A Crooked Kind of Perfect

by Linda Urban

  "There were no hits in the eighties," says Miss Person.

  Sticky notes with numbers scribbled on them are stuck to some of the songbook pages. "I've made a recording of each of the songs I think might work for you. You can tell which is which by the numbers on the stickies," she explains. "Listen. Look at the music. Try out a couple of the melodies. Two weeks from now, we'll need to start working exclusively on your Perform-O-Rama selection."

  "Two weeks?"

  "Do you not own a calendar? There are only seven weeks until the Perform-O-Rama. We really ought to pick next week, but I want you to get in one more week of pedal work before we select a piece," she says.

  Only seven weeks! I think. "Chopin's toaster!"

  "You said it," says Miss Person.

  Another Way the Organ Is Not Like the Piano

  When you play piano, you don't go to Perform-O-Ramas. You give recitals.

  A recital is a dignified affair.

  There are candelabras at a recital.

  People sit in velvet chairs and sip champagne and look over the program. There are always programs at a recital.

  At a recital, you play Mozart and Beethoven and Strauss and Bach.

  You do not play Hits of the Seventies.

  Zsa Zsa Goober

  Something is horribly wrong with the lunchroom.

  Fireside Scouts have taken over.

  Three tables are covered with green cloths and pyramids of Fudgy-Buddies and Minty-Chips. Which means there are three fewer tables for sitting at. Which means that a sixth grader has taken my until-you-get-a-new-best-friend spot at Emma Dent's table.

  There are fourth graders at third-grader tables.

  There are sixth graders at fifth-grader tables.

  There are boys sitting near girls.

  Anything could happen.

  "Hey, Goober!" I hear Wheeler Diggs yell. He's looking at me. I'm Goober?

  "Zsa Zsa Goober! Come here!"

  Now I get it. Zsa Zsa Gabor. Green Acres.

  "Actually, it was Eva Gabor in Green Acres," I tell him. "Zsa Zsa was her older sister. I saw a thing about it on TV Land. And it's pronounced Gah-bore, not—"

  "Sit down, Goober," he says.

  I sit. It is the only free seat in the room.

  "Eat your lunch," he says.

  I eat.

  And then Wheeler Diggs and the other boys go back to all the stuff they were doing before I got to the table. Eating and pushing each other and burping. Mostly burping.

  They really like burping.

  "Baby burp," says Colton Shell. He lets out a tiny, high-pitched one.

  "Earthquake!" says Henry Olivetti. His burp is loud and rumbly.

  "Hot lava!" yells Colton. It is difficult to tell the difference between an earthquake burp and a hot lava burp, but I don't say anything.

  "Outer space!" says Henry.

  "You can't burp in outer space," I say.

  It's true. You can't. I learned it when Dad was taking Living Room University's The Final Frontier: Put Cash in Your Pocket While Flying a Rocket, Lesson Fifteen: Out to Launch. I tell them that there's this valve thing at the top of your stomach that hangs open a little bit so burp gas can escape, but when you're in space there 's no gravity and the hamburger or yogurt or whatever you were eating floats up and presses that valve closed. So no gas can get out. So you can't burp.

  "Bet I could." Henry lets out another Earthquaker.

  "If that's true, about the food and everything, then you couldn't burp upside down, either," says Wheeler.

  "Guess not," I say.

  "Bet I could," say Henry and Colton at the same time.

  Sally Marvin bounces up to the table. "Anybody want to buy some Minty-Chips?"

  Henry and Colton burp a "No."

  Sally is disgusted, but she is in uniform and sticks it out for the Scouts. "We'll be here all month." She eyeballs Wheeler Diggs's raggedy jeans. "And we don't take credit."

  I want to tell Sally to get lost, but when I open my mouth no words come out. Instead, I launch an Earthquaker that makes Henry Olivetti beam with pride.

  Another Diploma

  My dad is a Biscotti Hottie.

  That's what it says on his diploma for Bake Your Way to the Bank: Turning Cookies into Cash.

  "Congratulations," I say.

  "Thank you," he says. "Now what are we going to do with all these cookies? The freezer is full from Rolling in Dough."

  There are cookies everywhere.

