Ladybug from my present location,” he says. “Let us rotate counterclockwise. You should be at two o'clock in fifteen seconds. Over.”

“Wait, what? What time?”

Manny sighs loudly into the walkie-talkie. And then again. It sounds like this: “Haw. Ha. Haw. Ha,” which reminds me of Darth Vader. I tell him that.

He sighs again and, in his best Darth Vader voice, says, “Eagle One.” Haw. Ha. Haw. Ha. “I am your father.” Haw. Ha … Loud, hacking coughs and then Manny's voice: “Move to your left, quickly, Eagle One, and keep your
head down.
Run to the side of the house and call me when you see something. MOVE, EAGLE ONE, MOVE!”

*   *   *

“Nothing is happening,” I grumble into my walkie-talkie. “It's getting late, Manny, and I don't see her.”

“Her name is Ladybug, and mine is Fox Three.”

“Well it's almost time for dinner, Fox Three. My mom's making chicken with bread crumbs and the Ladybug isn't here.”

“My mom's—I mean, your mom's chicken is delicious. She is quite a force of good in the kitchen. Perhaps you can stow me away in one of your kitchen drawers. I shall be a stowaway, stowed away in your mom's kitchen.”

I don't answer because I don't know how.

He continues. “But first we complete our mission. Which rhymes with ‘kitchen' but has little else in common.” He stifles a laugh. “You see, I brought a secret weapon. It is foolproof, even around you. Heard of a stink bomb?”

“Yeah, but—”

“I call it the ‘missile' for short. I brought it just in case. So we can smoke Allison out of her house, like in cowboy movies. Whoever sees her first, wins.”

“I'm on my way, Fox Three.” I sprint toward the front of the house.

“That is preposterous, Eagle One!” he shouts. “You will not come near me.”

“Already on my way, Fox Three.” I leap over a bed of yellow flowers, running as fast as I can.

“Retreat, Eagle One. I am warning you.”

“I can see you, Fox Three.”

“You are standing right in front of me, you ignoramus.”

Manny pulls out a glass vial, small and yellow, from his side pocket. “All I need to do is break this sucker and then, like the doctors say on television, CLEAR.”

“Can I touch it?”

“You lack the necessary coordination to handle such a toxic device. Besides, I have a straight shot through the front window.” He squints his eyes and puts his hand in karate chop position. “Preparing to take the shot. Stand by…”

“Wait—”

“Listen to me, Eagle One. There are two exits to Ladybug's house. The front door and back door. I recommend you position yourself in the backyard so you do not compromise our mission. Proceed with caution, Eagle One.”

“But she'll probably come out the front door,” I tell him.

“That is why I am staying put,” he says. “Ten seconds until launch, which means you MOVE, EAGLE ONE. THAT IS AN ORDER FROM A SUPERIOR OFFICER.”

I jump to my feet and race around the side of the house, pumping my arms and legs as fast as I can. The walkie-talkie buzzes in my hand. “Five seconds until launch.”

The gate is only a few paces away.

“Four seconds until launch.”

I reach for the latch but it doesn't budge. I pull on the latch. Pull on it and pull.

“Two seconds until launch.” I shake the latch free and the gate swings open and I dash through the grass—“One second until launch”—and leap behind the bush.

“BLAST-OFF, EAGLE ONE. BLAST-OFF. THE MISSILE IS LOOSE.”

I bury my face in my lap and pinch my nose shut.

“Remain in position, Eagle One. The Ladybug should be coming out. Keep your eyes peeled and your head down. Wait—listen, Eagle One. Shhh.”

Screams. That's the first thing I hear. And then accusations. “What is the … why did you … call the … I can't … need to … breathe.”

The back door bursts open. I curl into a ball and peek through the gray branches.

“Come in, Eagle One!” the walkie-talkie booms. “This is Fox Three, come in.” I grab hold of it and turn the volume down. Allison Swain walks out on the back porch. She's wearing a pink shirt and shorts. She has pigtails with a pink scrunchie. Her skin is the color of sand and she doesn't see me. Allison sits on the stoop and coughs into her hand. I can't do this. I need to help. I reach into my pocket for a tissue and almost come out of hiding to hand it to her. She dabs her eyes with the back of her arm and looks in my direction. I hold my breath. She can't see me because I'm invisible. I'm invisible. Aren't I invisible?

