by Linda Urban
Dad is still clapping when I get to the back of the room.
"Thank you very much," I say. I curtsy. I don't think I have ever curtsied before. It feels good, though, so I do it again.
Dad looks a little pale. But he is still smiling.
"I'm going back to the room," he says. He gives me a big sweaty hug. "I'm proud of you," he whispers.
"Becky Depschak?" says the judge.
"Let's find a seat," says Mom.
Swoosh-click.
Becky Depschak walks to the front of the room as me and Mom find a seat behind the judges.
"Now how does this work?" asks Mom, and I hand her the HOW IT WORKS sheet.
"Becky will be playing 'Istanbul (Not Constantinople)' on the Perfectone J-70," says a judge.
Before Becky can flip the Merengue switch, Mom takes out a pen and marks up HOW IT WORKS, underlining "lowest score will be dropped" and "style and appropriate selection" and "top five performers earn trophies." Mom sees me watching her. She moves her pen down to the last line of HOW IT WORKS and circles two words.
"Have fun!"
Mom
Mom has a mirror in her purse.
Actually, it is two mirrors with a little hinge between them so you can open it and see if your makeup is the same on both sides of your face.
Or, if you angle it just right, you can use it to look over the Perform-O-Rama judges' shoulders and see what marks they are making on people's music sheets. Which is what my mom is doing.
She watches how many mistakes each person gets and reads the comments the judges write.
She has written down the names of all the competitors and drawn columns next to them, with little slash marks for each mistake. She writes down the judges' comments, too, in code, with plus signs and minus signs and stars.
This is how Mom has fun.
More Fun
Mika Soddenfelter finishes "Theme from Kojak" and Mom snaps her mirror shut.
"I liked that last one." She marks a two in Mika's mistake column, but adds a little star. "He should get extra points for having fun," she says.
Mika did sound like he was having fun.
In fact, everybody sounded like they were having fun. A lot more fun than yesterday.
"I'm sorry you missed Mona," I tell Mom.
"Missed me what?" I turn to find Mona and Judy standing behind us. I hope they didn't see Mom's mirror trick.
"Missed hearing you play," I tell her. "You were great again."
"Thanks," she says. "You were great, too."
"Awards aren't until four o'clock," Judy says. "Mona and I are going to the Birch Valley Mall for lunch. You two want to join us?"
When Mom looks at me, I nod and she pulls out her cell phone. "Let me check with Domestic Affairs," she says.
And then she goes into the hallway to call my dad, and Mona starts talking about how cute Mika is and how there is this boy at her school named Tony and how he looks like Mika except he's taller and has glasses and brown hair and green eyes and how he likes her and she likes him except he 's not really her boyfriend or anything.
"Do you have a boyfriend?' she asks me.
And the first thing that pops into my head is Wheeler. But Wheeler is not my boyfriend. Wheeler is a boy. And he is my friend. And I think he 's cute in a messy kind of way. But he's not my boyfriend. I think all that. And then I think how weird it is that I thought of Wheeler and not Colton Shell, who isn't my boyfriend either, but at least Colton Shell likes me. I mean, likes me likes me.
"No," I say.
And then Mom comes back in.
"Let's go," she says.
Money Talks
By the time we get to Bust-A-Burger, we are starving. It took us forever to find the Bust-A-Burger because the stores in the Birch Valley Mall are the same as in our mall at home except they are all rearranged, so even though you think you're near Bust-A-Burger because you can see Mango Tango and Twisted Mister Pretzel, really the Bust-A-Burger is on the whole other side of the mall but the Mango Tango people aren't sure whether it is downstairs next to Lo Fat's Kitchen or upstairs by Three Blond Mice. It is by Three Blond Mice.
There's a girl in the booth across from us who is wearing her Fireside Scout uniform, but instead of her badge-sash thing she has pulled a Brat T-shirt over her scout blouse.
"I hate that Brat stuff," says Mona. Actually, she says "I hape fat Braff fuff " because her mouth is full of Bust-A-Burger, but I know right away what she means.