  Fat, plastic zippy bags of cookies.

  Chocolate Chip. Oatmeal Raisin. Carmel Nut Clusters. Zing-Bang-Doodles. Madeleines. Coconut Igloos. Lemon Melvins. Barney Goo-Goos. Butterscotch Biscotti. Pecan Sandies. Haystacks. Molasses Chums. Marshmallow Puff-Daddies. Cornmeal Bows. BadaBings. Maple Macaroons. Shortbread. Gingerbread. Almond Mandelbrot. Icebox Swirly-Qs. Cinnamon Crackles. Figgy Cram-Handies. Brazen Hussies.

  "Did you give any to Hugh?" I ask.

  "Three bags full," says Dad. "He wouldn't take any more."

  "You could put a few in my lunch," I say.

  "Perfect!" says Dad.

  Fireside Chat

  "What's in the box, Goober?" asks Wheeler Diggs. He pushes aside his Tater Tots to make room on the lunch table.

  "You'll find out when you stop calling me Goober," I say.

  "Fine, Zsa Zsa. What's in the box?"

  It's a big box, almost too big for me to carry. It is full of cookies.

  "Beastly!" says Colton. I think this is a good thing.

  "Extremely beastly," I say. "Help yourself."

  He does. And Henry Olivetti does, too. And a bunch of the other boys: Danny Polzdorfer, Mario Pollack, Felix and Oscar Mellenderry. Pretty soon our lunch table is surrounded by kids.

  "Help yourself," I say again.

  "These are awesome!" Danny Polzdorfer is monopolizing the Maple Macaroons.

  "Out of the way, Dorf," says a sixth grader. "What do you got that's chocolate?"

  I point out the Swirly-Qs and the Brazen Hussies.

  Joella and Emma slide into the crowd.

  "Puff-Daddy?" I offer.

  "We 're dieting," says Joella. Emma doesn't say anything. She loves marshmallows. Passing up a Puff-Daddy must be killing her.

  "Where'd you get all this?" asks somebody with a Haystack.

  "My dad made them."

  Kids are shoving their way to the table, hollering about Molasses Chums and Zing-Bang-Doodles. Crumbs are flying. And then, suddenly, it is quiet.

  A wall of Fireside Scouts has circled the table.

  "What's going on here?" says Sally Marvin. "Are you trying to ruin our business?"

  Beethoven's lunch lady! The Fireside Scout cookie sale!

  "I forgot," I say.

  "Forgot?" a red-headed scout says. Her fingers are all twitchy and she looks like she wants to tie me in a slipknot, or whatever kind of knot it is that Fireside Scouts do. "You bring buckets of cookies to school so often that you just forgot about our sale?"

  It's a box, actually. A UPS box. Not a bucket at all. I suspect this is not her point.

  "I really forgot. My dad had all these extra cookies..."

  Red pokes me in the chest. "You just made enemies with the Fireside Scouts of America."

  I Don't Need No Stinking Badges

  When I was eight, I wanted to be a Fireside Scout.

  I made one of those sashes out of paper towels and drew a bunch of badges on it and I used to wear it around the house sometimes.

  But I never was a Fireside Scout.

  Fireside Scout meetings are after school and they last an hour and a half, which means you can't take the bus home. So somebody who works, who might be in the middle of a meeting or something, would have to go get her coat and boots and everything on and go pick you up and drive you home and then drive all the way back across town to the office, because it's only four-thirty and work doesn't get done all by itself.

  So even if I wanted to be a Fireside Scout, I couldn't.

  But I
don't want to be one now.

  Which turns out to be a good thing.

  The Wheeler on the Bus

  "Zsa Zsa!" It's Wheeler Diggs. What is he doing on the bus?

  "My brother used to drive me, but he joined the army," says Wheeler.

  "Sorry," I say.

  "You got any more cookies?"

  "Not with me. There are another couple of boxes at home. I can bring you some tomorrow—as long as the Fireside Scouts don't find out."

  "Can't wait that long. I'm hungry now. Where do you live?"

  "Eastside," I say.

  "Duh, Goober. Everybody on this bus lives in Eastside."

