Read Online Sorry You're Lost by Matt Blackstone - Free Book Online Page A

company. Not sure which sounds worse, actually: leftover chicken from four days ago, or watching my dad devour another chicken leg and then wipe his greasy fingers on toilet paper. He says toilet paper’s cheaper than paper towels, and I understand that—I do, I really do—but it’s toilet paper; it belongs near a toilet, not on the kitchen table. Every time I mention it he gets all red and flustered and shouts, “Do you wanna buy paper towels?” What kind of question is that? Do I wanna buy paper towels? Show me a kid who actually wants to buy paper towels. Seriously, bring him to me. He’s ruining everything.
    I move my backpack on top of my unmade bed. I still have the same green and white football sheets and covers I used as a kid. The field is green, the yard markings are white. On the fifty-yard line, a player in a blue uniform holds a football under his armpit. He’s not moving. He’s just standing there. Ramrod straight. His knees aren’t even bent. I mean, I know it’s a sheet, but the player in the blue uniform isn’t moving at all, not even backward or to the side. He’s just standing there, like a bump on a log. I think it’s sad, that’s all. I know it sounds dumb.
    But even though my sheets are juvenile, they’re very comfortable. I throw them over my face when I want to disappear. Some days, when I feel really lousy, I build my old G.I. Joe tent, grab the sheets, and go disappear in there. But it takes energy to do that. “I think I’ll get some rest!” I holler down the hall. “Had a long day.”
    â€œRight, uh, okay then,” he stammers. “Let’s talk when you’re feeling better.”
    That’s what he always says. “Let’s talk when.” If I see him later, he’ll pretend he never said it. The most he’ll do is hand me my one dollar allowance. One measly dollar. You can’t even buy paper towels with that. Not a single roll. At least not the good kind.
    I appreciate my allowance, don’t get me wrong. I know there are plenty of starving children who aren’t fortunate enough to wipe fried chicken grease on toilet paper. But, come on … one dollar ? That’s been my allowance ever since my mom got sick. My allowance—like the laundry room, my football sheets, and everything else in my house—sort of got frozen in time.
    I don’t even think of spending my allowance anymore, but I used to. I’d have to wait two weeks to buy a pack of gum, five weeks to buy a five-dollar foot-long turkey sandwich at Subway—but then there’s tax, so I really had to wait six weeks.
    But try telling that to my dad. He’s not exactly a natural schmoozer. Doesn’t like to sit down and talk things out. I don’t blame him a whole lot, though. I’m kind of glad he’s like that. I’m not glad he’s ballooned to over three hundred pounds the past few years, but I’m grateful he doesn’t talk a whole lot. I mean, even if my dad tried to talk to me about Mom and asked me why I kept talking to her on her old broken phone, I’d probably ask him if the Phillies will make it back to the play-offs this year, if Chase Utley is still his favorite player, if hot dogs are better on the barbecue or at a ball game.
    I don’t mind talking about baseball, because when you talk about it, you don’t have to worry that one poor choice of words will make the other person run away. Like one time I told my dad I was glad Mom died. I didn’t mean it. What I meant was I was glad she wasn’t in pain anymore. I just wasn’t used to talking about important things.
    I know that what happened in Mrs. Q’s class is important—to her, to me, to my dad—so of course I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t even want to think about it. Surfing on an armrest desk? Falling in the trash can? Seriously?
    I pull at a metal chair, drag