"Everybody wears it at my school," I say.
"Why would you wear something that says you are spoiled and mean?" says Mona.
"Maybe it's true," I say.
"Wouldn't that be funny if everybody wore shirts with true stuff on them?" Mona laughs. "Like 'No Mind of My Own' or 'I Hope This Shirt Makes Me Look Cool'."
"Aw, I remember wanting so badly to look cool," says Judy. She points her burger at my mom. "Do you remember Giggles?"
"Giggles!" says Mom. "Of course I remember Giggles!"
"What are Giggles?" asks Mona.
"They were just the absolute coolest jeans ever," says Judy. "They had a little polka-dot pattern on the pocket. And if you didn't have a pair you were just nobody."
"I hated that," says Mom. "I felt like such a loser."
Judy nods.
Mom used to worry about being a loser?
"They were so expensive. I saved up babysitting money for months to get a pair," says Mom.
"I wore mine until they fell apart," says Judy.
Mom takes another big bite of her burger.
"And now," says Judy. "I must pee."
Mona stands. "I'll go with you."
"Anyone else?" Judy asks.
Me and Mom shake our heads. We have really strong bladders. It is one thing we have in common.
When Judy and Mona are in the bathroom, I ask Mom if she wore her Giggles until they fell apart.
"I never ended up buying a pair," she says. "Your granddad worked at Ford then and there were layoffs." Mom takes a sip of her pop. "There were more important things to spend that money on. I had other jeans."
I think about this. About Mom wanting to be cool and having to spend her cool-jeans money on something else.
Then Mom says, "If you want one of those Snot shirts, we can get you one."
"Brat," I say.
"Pardon me?"
"Not Snot shirts, Mom. Brat."
Mom laughs at herself, which is kind of strange. I don't remember her ever doing that before, but she laughs at her mistake and says, "Right. Brat. If you want a Brat shirt, we can get you one."
I tell her thank you but I don't want one. And I really don't. But it feels good to be asked.
Mom says okay. And then me and Mom sit side by side and chew and watch our reflection in the Bust-A-Burger condiment island until Judy and Mona come back.
And when they do, Judy is singing.
"Mom," sighs Mona.
"Blame Zoe," says Judy.
Mona blames me. "You played so well this morning, she can't get your song out of her head." Judy knows the words? She does.
"Money talks
But it don't sing and dance
And it don't walk
As long as I can have you here with me
I'd much rather be
Forever in blue jeans."
The Brat Scout stares.
"Mom!" sighs Mona again.
My mom looks at her watch. "We'd better get going."
We walk fast from the Bust-A-Burger side of the Birch Valley Mall to the Mango Tango side and then out into the parking lot where, even though I am eleven years old, my mom holds my hand all the way to the car.
The Formula for Success
(A-B-C) + (X-Y-Z) + ((A-B-C)+(X-Y-Z))/2 = Total Score
This is what Mom has written on the back of my conference packet.
"It's really very simple," she is saying. "The A, B, and C are the positive comments minus the number of mistakes minus the number of negative comments gi
ven by judge one. X, Y, and Z represent the same categories for judge two."
I don't understand, but I nod.
If Dad were here, he'd explain it to me. But Dad is not here. Mom said he had something he wanted to take care of at home, so he drove home early.
"Don't worry," she told me. "He has his cell."
I worry anyway.
"Now," she says, "since you are unable to tell me if anyone played better or worse on Saturday than they did today—"
"Except for me," I say. "I played worse."
"Except for you," says Mom. "Since you have no idea about anyone else, we will take the average of the totals for judge one and two to represent judge three." She points to the line with the number two on it.
I nod again. "Average," I say.
"Now all we have to do is plug the numbers from the grid into our formula and we'll have a pretty clear indication of what the final rankings will be," says Mom.
"Except for me and Mona," I say.
Mom doesn't say anything. She is plugging.