  "Zsa Zsa," I remind him. "I live on Grouse Avenue, right by Warbler." Lots of the streets in Eastside are named after Michigan's native birds.

  "Close enough," says Wheeler.

  And when the bus gets to my stop, Wheeler Diggs gets off and follows me home.

  Who Is This Kid?

  Wheeler Diggs follows me all the way into my house.

  My dad is in the kitchen, baking and listening to Miss Person's CD. He is singing along to something from Hits of the Seventies. "Oh my dar-lin'..."

  "Dad, this is Wheeler Diggs," I say.

  Dad stops singing. He stares at me. Then he stares at Wheeler. Then he stares at me again.

  "You bake a fine cookie, sir," says Wheeler.

  Sir? Wheeler Diggs said sir?

  Dad still doesn't say anything.

  "Especially the Lemon Melvins. Top drawer."

  Top drawer? What is he talking about? Who is this kid?

  Dad swallows. "Thank you," he says. "Would you like another?"

  And just like that, Wheeler Diggs is sitting at our kitchen table talking cookies with my dad. Dad is explaining the difference between baking soda and baking powder and why you have to beat the eggs before you put them in cookie dough and just how important it is to preheat an oven. And Wheeler is eating it all up. The cookies. And the cookie talk.

  This is what Dad and I do. We talk about his Living Room University classes. He gives me cookies. How can he share all this with some kid who just shows up at the house one day?

  "It's pretty simple," Dad is saying. "Here, you want to try?"

  I watch Wheeler Diggs put on an apron and crack eggs. In my house. With my dad.

  "Dad," I say. "I have to make a decision about my Perform-O-Rama song."

  "That's okay, Zoe. You go ahead. This young man and I won't bother you. What's your name again?"

  Wheeler tells him and Dad repeats it: "Wheeler." And then Dad asks Wheeler if he'd like to take his jacket off and Wheeler says no, because he never takes his jacket off, and Dad says okay and then Wheeler and Dad start making cookies together and I take the CD player into the living room, because if I don't I'll look like a dork for making such a big deal about picking my song.

  I set the CD player for the next song on my list. Miss Person is playing the song with a samba beat. There it is, in the Hits of the Sixties songbook. It's by some guy named Roy Orbison. It's called "Only the Lonely."

  Gimme a Beat

  All week long, I listen to the twenty-two songs on Miss Person's CD.

  They all sound alike.

  You ever go in a store and hear a song and think you know it, but you can't think of the title because there are no voices singing and instead of guitars there are harps and trumpets and violins, and the rhythm is too slow or too fast, and really, this song that you think you know, that you think might be one of your favorite songs if you heard it the right way, sounds like Wheeler Diggs punched it in the stomach?

  That's what all the songs on Miss Person's CD sound like. Like punched-in-the-stomach versions of themselves.

  Not that I've heard half these songs before, anyway. Most of them are from before I was born. "Seasons in the Sun." "Smells Like Teen Spirit." "Who Put the Bomp (In the Bomp-Bomp-Bomp)." "The Theme from Family Ties."

  "So, what's it going to be?" asks Mabelline Person.

  "'Forever in Blue Jeans,' by Neil Diamond," I say. I like that name, Diamond. If I can't wear a diamond tiara at Carnegie Hall, I can at least play a Diamond song at the Perform-O-Rama.

  "Fine. Let's get cracking." Miss Person flips a rhythm switch. "Ultimately, you'll be playing this with Rock Beat number three, but for now—"

  Metronome.

  What's Weird

  Wheeler Diggs keeps following me home.

  What's Really Weird

  Wheeler Diggs and my dad are doing his latest Living Room University class together. Wheeler Diggs is making puff pastry. In my kitchen.

  And on days when Mom calls and says she'll be home late, Wheeler stays and eats Mom's dinner. Which is most days.

  And after dinner, he stays and does his homework.

  I don't know what is weirder, Wheeler Diggs eating my mom's dinner or Wheeler Diggs actually doing his homework.

  I think maybe it's the homework.

  "Wheeler," says Dad. "It's nearly seven o'clock. Won't your dad be getting home soon?"

  Wheeler shoves his stuff into his backpack.

  "Do you want to bring him some Éclairs?" Dad asks.

