by Linda Urban
"Aaawwwwwwwwwwww."
"We thought you might be Emma," says Mrs. Dent. "The other girls are in the media room."
The media room has a huge flat-screen television and a wall full of DVDs and posters for movies I've never heard of and marble-looking tile. It also has ten fifth graders smooshed together on an L-shaped couch.
"Hi," I say.
"Hi," they say, all at the same time.
None of them move. There is no more room on the couch. I stand next to a poster for something called Death Wish II.
"You can put your present over there," says Joella Tinstella, pointing to a TV tray with lots of little pink presents stacked on it.
I put my present where she tells me to. Then I return to my Death Wish spot.
Joella is wearing silver clogs with colored rhinestones that spell out BRAT. Britt Munsch is wearing them, too, only hers are shiny red and the brat part is gold. Everyone is wearing those Brat shoes. Except for Lily Parker. Lily Parker is wearing sandals with heels that must be three inches high. She sees me staring at them.
"They're my sister's. She's an eighth grader. She got them for the Winter Wonderland Dance at East Eastside Middle School. She went with Danny Parker. No relation."
No relation. Still, it would be kind of weird going out with a boy with your own last name. Actually, it would be kind of weird going out with a boy at all.
"Girls! This is it!" Mrs. Dent shushes us and everybody who has been sitting on the couch runs to hide behind it. I squat behind the present table.
"Mom," we hear Emma say, "there's, like, a big shoe in the yard."
"SURPRISE!" we yell. And then everybody who was behind the couch pops out and starts laughing and hopping up and down and their clogs are clattering on the marble-looking tile. Nine—no, ten, counting Emma's—ten pairs of noisy, shiny, sparkling clogs.
And not a sock in sight.
Everybody Knows That
There is a lot of squealing when Emma opens her presents. First she gets some lip gloss, which she has to try on right away.
Joella Tinstella gasps. "You look like that girl on The Beach!" she says, and then everybody squeals and nods. Except me. I don't watch The Beach.
Emma opens some gift cards and some CDs. More squealing.
And then Lily Parker gives her a red T-shirt that says BRAT in gold and Emma likes it so much she has to run to the bathroom to take off the pink Brat shirt she is wearing and put on Lily's red Brat shirt and when she comes back into the media room and does this model pose thing, everyone squeals again.
And then she opens my present.
And she gets socks.
There is no squealing.
Emma stares at the socks. Then she shoves her hand into one of them, like she thinks that her real present must be inside. There is nothing inside except Emma's hand.
"Time for cake and dancing!" says Mrs. Dent.
Emma puts the socks down behind her CDs and gift cards and we all follow Mrs. Dent to what she says is the great room, which is really just a kitchen and a living room put together. On the kitchen island is a fancy grocery-store cake in the shape of a shoe. Emma blows out the candles and everyone cheers and somebody puts on some music and people start dancing. Mrs. Dent cuts the cake, and while she is handing out slices I hear Joella say to Britt that even Emma's mom doesn't wear socks.
"Nobody wears socks. Everybody knows that," she says.
I decide not to dance.
I sit on my feet and cover up my regular shoes and my stripy socks.
I eat shoe cake.
I wait for six o'clock.
5:45
Mrs. Dent turns off the CD player. "Girls, there is one last present. Follow me!"
We follow Mrs. Dent down the hallway and to a room with double doors.
"Voilà!" she says, flinging open the doors.
There, with a ginormous pink bow wrapped around it, is a gleaming white grand piano.
6:00
I get in the car.
"Shhhh," says Mom. "Horowitz."
She is listening to WCLS, the classical station. They're playing a recording of Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata." I close my eyes and try to forget about Brat clogs and grand pianos.
When we pull into our driveway, I open my eyes.
Mom has closed hers. She's sitting there, letting the car run. The corners of her mouth are turned up a little. She looks happy.
I close my eyes again.
I wonder what Mom is thinking.
Maybe she is thinking about me.
Maybe she is thinking about me thinking about her.
