A Crooked Kind of Perfect

by Linda Urban

  Grocery store. Bookstore. Party store. Tanning salon.

  Me.

  Gas station. Coffee shop. Subdivision. Me.

  Somewhere between my reflection and another subdivision, I fall asleep.

  I dream I am playing the piano.

  Taps

  Tap tap tap.

  I'm still in Mom's car but it's in our garage and Wheeler is tapping on my window. "Wake up, Goober."

  "My name is Zoe," I say. I get out of the car.

  "Let me see your trophy, Zsa Zsa."

  "Zoe," I say.

  "Elias," he says.

  Elias.

  Okay. Elias. I hand him my trophy.

  "Cool," Wheeler says. He looks right at me and smiles his lopsided smile. My stomach gets twisty. In a good way.

  "Is she awake?" calls Dad from the house.

  "Are you awake?" Wheeler asks me.

  I kind of feel like I'm not. This whole day has been too good. I kind of feel like I might be dreaming.

  "Bring her in here. We have celebrating to do," says Dad.

  Wheeler brings me in.

  Mom and Dad are holding champagne glasses filled with Vernors. Dad hands another one to Wheeler and Mom gives one to me.

  "To Zoe," says Mom, "who worked hard and played well."

  "To Zoe!" says Dad. He taps his glass against mine.

  "To Elias!" says Wheeler. His glass taps mine, too.

  Mom and Dad and Wheeler take big gulps out of their glasses. I don't. I couldn't even if I wanted to. My throat has a lump in it.

  "Are you going to cry, Elias?" says Wheeler.

  I shake my head.

  Everybody is looking at me.

  It feels weird.

  They need to stop looking at me.

  How can I get them to stop looking at me?

  "I have a toast," I say. "To Wheeler, who worked hard and can burp upside down."

  Mom and Dad laugh. "To Wheeler!"

  We all clink our glasses.

  Then Wheeler raises his glass. "To Mr. Elias," he says, who—"Hold up a second," says Dad.

  "Let's have cake," says Mom.

  Cake? We haven't eaten dinner yet.

  "This is a cake-first kind of night," says Dad. "Wheeler, would you bring it out?"

  Wheeler's grin gets extra goofy. He brings out the cake.

  It's the top tier of my birthday cake. The one with the piano on it. Except now there are candles on it, too. And something else.

  "It's you," says Dad.

  It is me. A little marzipan me. Standing by the piano. Holding a trophy.

  "Wheeler made it," says Dad.

  The lump in my throat is back. And the twist in my stomach. Wheeler made it.

  "Thank you," I say.

  Wheeler nods. He doesn't say anything. I think Wheeler may have a lumpy throat, too.

  "I'm sorry I missed your real birthday, Zoe," says Mom. "Dad tells me you didn't even make a birthday wish."

  It's true. I didn't.

  "Why don't you make one now?" says Mom.

  I close my eyes.

  I blow out the candles.

  I open my eyes.

  I am face to face with a smiling marzipan me.

  Wishes

  "I hope you wished big," says Mom.

  I did.

  "Did you wish for a piano?" she asks.

  A piano? I didn't think to wish for a piano.

  "We have a Perfectone D-60," I say.

  "But you'd rather have a piano, right?" says Dad.

  Yes. I would. But saying so would hurt Dad's feelings, I think.

  "It's okay," says Dad.

  I nod. Yes. Even if I never get another trophy, even if I never perform at Carnegie Hall, even if I am not the next Horowitz, I would rather play the piano. In my dreams, I play the piano.

  "Good thing," says Mom. "Because you're getting one."

  I'm getting a piano? I'M GETTING A PIANO? I could scream! I am screaming!

  Mom and Dad are laughing and Wheeler is laughing and I am screaming, "I'm getting a piano!"

  But how can I be getting a piano?

  I ask this. "How can I be getting a piano? Aren't we still paying for the Perfectone D-60?"

