Read Online A Crooked Kind of Perfect by Linda Urban - Free Book Online
Authors: Linda Urban
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the phone. There's a work crisis. A ledger emergency. She's going to have to stay late and..."
"And?" I ask, but I know. Mom is going to have to work all weekend, too. Which means...
"Well," says Dad.
"She can't go to the Perform-O-Rama," I say.
"Well," says Dad. "Well. No."
What Dad Says
Who needs a Perform-O-Rama anyway?
Who needs it?
Really?
The competition?
The pressure?
Who needs judges telling you you're talented?
You know you're talented.
I know you're talented.
Wheeler knows you're talented.
I know what we'll do. We'll have our own Perform-O-Rama here! Right here. We'll dress up fancy and have candles and we'll put Vernors in champagne glasses. We could have hors d'oeuvres and I could print up programs. I learned how to print programs in Party Smarty.
You'd like that, wouldn't you?
Programs?
And Vernors?
Just the three of us?
Who needs anything more?
What I Say
I do.
And Then
I slam my chair into the table so hard that the tiers of my birthday cake wobble, which is what is going to happen if you don't have real columns and you balance the whole thing on stupid frosted toilet paper tubes because you're too much of a freak to get in the stupid car and drive to a baking supply place and get real columns like a regular person.
Which you wouldn't have to do anyway if you could just go to a real baking class at a real baking school, which is what normal people do because they aren't all weirded out by the idea that there might be real live human beings sitting next to them and a real teacher and maybe even a graduation ceremony where a real person might hand you a real rolled-up diploma instead of having you tear your suitable-for-framing diploma out of the back of a book.
And what good is a stupid framed diploma to anybody anyway if after you learn how to scuba or fly or plan parties or bake you never go out in the world and scuba or fly or party or bake for anybody, anyway?
And that's what I say. Then I say, "What good is
working hard and learning to play the stupid Perfectone D-60 if nobody ever hears me?"
And Dad says, "I hear you."
And I say, "That doesn't count."
Directions
I am hiding in my room, listening to one of Mom's Horowitz CDs. Loud.
Someone knocks on the door.
"Go away," I yell.
It's Wheeler. "I've got cake, Goober," he says.
I let him in.
"It's Zsa Zsa," I say.
Then we eat cake.
And when we finish, Wheeler goes out to the kitchen and gets us each another piece and we eat that, too.
Wheeler turns off my CD player. "He's gonna take you," he says.
"He'll try, but he won't be able to. He'll get nervous and we'll get lost and then we'll end up back here." My voice cracks and Wheeler thinks I'm choking on cake so he goes and gets us each a glass of milk.
Which we drink.
"I was mean," I say. "It's not his fault. He can't do this."
"He can do it," says Wheeler.
"He can't. It's like he physically can't. It's like..."
I try to think of something that Wheeler can't do so he'll understand. "It's like if you wanted to burp upside down. But you can't. Your body just won't let you. That's what it's like for him."
"He'll do it," says Wheeler.
We sit there for a while, pushing cake crumbs around our plates.
"You were pretty mad out there," Wheeler says.
"You were pretty mad yesterday," I say.
"Was not."
"You punched a bird."
"A fake bird," he says. He shoves his hands in his jacket pockets.
"I thought you might not come back here ever," I say.
"You should have known I wouldn't miss your birthday, Goober."
"I should have known you wouldn't miss cake." Wheeler laughs and for a second I feel like everything is okay, and then we hear Dad in the kitchen talking to himself.
"I-94 to Huron Avenue exit. Take a left. Seven miles north past the Birch Valley Mall. Right at Bixby. Left at Erie."
And then he says those words again.
And again.
And again.
They are the directions to the Perform-O-Rama.
Planning for the Worst
Wheeler stands up.
"Come on," he says, but I don't
"And?" I ask, but I know. Mom is going to have to work all weekend, too. Which means...
"Well," says Dad.
"She can't go to the Perform-O-Rama," I say.
"Well," says Dad. "Well. No."
What Dad Says
Who needs a Perform-O-Rama anyway?
Who needs it?
Really?
The competition?
The pressure?
Who needs judges telling you you're talented?
You know you're talented.
I know you're talented.
Wheeler knows you're talented.
I know what we'll do. We'll have our own Perform-O-Rama here! Right here. We'll dress up fancy and have candles and we'll put Vernors in champagne glasses. We could have hors d'oeuvres and I could print up programs. I learned how to print programs in Party Smarty.
You'd like that, wouldn't you?
Programs?
And Vernors?
Just the three of us?
Who needs anything more?
What I Say
I do.
And Then
I slam my chair into the table so hard that the tiers of my birthday cake wobble, which is what is going to happen if you don't have real columns and you balance the whole thing on stupid frosted toilet paper tubes because you're too much of a freak to get in the stupid car and drive to a baking supply place and get real columns like a regular person.
Which you wouldn't have to do anyway if you could just go to a real baking class at a real baking school, which is what normal people do because they aren't all weirded out by the idea that there might be real live human beings sitting next to them and a real teacher and maybe even a graduation ceremony where a real person might hand you a real rolled-up diploma instead of having you tear your suitable-for-framing diploma out of the back of a book.
And what good is a stupid framed diploma to anybody anyway if after you learn how to scuba or fly or plan parties or bake you never go out in the world and scuba or fly or party or bake for anybody, anyway?
And that's what I say. Then I say, "What good is
working hard and learning to play the stupid Perfectone D-60 if nobody ever hears me?"
And Dad says, "I hear you."
And I say, "That doesn't count."
Directions
I am hiding in my room, listening to one of Mom's Horowitz CDs. Loud.
Someone knocks on the door.
"Go away," I yell.
It's Wheeler. "I've got cake, Goober," he says.
I let him in.
"It's Zsa Zsa," I say.
Then we eat cake.
And when we finish, Wheeler goes out to the kitchen and gets us each another piece and we eat that, too.
Wheeler turns off my CD player. "He's gonna take you," he says.
"He'll try, but he won't be able to. He'll get nervous and we'll get lost and then we'll end up back here." My voice cracks and Wheeler thinks I'm choking on cake so he goes and gets us each a glass of milk.
Which we drink.
"I was mean," I say. "It's not his fault. He can't do this."
"He can do it," says Wheeler.
"He can't. It's like he physically can't. It's like..."
I try to think of something that Wheeler can't do so he'll understand. "It's like if you wanted to burp upside down. But you can't. Your body just won't let you. That's what it's like for him."
"He'll do it," says Wheeler.
We sit there for a while, pushing cake crumbs around our plates.
"You were pretty mad out there," Wheeler says.
"You were pretty mad yesterday," I say.
"Was not."
"You punched a bird."
"A fake bird," he says. He shoves his hands in his jacket pockets.
"I thought you might not come back here ever," I say.
"You should have known I wouldn't miss your birthday, Goober."
"I should have known you wouldn't miss cake." Wheeler laughs and for a second I feel like everything is okay, and then we hear Dad in the kitchen talking to himself.
"I-94 to Huron Avenue exit. Take a left. Seven miles north past the Birch Valley Mall. Right at Bixby. Left at Erie."
And then he says those words again.
And again.
And again.
They are the directions to the Perform-O-Rama.
Planning for the Worst
Wheeler stands up.
"Come on," he says, but I don't
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