 

FULL OPERATION

It never happened. Manny doesn't mention my eyes leaking or my mom's tense, and I don't mention my family's tense or his family or anyone else's family, and he doesn't ask about me or mention anything else about my mom, which is great and wonderful and what I'm used to and pretty much what everyone else does.

Teachers try every few weeks, but once they've reached their quota and gotten the answer they want (that I'm fine and merry and basking in a field of joy), they back off. Barely anyone talks about her because they don't know how and I don't know how, but they
really
don't know how. Don't want to step on my toes and say the wrong thing at the wrong time. The ol' let's-talk-about-everything-except-the-one-thing-you-want-to-ask-me-about-and-the-only-thing-I'm-thinking-about. Instead, let's talk about sports, TV, weather, girls, cars, teachers, food, movies, and actors better than myself. I know I shouldn't think of all of this now given that I was the one who ran away from the conversation and out of Manny's apartment, though sometimes it's hard to stop.

And sometimes, it's hard to start. Anything, I mean: homework, a day, a morning routine, a phone call, an exercise, a meal, a conversation, a candy business … So I tell my brain to shut up, shut up, shut up, and focus on our task at hand because all that matters is here and now. Because our mission is a go.

Order forms in hand and matching oversize, eighty-three-pound backpacks across our chests, Manny and I scout out the morning terrain of Blueberry Hills Middle, preparing for Day One of International Monetary Prudential. His words, not mine. I still prefer to call it Manny and Denny's Date Foundation, or M & D's Date Foundation. But Manny's the boss. It's his business. His company. (Which is exactly what I'll tell Mr. Softee
if we happen to
the moment we get caught.)

Allison “Ladybug” Swain isn't in the hallways. Or Chad. Barely anyone is because school hasn't started yet. Manny and I review the plan one last time before taking out a few boxes, which is no big deal because the only people who can hear us are a few rookie teachers scurrying like squirrels to make copies. Mrs. Q, one of those scurrying teachers, tries not to look at me, so I try not to look at her.

If I had the apology note I'd written for Mrs. Q with me, I'd hand it to her. But I left it at home, crumpled in a paper ball, and I don't trust myself to say the right words without it.

It's 8:25. Five minutes till game time.

The back of Manny's neck is a pool of perspiration. “Remember the order form, Donuts, which
you
hold on to. If customers insist on filling it out, make sure you get it back. We cannot under any circumstances leave a paper trail. And no receipts, remember. It is an order form, not an invoice. Do not lose the order forms; we will use them to get a quick count on profits. Do not get caught. Remain vigilant for teachers and the principal, Mr. Softee—do not let his name fool you—but if you do get caught, do not give me up.”

He eyes me carefully, peering so deeply into my eyes it feels like he's staring into my soul. I'm not sure what he'll find in there. “Manny, you think this'll actually work?”

“Of course it will, I am a human lie detector. I can tell when someone is lying just by looking at them. I can decipher someone's motives by looking in their eyes.”

“No, I mean, this whole … candy thing. Do you think people will actually buy candy for twice the price we got it for?”

He takes a step back. “Of course. Everywhere you look these days, there are stupid people. Especially at school. Stupid people at school make me sick, literally sick. That is why I barely come. All these idiots floating around our atmosphere, you know?” He doesn't wait for an answer. “Your inventory—”

“Is arranged alphabetically, Snickers in my bottom pouch.”

“Good. Now, Donuts, this is the moment of truth. It will be 8:30 in twenty seconds—now in nineteen seconds—those doors will burst open like a tidal wave and our operation will be in full operation.” He gestures to the red double doors at the end of the hall. “Ten seconds. Now nine short seconds until we fill their eager mouths with chocolate and begin our compatibility crusade. Oh, I can barely stand it.” He covers his mouth. “The anticipation is too much. I cannot—in three, two, one, NOW!” Manny inhales. “Follow my lead, Donuts. Follow my lead and stay as one.”