The Birch Valley Hotel and Conference Center ballroom is packed. So packed that Mom and Mona and Judy and me couldn't even find four seats together so Mona and Judy went up front to sit on the floor and me and Mom moved a ficus so we could sit on a windowsill.
Every seat is filled. Everywhere I look there are moms and dads and kids. There are Perfectone people with Upgrade buttons handing out MEET THE PERFECTONES! brochures and Perfectone volunteers in Perform-O-Rama Mama shirts shooing kids away from the trophy tables. People are saying no matter what, I'm proud of you and stop touching your sister and elegant cherry veneer and I am never eating another Bust-A-Burger as long as I live.
Up in the front of the room I can see Mona and Judy.
They wave. I wave back.
Mom has her head down. She is still plugging numbers into her formula. She is smiling.
Mom looks pretty when she smiles.
"If you could all find your seats, please?" There is a Perfectone man at the podium in the front of the room.
"There you go," says Mom. She is done plugging. "Given the information we have—which is not complete, of course—the trophy list should look like this."
Mom hands me the conference packet.
Mika Soddenfelter
Roger Patel
Margaret Barstock
Andy Markowitz
Victoria Dewsbury
"Those are your winners," says Mom. She taps on the packet with her pen. "One, two, three, four, five."
"I'm Benjamin Bemmerman, regional manager for the Perfectone Corporation," says the man at the podium. The Upgrade button people clap.
"You need to put Mona on this list," I whisper to Mom.
"Congratulations to all of you who participated in this, the twenty-sixth annual Southwestern Michigan Regional Perfectone Perform-O-Rama," says Benjamin Bemmerman.
"How did she play?" Mom asks me.
"Like Horowitz," I say.
Mom writes Mona's name at the top of her list. She scratches out Victoria Dewsbury. "Sorry, Vicky, no trophy for you," she says.
Poor Vicky.
"And how did you play?" Mom asks me.
I know I made mistakes on Saturday. Five of them. Maybe six. But this morning?
"I don't know," I say.
"How do you think you played?" says Mom.
"How do you think I played?" I ask her.
Benjamin Bemmerman starts announcing the six-year-old winners.
Why doesn't Mom answer?
Mona said I played great. Judy, too.
Why doesn't Mom say I played great?
"I suppose if your Saturday performance was really bad, my formula wouldn't work, anyway," she says. She is not smiling anymore. I think she is disappointed in her formula. Either that, or she is disappointed in me.
The Little People
Benjamin Bemmerman takes forever to announce the names of the trophy winners.
There are a lot.
"In the seven-year-old competition, fifth place goes to Danielle Bennet."
Some of the little kids scream when they hear their names and then jump up and down and their parents hug them and it takes them a really long time to even start walking to the podium to get their trophy. One kid cries.
"And our nine-year-old champion, Sylvia Karkatowski."
If I was going to get a trophy, I wouldn't cry.
Not that I'm going to get a trophy.
But if I was, if I was Mona or something, I wouldn't cry.
People don't cry at Carnegie Hall. They just nod and bow. Sometimes, I bet, they make speeches.
If I was Mona, I'd make a speech.
When you make a speech, you're supposed to thank the little people. Like that six-year-old who cried. Then you thank your teachers and your friends and everyone who made this moment possible. Like Lester Rennet and Miss Person and Wheeler for calling on the cell phone and Dad for driving here.
"In third place, Minette Popper."
And I'd thank Mom for coming, even though there was a ledger crisis, for coming and hearing me play and taking me to lunch and telling me about Giggles and holding my hand in the parking lot even though she doesn't need to anymore.
And I would thank Vladimir Horowitz, too.
"Eleven-year-old competition..."
"In fifth place, Andy Markowitz."
Mom puts a check next to Andy Markowitz's name on her sheet. Her formula is working.
"In fourth place, Zoe Elias."
Mom does not check Zoe Elias off her list.
Zoe Elias is not on Mom's list.
Zoe Elias is me!
