A Crooked Kind of Perfect (12 page)

"I don't know," I say.

"How do you
think
you played?" says Mom.

"How do
you
think I played?" I ask her.

Benjamin Bemmerman starts announcing the six-year-old winners.

Why doesn't Mom answer?

Mona said I played great. Judy, too.

Why doesn't Mom say I played great?

"I suppose if your Saturday performance was really bad, my formula wouldn't work, anyway," she says. She is not smiling anymore. I think she is disappointed in her formula. Either that, or she is disappointed in me.

Benjamin Bemmerman takes forever to announce the names of the trophy winners.

There are a lot.

"In the seven-year-old competition, fifth place goes to Danielle Bennet."

Some of the little kids scream when they hear their names and then jump up and down and their parents hug them and it takes them a really long time to even start walking to the podium to get their trophy. One kid cries.

"And our nine-year-old champion, Sylvia Karkatowski."

If I was going to get a trophy, I wouldn't cry.

Not that I'm going to get a trophy.

But if I was, if I was Mona or something, I wouldn't cry.

People don't cry at Carnegie Hall. They just nod and bow. Sometimes, I bet, they make speeches.

If I was Mona, I'd make a speech.

When you make a speech, you're supposed to thank the little people. Like that six-year-old who cried.
Then you thank your teachers and your friends and everyone who made this moment possible. Like Lester Rennet and Miss Person and Wheeler for calling on the cell phone and Dad for driving here.

"In third place, Minette Popper."

And I'd thank Mom for coming, even though there was a ledger crisis, for coming and hearing me play and taking me to lunch and telling me about Giggles and holding my hand in the parking lot even though she doesn't need to anymore.

And I would thank Vladimir Horowitz, too.

"Eleven-year-old competition..."

"In fifth place, Andy Markowitz."

Mom puts a check next to Andy Markowitz's name on her sheet. Her formula is working.

"In fourth place, Zoe Elias."

Mom does not check Zoe Elias off her list.

Zoe Elias is not on Mom's list.

Zoe Elias is me!

Mom jumps up and I jump up and Mom says, "Go get your trophy, Zoe!" and I go.

I am very professional.

I do not cry.

I take my trophy.

I bow. People laugh. Maybe I should have curtsied.

I do not make a speech. Instead, I walk back to Mom and watch her scratch out Margaret Barstock and in big fat letters write my name, ZOE ELIAS, in the fourth-place spot.

"Thank you, Mom," I say.

My trophy is shiny.

The bottom is marble—real marble—with two gold columns holding up another slab of marble with a gold plate that says:

F
OURTH
P
LACE
E
LEVEN
-Y
EAR
-O
LD
D
IVISION

and then there 's a sparkly blue column with the words
PERFECTONE
PERFORM
-
O
-
RAMA
on it and then another slab of marble with a big gold musical note stuck on top. It is beautiful.

So beautiful, I don't take my eyes off of it until the award ceremony is over. And when I do look up, Miss Person is there, beaming.

"Beethoven's barbershop," she says. "Your first trophy. Congratulations, kiddo."

"Thank you," I say. My first trophy.

"In a couple of weeks, you'll get another gold plate in the mail," Miss Person tells me. "Your name will be engraved on it. You can stick it on your trophy with mounting tape."

My trophy.

This is my trophy. Those are my fingerprints smudged all over it. And in a few weeks it will have my name on it.

My name.

Zoe Elias.

I see Mona and Judy across the room. Mona waves her first-place trophy at me. I wave my fourth-place trophy back at her.

"Honey," says Mom. She is looking at her watch. "I'm sorry to hurry us out of here, but we've got to get going."

"I think you'd better notify Domestic Affairs," says Mom. She is driving with one hand and waving her cell phone around with the other. "Tell your dad we should be home in about fifty minutes."

I dial home.

"Hello?" says Dad. He sounds different. His voice is deep and formal, like he is about to make a speech.

"Dad?" I say.

"Zoe!" His normal voice is back. "How'd it go?"

I tell him I got fourth place.

"Whooooooo-hoooooo!" hollers Dad.

I hear a voice in the background. "What whoo-hoo?"

"She got fourth place," Dad says.

"Whooooooo-hooooooo!" It is Wheeler.

"So," says Dad. "You got a trophy. Isn't that better than having a piano?"

Is it?

I like having a trophy. Especially a shiny trophy that in a couple of weeks will have my name on it. But is it better than having a piano? Than playing piano music?

"I don't know," I say.

I liked playing today. I liked it more than I have ever liked playing before. I liked the way the pedals sounded and I liked the way the keys felt under my fingers and I liked the way Rock Beat #3 thumped around in my chest.

But the Perfectone D-60 is no piano.

"Let me have the phone," says Mom.

I hand it to her.

"Hello?" she says. "Yes. I know she got fourth place." Mom laughs. "Is everything going okay?"

Dad says something and Mom laughs again. "That's great. I can't wait to hear—Oh shoot," she says, "I've got another call. We'll be home in forty-five minutes. Okay. No. I'll call you back if I can."

Mom pulls the phone away from her ear. She presses a couple of buttons with her thumb.

"Hello? Sharon? Hey. How are things going with the ledger?"

It is Mom's office.

"No," she says. "No. I'll do it. I'll be in early tomorrow."

I rest my head against the car window.

"Terrific," says Mom.

She sounds happy.

Work makes Mom happy.

"Really, terrific," she says. "Sharon, you should have been there. People were actually tapping their toes. I was so proud."

Mom is not talking about work.

She is talking about me.

And she is happy.

Mom goes back to talking about ledgers and deadlines and critical inaccuracies and fiscal years.

We drive by grocery stores and clothing stores and hardware stores and office supply stores. Bust-A-Burger. Coffee shop. Gas station. Bust-A-Burger. A subdivision full of houses that look exactly like the ones in East Eastside. A billboard for Bust-A-Burger.

When we go under an overpass, the window gets dark and I can see my reflection.

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.

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.

"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.

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.