  "Your dad has been very busy since he left Birch Valley," says Mom.

  "Rewind Used Music has a piano in stock that they would be happy to trade," says Dad.

  Emma Dent's white baby grand?

  "It's not fancy. An old upright. But it is in good condition and stays in tune."

  A piano. I'm going to play the piano.

  "Of course, we still have to keep making payments," says Dad.

  "Can I do my toast now?" says Wheeler.

  "Now seems right," says Mom.

  "To Mr. Elias," says Wheeler, "who worked hard and got himself a job."

  A job? Dad got a job?

  Dad can't have a job.

  A job means a boss. And other people.

  Dad can't do people.

  "You look worried, Zoe," says Dad.

  "What kind of job, Dad?"

  "Just the best job ever," says Wheeler. "Your dad is going to be a baker."

  "You're going to sell Amazing Maple Tarts?" I ask.

  "Well," says Dad. "Well, not unless Nunzio wants me to."

  "Nunzio's Buns Nunzio?"

  "Yeah!" says Wheeler. He is so excited he is hopping up and down. "Nunzio's Buns is on Hugh's UPS route and Hugh gave Nunzio a bunch of your dad's cookies and éclairs and breads and some of his Amazing Maple Tart—"

  "Our Amazing Maple Tart," says Dad.

  "And Nunzio told Hugh to tell your dad that he had an opening for an early-shift baker."

  "I didn't think I could do it," says Dad. "You know..."

  "You didn't think you could drive to the Perform-O-Rama, either," says Wheeler.

  "But you did," I add.

  "I did," says Dad.

  "And you can do this," says Wheeler.

  Turns out an early-shift baker works from two A.M. to six A.M., which is perfect for Dad because there is no traffic at two in the morning. Nunzio's Buns doesn't open to customers until six-thirty and once Nunzio is done training Dad there won't even be any other bakers there. Just Dad.

  "You'll be great," I say. I raise my glass. "To Dad!"

  Mom says, "To Leo!" and Wheeler says, "To Mr. Elias!" and then we all clink our glasses together.

  Mom, I think. We need to toast Mom, too.

  "To Mom!" I say. Who what? Who worked hard, and what? Wait. I know.

  "To Mom," I say again. "Who stopped working hard long enough to hear me play."

  "Thank you," says Mom.

  "To all of us. And to being together," says Dad.

  We are all happy to toast that.

  Especially me. Especially that last part.

  It was my birthday wish.

  How It Is Supposed to Be

  Me and Wheeler have our shoes off. Summer is almost here and it's warm. Wheeler's toes are freaky long.

  "It 's the one thing me and my dad have in common," he says.

  We 're sitting on my front porch in our bare feet and watching the sky turn pink and purple and waiting for the Rewind Music delivery guys who called to say that they were running an hour and a half late because they had to drop off a new turntable in East Eastside and the lady made them hook everything up for her, which was not in the work order, but they did it anyway and then her daughter said it was in the wrong spot and they needed to move it and so they unhooked everything and rehooked everything and by the time they were done they both had headaches and so they had to stop at Bust-A-Burger for dinner. But they are on their way now.

  "Wheeler?" I say. I'm looking at his toes, the toes that are just like his dad's. "Wheeler? Where's your mom?"

  "That is a long story," says Wheeler.

  Just then the Rewind Music truck turns onto Grouse Avenue.

  Wheeler stands and waves. The Rewind Music guys pull into our driveway.

  "Are you Elias?" they ask Wheeler. />
  "She is," he says.

  "Want to show us where this is going?" they say.

  I do. But I also want to know about Wheeler's mom. And I want Wheeler to know that I want to know.

  "I like long stories," I say.

  "We've got all summer, Elias," he says.

  We do. We have all summer.

  I show the Rewind guys our living room.

  "This thing goes back with us, right?" The thing is the Perfectone D-60.

  "Yes," I say.

  "And the piano goes in the same spot?"

