Read Online A Crooked Kind of Perfect by Linda Urban - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Linda Urban
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move.
"Come on," he says again and he grabs my hands and pulls me up and out of my bedroom and into the kitchen and onto a kitchen chair. He sits next to me.
Dad sits next to Wheeler. He has the Perform-O-Rama info sheet in his hands and keeps rolling it up in a tube and then flattening it out on the table and rolling it up and flattening it out again.
"Where 's your cell?" Wheeler asks, and Dad gives him the cell phone.
"And your
Yellow Pages?"
Dad gets him the
Yellow Pages.
Wheeler pushes up his jean jacket sleeves. "Okay," he says. "What's the worst that could happen?"
"We could get lost," Dad says.
Wheeler punches in the phone number for Marty's Eastside Wreck and Tow. "Marty's is now speed dial number one," he says.
"There could be bad weather," Dad says.
Wheeler looks up the number for the National Weather Service. "Speed dial number two."
"A crazy truck driver could try to run us off the road," says Dad.
"State Police, speed dial number three."
"We could run out of gas or get a flat or..."
"Got that covered with Marty," says Wheeler. "What else?"
"We could run late and the hotel could give away our reservations," says Dad.
"Birch Valley Hotel, number four."
"I could run out of cash."
"Michigan Independent Bank, number five."
"We ... we could get really hungry?" says Dad.
This is ridiculous,
I think. "Or monkeys could descend from the sky."
Wheeler pages through the phone book. "Bust-A-Burger, speed dial number six. Detroit Zoo, number seven," he says.
Dad laughs. "You think the zoo handles flying monkeys?"
"I'll add the Humane Society, just in case," says Wheeler. "That's number eight."
"Tsunami," I say.
"Arnold's Rent-A-Lifeguard, number nine."
"Alien invasion," says Dad.
"Squash-Um Pest Control, number ten."
"We could forget which speed dial is which," I say.
"Just remember number eleven. That's me. I'll remember the rest," says Wheeler.
Thump
Thump.
Thump.
Thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump.
Dad is hauling a giant wheelie suitcase up from the basement. I remind him that he only has to pack for one night.
Thump.
"You never know what you're going to need," says Dad.
I roll my eyes but Dad doesn't see because he is already halfway down the hall, his suitcase wheels clicking over the linoleum.
"I have to go," says Wheeler.
I nod.
"He's going to do it," says Wheeler. I nod again.
"So what's the matter with you?"
"My mom can't go," I say.
"Big deal," says Wheeler.
"It
is
a big deal!" I say. "She was supposed to go. She was supposed to hear me play!"
"She 's heard you play," says Wheeler. "A couple of times, at least."
"She missed my birthday," I say. "My eleventh birthday! How many birthdays has your mom missed?"
"All but the first one," he says.
And even though he smiles his lopsided smile and tells me, "Good luck, Goober" and "Remember number eleven," I feel like Wheeler Diggs has punched me in the stomach.
My Card
It is dark.
I am in bed.
It is dark and I am in bed trying not to think about Wheeler's motherless birthdays.
I can hear Dad in his room repeating the directions to the Perform-O-Rama while he packs his suitcase. "I-94 ... Birch Valley Mall ... Erie..."
And then I hear the rumble of the garage door and Mom's Saturn chugging into the garage and the garage door closing again.
Clink.
Mom's keys on hook.
Creeeeeeeaaaaak.
Closet door open.
Scrape.
Coat hanger.
Another creak. Closet door closed.
Mom's heels thud on the linoleum.
Thud thud thud.
She is walking into the kitchen.
She is looking at my cake, I bet.
Now she is going to come to my room and wish me a happy birthday and try to make up with me by giving me some lame present. Which I will not accept.
Here she is, thudding down the hallway.
Past my door.
Down the hall to her own room, where I hear her tell my dad that he can finish packing in the morning and she has had a hard day and can't they just turn off the lights already?