  "Nuh-uh. Thanks anyway."

  "Do you need a ride?" says Dad.

  Ride? My dad is offering to drive?

  "Nuh-uh. I just live over on Loon, remember?"

  "Okay, then. We'll see you tomorrow?" says Dad.

  "Dad," I say, "tomorrow is Wednesday. I've got my lesson." I've been practicing "Forever in Blue Jeans" for a week. I have to say I'm pretty good. Good enough, maybe, that Miss Person will declare me a prodigy after all.

  "Do you mind hearing her lesson?" Dad asks Wheeler.

  "I've heard her practice. It couldn't be any worse," he says.

  Dad laughs. "See you tomorrow."

  If at First You Don't Succeed

  Miss Person puts her glass of ginger ale to her forehead, like she's trying to soothe a headache. "Wagner's Aunt Alice," she says. "Let's try it again, this time just the left hand."

  I play the left-hand part. Without the melody to cover it up, I can hear rotten notes popping up all over the place. They are clunky and awful and as far from prodigy as you can get without giving up entirely.

  "Hear that? Do that part again."

  I do it again.

  "Again."

  I do it again.

  "Again."

  I do it again.

  "Again."

  I do it again.

  "Once more."

  I do it again.

  "Better," she says. "Do it again."

  I do it again.

  Miss Person scribbles some notes on a yellow paper. "Okay," she says. "Here's the plan. All this week I want you to play the left hand only—just the left hand. The following week, we'll put both hands together again. Then we'll add the pedals the week after that." Miss Person counts on her fingers. "That will leave us one more week to get you perfect for the Perform-O-Rama."

  She keeps on talking about practicing and how there 's a long way to go before I'm performance ready and that I haven't even added the real percussion yet.

  I don't say anything.

  If I do, I know I'll cry.

  The only person I ever let see me cry is my dad.

  And he is in the kitchen puffing pastry with Wheeler Diggs.

  And That's When I Decide

  I'm going to quit.

  Quitting

  It is no big deal that I am quitting.

  It isn't.

  It really isn't.

  It's not like quitting the piano.

  That would be a tragedy.

  People in movies only quit the piano when their wife dies or they get amnesia or they lose their arm in the war.

  And even then, they don't quit forever, because one day they are sitting there thinking about the good old days when they still had a wife or a memory or an arm and they notice that there is a piano in the room and they walk over and they press a key, a single key, and then another and another an
d suddenly they're playing the piano again and they decide that life is worth living. And they are happy. And pretty soon they get a new wife and their memory comes back and they learn to play lots of songs written for one-handed piano players.

  I would play the piano if I had only one hand.

  If it was the right hand.

  Not the left hand, though.

  I can't play with my left hand.

  I would have to practice all the time if I only had my left hand.

  All the time.

  Which, if I was a prodigy, I wouldn't have to do because I would be so talented that all I would do is read the music once and then I would sit down and play and it would be perfect. Even the left-handed parts. Perfect.

  Which I can't.

  Which is why I'm quitting.

  Which is what I am going to tell my dad.

  If Wheeler ever leaves.

  Go Figure

  Wheeler stays for dinner.

  Then he stays to do his math homework. We're learning units of measurement. How many ounces go into two and a half cups? How many ounces go into three pints?

  "Easy," says Wheeler.

  He scribbles the answers in his notebook. Twenty ounces. Forty-eight ounces. He doesn't even look at the measurement chart.

  "Bakers know these things," he says.

  I don't know these things. I know how many mistakes I can make in a single bar of music (fourteen). I know how many times I want to play "Forever in Blue Jeans" again (zero). I know how much I want Wheeler Diggs to go home (infinity).

  "Wheeler, it's seven o'clock," says Dad.

  Wheeler shoves his notebook into his backpack. "Thanks for helping with science," he says.

  "No problem," says Dad. "See you tomorrow."

  "See ya," says Wheeler. "See ya, Zsa Zsa."

  I stare at my measurement chart. "Sixteen ounces in a pint," I say. Wheeler turns and shuffles down the hall. The front door clatters shut. "Thirty-two ounces in a quart. Four quarts in a gallon. Nine gallons in a firkin."