  "Yes."

  I go back out on the porch to sit with Wheeler. The sun has dipped behind the garage roof and the porch is shady and suddenly cool. The Rewind guys set up a ramp on our porch steps. They roll the Perfectone D-60 on dollies—out of the house, down the ramp, into the truck. Good-bye, I think. Thank you. And before I can think about how weird it is that I just said thank you to a wheeze-bag organ, my piano is rolled out of the truck and set in the driveway.

  My piano.

  I have goose bumps.

  "You cold?" asks Wheeler.

  "I'm okay," I say.

  Wheeler takes off his jean jacket. I've never seen him without his jacket on. He looks skinnier than I thought he would.

  "Put this on," he says.

  I put it on, but it doesn't stop the goose bumps. Putting on Wheeler's jacket gives me more.

  The Rewind guys roll my piano up the ramp and into the house and into its spot in the living room.

  "Are your parents here?" they ask me.

  Mom is on the phone with her office. "What's the final tally?" I hear her say. "Does it all reconcile?"

  "My mom is busy," I say. "And my dad is taking a nap." Dad had his first early-morning baking shift today.

  "You can sign this then." They hand me a proof of delivery slip. I sign it. The piano is mine.

  "The tuner will be by tomorrow afternoon," they tell me.

  I nod. "Thank you."

  The Rewind guys leave, clanging their dolly down the porch steps. It is so loud it wakes Dad. Even Mom gets off the phone.

  "Your piano," says Mom.

  Dad stretches and yawns. "I'm sorry it isn't a shiny new one."

  It isn't shiny. Or new. It has a few scratches along the sides and the music stand is a little crooked. But it is mine.

  "Try it out," says Wheeler.

  Try it out?

  "It 's probably out of tune. I should wait until tomorrow. It will be perfect tomorrow," I say, but even as I say it, I'm sitting down on the piano bench and lifting the cover off the keys.

  Dad waits.

  Mom waits.

  Wheeler waits.

  They don't say anything.

  They don't even breathe.

  I rest my fingers on the keys.

  I don't care if my piano isn't perfect yet.

  I just want to play.

  And I do.

  "As long as I can have you here with me

  I'd much rather be

  Forever in blue jeans."

  * * *

  Acknowledgments

  Nearly everything I know about writing I learned by working at an independent bookstore. The education I received while at Vroman's Bookstore was Ivy League, thanks to my professors: customers, colleagues, writers, artists, and friends. I am especially grateful to Sherri Gallentine, Jodi Kinzler, and the Northshire Bookstore's Stan Hynds, who read early bits of this story and only laughed when they were supposed to.

  Lisa Wheeler read this story in its first incarnation—as a picture book. She told me it was funny, but it wasn't a picture book. It was a novel. I had no idea.

  Susan Sandmore and Kelly Fineman read it as a novel, and their insight made it a better one.

  Jeannette Larson had faith in this book when it was barely a scribble. Thank you, Jeannette, for your humor, grace, and dedication. You are the Horowitz of editors. I feel awfully lucky to have landed at such a welcoming and supportive place as Harcourt, and I'm grateful to Allyn Johnston and Jessica Dzundza for sharing their enthusiasm for this project.

  My mother, Joanne Urban, told me to write what I had to and not to worry what she or anyone else would think. That may have been the bravest thing she 's ever done. Thanks, Mom.

  Marita Frey, Joe and Sharon Knipes, and the good folks at the Family Center of Washington County cared for my kids and gave me time to write.

  My kids, Jack and Claire, inspire me to play, to see things fresh, and to make up words when regular ones don't fit. I'm still working on making up a word powerful enough to thank my husband and best friend, Julio Thompson, who pretends I am perfect, despite my dents and lopsidedness.

  Finally, I must thank Marla Frazee and Myra Wolfe, my courage and counsel, without whom I would not be a writer.

  A grant from the Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators helped make this novel possible.

  * * *