Maybe she is wondering if I had a good time at the party and if I like parties and if maybe I would finally like to have a real birthday party when I turn eleven in May.
Or maybe she is thinking about work.
"Bravo!" shouts someone on the radio. "Bravo!" We listen to the people on the recording cheer and then Mom takes the key out of the ignition and the applause disappears.
"Nobody wears socks anymore," I tell her.
"Not even in Michigan? In March? When there's still snow on the ground?"
"Nobody."
"You wear socks," Mom says.
"Exactly," I say.
Are You Ready to Rumba?
"That was fine," says Mabelline Person. She gulps the last of her ginger ale and stretches.
"Next week..." She flips the page from today's lesson, "Green Acres," to the next song in the Perfectone D-60 songbook, "Those Were the Days," which the book says is the theme from some show called All in the Family.
"Scootch," she says.
I move off the bench so she can sit and play the song for me. Like everything else I've learned, "Those Were the Days" is mostly melody, so Mabelline Person's right hand moves around a lot on the top keyboard, but her left hand just plays a couple of chords on the bottom keys. C. G. C. G. She yawns.
"Keep the metronome speed on four," she says.
"Okay," I say.
She looks at her watch, then folds up her yellow papers and puts them in her purse. She stretches again. She looks at her watch again.
"Any questions?" she says.
"Nope," I say.
She looks at her watch again.
"Okay," she says finally. "I'm off."
As soon as the door clicks behind her Dad peeks into the living room.
"She's gone?" he asks.
"She 's gone," I say.
"Well, then," says Dad, holding up a silver spatula like a microphone. "ARE YOOOU READY TO RUUUUMBAAAAAAAAAAAA?"
I flip the rhythm switch to Rumba, push the tempo up to six, and start again on "Green Acres."
And then Dad starts singing, holding up the spatula like a pitchfork and hooking his thumb on the strap of his imaginary overalls.
I add a couple of trills—little flutterings of notes—to spice things up.
Dad sings about farm living. He shakes his hips.
I switch the rhythm to Tango and change my playing to fit.
Dad puts the spatula between his teeth and tangos across the room, then spits the spatula out for his finale. But before he can sing a note, the doorbell rings.
It's Mabelline Person.
"That was you playing that. I saw you through the window. That was you," she says.
"I'm sorry," I say. "I know I'm supposed to stick to metronome."
She stomps into the living room and starts flipping pages in the Perfectone songbook. Finally she stops at "I Dream of Jeannie."
"Watch," she says.
I watch. Not only does her right hand fly around the upper keyboard, but her left hand moves pretty quickly, too.
"See my foot?" she asks.
Her foot? There are pedals attached to the Perfectone D-60. Ten of them. I've stepped on them getting on and off the bench, and I know that they play different notes, but I've never had to use them in a song before.
"These letters across the top indicate what pedals you play," she says over her shoulder. She is still play
ing "I Dream of Jeannie." "The pedals are arranged just like keys on the keyboard. See? B-C-D-E-F-G-A-B-C-D, plus sharps and flats. I want to see what you can do with this next week."
Miss Person gets up and goes to the armchair. She pushes her hand around under the cushion. "There they are," she says, pulling out her keys.
"You?" She points at me. "Metronome."
"And you?" She whirls around to face Dad, who is hiding in the curtains. "Maybe a belly dance for this one."
Hugh
The only grown-up my dad really talks to in person, other than Mom, is Hugh the UPS guy. Hugh has big teeth and a bushy mustache. He's bald and in the winter you can see steam rise off his head.
Hugh just delivered Dad's latest Living Room University course: Rolling in Dough: Earn a Dolla' Baking Challah. He's sitting at our kitchen table having a cup of coffee.
"One time," says Hugh, "I'm dropping off a package for this old guy and he says, 'Hey, I got a thing I need shipped. You got a big box?' Now, normally, I tell people that they gotta find their own boxes, right?"
"Right," says Dad.
"But this guy is a true geezer and I got a spare box in the truck, so I give it to him, right?"
"Right."