Mom jumps up and I jump up and Mom says, "Go get your trophy, Zoe!" and I go.
I am very professional.
I do not cry.
I take my trophy.
I bow. People laugh. Maybe I should have curtsied.
I do not make a speech. Instead, I walk back to Mom and watch her scratch out Margaret Barstock and in big fat letters write my name, ZOE ELIAS, in the fourth-place spot.
"Thank you, Mom," I say.
My Trophy
My trophy is shiny.
The bottom is marble—real marble—with two gold columns holding up another slab of marble with a gold plate that says:
FOURTH PLACE
ELEVEN-YEAR-OLD DIVISION
and then there 's a sparkly blue column with the words PERFECTONE PERFORM-O-RAMA on it and then another slab of marble with a big gold musical note stuck on top. It is beautiful.
So beautiful, I don't take my eyes off of it until the award ceremony is over. And when I do look up, Miss Person is there, beaming.
"Beethoven's barbershop," she says. "Your first trophy. Congratulations, kiddo."
"Thank you," I say. My first trophy.
"In a couple of weeks, you'll get another gold plate in the mail," Miss Person tells me. "Your name will be engraved on it. You can stick it on your trophy with mounting tape."
My trophy.
This is my trophy. Those are my fingerprints smudged all over it. And in a few weeks it will have my name on it.
My name.
Zoe Elias.
I see Mona and Judy across the room. Mona waves her first-place trophy at me. I wave my fourth-place trophy back at her.
"Honey," says Mom. She is looking at her watch. "I'm sorry to hurry us out of here, but we've got to get going."
Cell-A-Bration
"I think you'd better notify Domestic Affairs," says Mom. She is driving with one hand and waving her cell phone around with the other. "Tell your dad we should be home in about fifty minutes."
I dial home.
"Hello?" says Dad. He sounds different. His voice is deep and formal, like he is about to make a speech.
"Dad?" I say.
"Zoe!" His normal voice is back. "How'd it go?"
I tell him I got fourth place.
"Whooooooo-hoooooo!" hollers Dad.
I hear a voice in the background. "What whoo-hoo?"<
br />
"She got fourth place," Dad says.
"Whooooooo-hooooooo!" It is Wheeler.
"So," says Dad. "You got a trophy. Isn't that better than having a piano?"
Is it?
I like having a trophy. Especially a shiny trophy that in a couple of weeks will have my name on it. But is it better than having a piano? Than playing piano music?
"I don't know," I say.
I liked playing today. I liked it more than I have ever liked playing before. I liked the way the pedals sounded and I liked the way the keys felt under my fingers and I liked the way Rock Beat #3 thumped around in my chest.
But the Perfectone D-60 is no piano.
"Let me have the phone," says Mom.
I hand it to her.
"Hello?" she says. "Yes. I know she got fourth place." Mom laughs. "Is everything going okay?"
Dad says something and Mom laughs again. "That's great. I can't wait to hear—Oh shoot," she says, "I've got another call. We'll be home in forty-five minutes. Okay. No. I'll call you back if I can."
Mom pulls the phone away from her ear. She presses a couple of buttons with her thumb.
"Hello? Sharon? Hey. How are things going with the ledger?"
It is Mom's office.
"No," she says. "No. I'll do it. I'll be in early tomorrow."
I rest my head against the car window.
"Terrific," says Mom.
She sounds happy.
Work makes Mom happy.
"Really, terrific," she says. "Sharon, you should have been there. People were actually tapping their toes. I was so proud."
Mom is not talking about work.
She is talking about me.
And she is happy.
On the Way Home
Mom goes back to talking about ledgers and deadlines and critical inaccuracies and fiscal years.
We drive by grocery stores and clothing stores and hardware stores and office supply stores. Bust-A-Burger. Coffee shop. Gas station. Bust-A-Burger. A subdivision full of houses that look exactly like the ones in East Eastside. A billboard for Bust-A-Burger.
When we go under an overpass, the window gets dark and I can see my reflection.