And then everything is quiet.
No "Happy
"Come on," he says again and he grabs my hands and pulls me up and out of my bedroom and into the kitchen and onto a kitchen chair. He sits next to me.
Dad sits next to Wheeler. He has the Perform-O-Rama info sheet in his hands and keeps rolling it up in a tube and then flattening it out on the table and rolling it up and flattening it out again.
"Where 's your cell?" Wheeler asks, and Dad gives him the cell phone.
"And your
Yellow Pages?"
Dad gets him the
Yellow Pages.
Wheeler pushes up his jean jacket sleeves. "Okay," he says. "What's the worst that could happen?"
"We could get lost," Dad says.
Wheeler punches in the phone number for Marty's Eastside Wreck and Tow. "Marty's is now speed dial number one," he says.
"There could be bad weather," Dad says.
Wheeler looks up the number for the National Weather Service. "Speed dial number two."
"A crazy truck driver could try to run us off the road," says Dad.
"State Police, speed dial number three."
"We could run out of gas or get a flat or..."
"Got that covered with Marty," says Wheeler. "What else?"
"We could run late and the hotel could give away our reservations," says Dad.
"Birch Valley Hotel, number four."
"I could run out of cash."
"Michigan Independent Bank, number five."
"We ... we could get really hungry?" says Dad.
This is ridiculous,
I think. "Or monkeys could descend from the sky."
Wheeler pages through the phone book. "Bust-A-Burger, speed dial number six. Detroit Zoo, number seven," he says.
Dad laughs. "You think the zoo handles flying monkeys?"
"I'll add the Humane Society, just in case," says Wheeler. "That's number eight."
"Tsunami," I say.
"Arnold's Rent-A-Lifeguard, number nine."
"Alien invasion," says Dad.
"Squash-Um Pest Control, number ten."
"We could forget which speed dial is which," I say.
"Just remember number eleven. That's me. I'll remember the rest," says Wheeler.
Thump
Thump.
Thump.
Thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump.
Dad is hauling a giant wheelie suitcase up from the basement. I remind him that he only has to pack for one night.
Thump.
"You never know what you're going to need," says Dad.
I roll my eyes but Dad doesn't see because he is already halfway down the hall, his suitcase wheels clicking over the linoleum.
"I have to go," says Wheeler.
I nod.
"He's going to do it," says Wheeler. I nod again.
"So what's the matter with you?"
"My mom can't go," I say.
"Big deal," says Wheeler.
"It
is
a big deal!" I say. "She was supposed to go. She was supposed to hear me play!"
"She 's heard you play," says Wheeler. "A couple of times, at least."
"She missed my birthday," I say. "My eleventh birthday! How many birthdays has your mom missed?"
"All but the first one," he says.
And even though he smiles his lopsided smile and tells me, "Good luck, Goober" and "Remember number eleven," I feel like Wheeler Diggs has punched me in the stomach.
My Card
It is dark.
I am in bed.
It is dark and I am in bed trying not to think about Wheeler's motherless birthdays.
I can hear Dad in his room repeating the directions to the Perform-O-Rama while he packs his suitcase. "I-94 ... Birch Valley Mall ... Erie..."
And then I hear the rumble of the garage door and Mom's Saturn chugging into the garage and the garage door closing again.
Clink.
Mom's keys on hook.
Creeeeeeeaaaaak.
Closet door open.
Scrape.
Coat hanger.
Another creak. Closet door closed.
Mom's heels thud on the linoleum.
Thud thud thud.
She is walking into the kitchen.
She is looking at my cake, I bet.
Now she is going to come to my room and wish me a happy birthday and try to make up with me by giving me some lame present. Which I will not accept.
Here she is, thudding down the hallway.
Past my door.
Down the hall to her own room, where I hear her tell my dad that he can finish packing in the morning and she has had a hard day and can't they just turn off the lights already?
And then everything is quiet.
No "Happy
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