Read Online Death by Eggplant by Susan Heyboer O'Keefe - Free Book Online

your math books away,” she said. She waited till the rustling and chair-scraping quieted. “Only three days remain till the end of the marking period this Friday,” she continued. “Make-up homework from a few of you is still due, as well as some
special
projects.” Her eyes narrowed and she looked back and forth between Dekker and me. “Other than that, our academic work for the year is finished. So over the coming days, I’ve arranged for a few guest speakers during my classes with you. Some parents have very generously interrupted their busy day to talk to you about their careers.” She gestured toward the door as it started to open. “Please welcome our first guest, Mr. Peter Hooks.”
    Dad? My
dad was giving up work to talk about work?He hadn’t said a word to me this morning on his way out the door. Maybe he had wanted to surprise me.
    It was weird seeing him in class. It took me a few moments, then it hit me. I didn’t
feel
weird, my father
looked
weird. He looked strange, unbalanced, not like my father at all. If I passed him on the street, I might not recognize him. Why?
    â€œMr. Hooks is, of course, Bertram Hooks’s father,” Mrs. M. said.
    My father frowned when he saw Cleo on my desk. What was he thinking—that he had seen her face somewhere before, or that his newborn must be a genius to already be in eighth grade? He would be signing Cleo up for actuarial science, too.
    Waving a hello to the class, he saw the second flour sack slumped on its side on Dekker’s desk. My father did a double-take like from a Saturday morning cartoon. I could almost see the thought balloon over his head:
“Cleo has a twin?”
    â€œIt’s a class project, Dad,” I tried to explain.
    â€œAnd yours is named Cleo,” Dekker cooed. “Soon to be Dolly.”
    â€œShut up, Shorty,” I answered.
    Mrs. Menendez held up a warning finger to both of us. My father took that as his signal to start.
    â€œHi. I’m Peter Hooks, as you heard, Bert Hooks’s father, and I would like to talk to you about insurance.Most people think that insurance is boring, but it isn’t, not at all. In most ways, it’s all about protecting people and property, but on some levels, it’s actually an exciting life-or-death gamble!”
    My father’s face glowed with enthusiasm, while mine glowed with embarrassment. I sank a little lower in my chair.
    â€œNow my job is to figure out exactly what the chances are that any given accident, no matter how strange, might actually happen,” he continued. “It may look like I’m only playing with numbers. But I’m really speculating about life; making up stories, even. It’s a little like being a fiction writer and a little like being a detective, a detective of
future
events. Of course, I do have to translate all these strange tales into numbers, probabilities. So by the time I’m finished with the stories, rock star Head Cracker—”
    The class gasped at the name and leaned forward eagerly.
    â€œâ€”becomes a statistic of .02379 percent in certain instances and 94.9 percent in others, depending on a whole set of variables, like whether he took his meds that day or whether the hotel maid gave Head Cracker ten pillows instead of his mandatory eleven pillows when she made up the room.”
    I heard murmurs of “Wow” and “How cool is that?” For
my
father?
    â€œWhat’s more, if you think about it,” he said, “I alsocontribute to either the decline of Western civilization or to the promotion of the arts, depending on your view of Head Cracker’s music, since without his being insured to the gills, he wouldn’t be allowed to play.”
    Beep-beep!
At the sound, my father began to pat himself.
    â€œAnd I, uh . . . can’t even begin to tell you . . . um . . . about the consequences of a misplaced decimal,” he