"And he looks at the box and says it's kinda small, but if he curls the thing up, he might be able to get it in the box okay. But he's gonna need some help, 'cause the thing he's gotta ship is kinda heavy, right?"
"Right," me and Dad say together.
"So, I got a light day and this old guy seems real confused about how he's gonna pack this heavy thing up, so I go in to help him, right?"
"Right."
"So the old guy, he leads me through the house and into his bathroom and I'm thinking this is weird, but I go with it, and he flips on the bathroom light and what do you think is in there?"
Me and Dad don't know.
"An alligator! The guy's got a three-foot alligator in his bathtub! And I'm flipping out! I jump up on the toilet so I'm out of the reach of these alligator jaws and I'm screaming like a girl—no offense, Zoe—but it's a flippin' alligator!"
Dad's eyes are wide and I'm laughing, picturing big, bald Hugh balancing on a toilet seat, screaming his head off.
"And the old guy starts yelling, 'She's dead! She's dead, you idiot! She's not gonna bite you, she's dead!'" Hugh takes a swig of coffee and shakes his head. "Turns out his bathtub alligator—Ramona was her name—died that morning and the guy wants to ship her down to Florida to his ex-wife, thinking she'll bury Ramona near a swamp or something so Ramona can feel at home during her long dirt nap."
"Did you help him?" I ask.
"I'm not touching no just-dead alligator!" says Hugh. "UPS wouldn't ship it, anyway. But I love imagining his ex-wife opening up a big old box thinking she won the sweepstakes and finding a dead alligator grinning at her."
Me and Dad laugh. Hugh's almost done with his coffee, but I don't want him to stop telling stories. "Is that the craziest customer you ever had?" I ask.
"Probably the craziest, yeah. But we get lots of them. Just yesterday I'm over in East Eastside and this lady sees my truck and comes running out of her house through the snow in her bare feet telling me she 's got a return to do and what would it cost to ship a grand piano. Crazy, right?"
"Right," I say.
In the Pink
"Does anyone here know how to play an instrument?" Mrs. Trimble asks. Our regular music teacher, Mr. Popadakis, has pinkeye and isn't here today, so Mrs. Trimble has to take over.
"I play violin," says Hector Kheterpohl.
Mrs. Trimble looks around the music room. There are no violins in here, just an upright piano and a plastic box full of percussion instruments: tambourines, maracas, bells, a triangle. Mrs. Trimble passes them around the room.
"Emma has a piano," says Britt.
"Not anymore," says Emma. "I took one lesson and I hated it, so my mom sold it to Rewind Used Music and got me this awesome DJ station. I got a turntable and CD player and some amps and all this cool stuff that my dad has to figure out. Then we can have dances at my house and me and Joella can be the DJs."
"I already know how to be a DJ because of my mom," says Joella. Like we'd forget. Like Joella doesn't wear a WPOP T-shirt every day she's not wearing a Brat shirt.
"Well, we don't have a DJ station in here," says Mrs. Trimble. "I guess we'll just have to shake these things and sing something. 'Old MacDonald'?"
Sometimes I think Mrs. Trimble forgets we are in fifth grade.
"You have a piano, don't you?" Emma asks me.
"An organ," I say.
"That's close enough," says Mrs. Trimble. "Come play something and we'll all sing along. Do you know 'Old MacDonald'?"
I don't know "Old MacDonald." But I know "Green Acres." It feels different to play on one long keyboard, but I figure out where to put my hands and I start playing. At first, I miss the Perfectone D-60's Rumba switch, but pretty soon everybody is shaking their tambourines and maracas and it sounds okay.
"Are there words to this song?" asks Mrs. Trimble, and a couple of kids laugh. And then Wheeler Diggs starts singing about the land spreading out both far and wide. You can tell which kids watch TV Land because they know the words, too, and sing with him.
When "Green Acres" is over everybody claps. And then Mrs. Trimble asks if I know another one and I play "The Scooby-Doo Theme." Almost everybody knows the words and people are singing and laughing and I start feeling like it would be okay if Mr. Popadakis had pinkeye forever.
But then the bell rings for lunch and Mrs. Trimble makes everybody pass their instruments to the front and Emma and Joella start talking about how when they have dance parties there will be real music and we all head back to our classroom to get our lunch bags.
And Wheeler Diggs bumps me in the hall. "That was cool," he says, and he punches me in the arm, which hurts a little, but in a good way.
Wheeler Diggs
Wheeler Diggs never does his homework.
He never answers in class.
He always buys a milk shake and a plate of Tater Tots for lunch.
He calls most people by their last names: Polzdorfer, Olivetti, Mueller, Shell.
He wears orange sneakers and his jeans are ripped and raggedy at the hem. He wears a faded jean jacket all the time, even indoors, even when it is sticky hot out. And in the winter, he doesn't put another coat on over it, either. Just shoves a U.S. Army sweatshirt on underneath.
Usually, Wheeler Diggs is a mess.
Except his hair.
On anybody else, his curly hair might look goofy, but on Wheeler Diggs it looks just the right kind of wild. And it's dark, which makes his blue eyes look even brighter. And his smile, which is kind of lopsided, looks like he 's trying not to smile, but he can't help it.
Which is why, sometimes, every once in a while, somebody will smile back. And sometimes, most of the time, those people will get punched in the stomach. Which is why even the kids who sit with him at lunch are a little bit scared of him and why, really, Wheeler Diggs doesn't have a best friend, either.
I Dream of Jeannie
"Slow the metronome down. Put it on three," says Miss Person.
I slow it down. This is my second week of playing "I Dream of Jeannie" and my feet keep tripping over the pedals. My hands, though, are doing what they're supposed to.
"Okay," she says. "That wasn't horrible. You're getting used to the pedals, and your fingering was pretty good." She scribbles something on her yellow papers.
"Am I a prodigy?" I ask.
Miss Person snorts. She pushes the cap back on her purple pen. "You have some talent and you work hard. I'll take that over prodigy any day."
Hearing that makes me feel good. But not as good as being called a prodigy would have.
"Is your dad around?" she asks.
"Dad!" I yell.
"Sweet brother of Bach, don't yell like that. You'll apoplex me."
Dad comes into the room. He's wearing a Living Room Universit
y apron and has flour up to his elbows.
"I don't usually do this with beginners," Miss Per son tells him. "But I'm recommending your daughter go to the Perfectone Perform-O-Rama this year. She's ten, right? When's her birthday?"
"May fourteenth," I say before Dad can answer.
"Just our luck. The competition starts on May fifteenth. She'll have to compete against the eleven-year-olds—most of them will have been playing for a couple of years—but I don't think she'll embarrass herself."
"Where is the Perform-O-Rama?" asks Dad.
"Birch Valley," says Mabelline Person. She pulls a flyer out of her purse. "At the Birch Valley Hotel and Conference Center. May fifteenth and sixteenth."
"Is that a weekend?" asks Dad.
"Yes. There are performances Saturday and Sun-day—with awards on Sunday afternoon."
I see Dad relax. The Perform-O-Rama is only an hour away and on a weekend. That means Mom can take me and Dad won't have to drive or be around all those people.
"I'll have to check our schedules, but it sounds good to me," says Dad.
"Fine, then," says Miss Person. "Let's get back to work."
Hey, I think. How come nobody asked me if I want to do this? And that's what I say.
Miss Person is quiet.
Dad is quiet.
"I'm sorry, honey," he says. "Do you want to play at the Perform-O-Rama?"
I think about how it felt to have my fingers gliding over those keys, how Miss Person looked when I finished playing. It felt good. Really good. Not as good as it would to play the piano, but...
"YES!" I yell.
"Mozart's postman!" gasps Miss Person.
I flip on the metronome and let my fingers dream of Jeannie all over again.
The Perfectone Songbook
At our next lesson, Mabelline Person gives me a CD and a stack of Perfectone songbooks: Marvelous Movie Memories, Hits of the Fifties, Hits of the Sixties, Hits of the Seventies, Hits of the Nineties.
"What about the eighties?" I ask.