A Crooked Kind of Perfect (13 page)

"Wheeler?" I say. I'm looking at his toes, the toes that are just like his dad's. "Wheeler? Where's your mom?"

"That is a long story," says Wheeler.

Just then the Rewind Music truck turns onto Grouse Avenue.

Wheeler stands and waves. The Rewind Music guys pull into our driveway.

"Are you Elias?" they ask Wheeler.

"She is," he says.

"Want to show us where this is going?" they say.

I do. But I also want to know about Wheeler's mom. And I want Wheeler to know that I want to know.

"I like long stories," I say.

"We've got all summer, Elias," he says.

We do. We have all summer.

I show the Rewind guys our living room.

"This thing goes back with us, right?" The thing is the Perfectone D-60.

"Yes," I say.

"And the piano goes in the same spot?"

"Yes."

I go back out on the porch to sit with Wheeler. The sun has dipped behind the garage roof and the porch is shady and suddenly cool. The Rewind guys set up a ramp on our porch steps. They roll the Perfectone D-60 on dollies—out of the house, down the ramp, into the truck.
Good-bye,
I think.
Thank you.
And before I can think about how weird it is that I just said thank you to a wheeze-bag organ, my piano is rolled out of the truck and set in the driveway.

My piano.

I have goose bumps.

"You cold?" asks Wheeler.

"I'm okay," I say.

Wheeler takes off his jean jacket. I've never seen him without his jacket on. He looks skinnier than I thought he would.

"Put this on," he says.

I put it on, but it doesn't stop the goose bumps. Putting on Wheeler's jacket gives me more.

The Rewind guys roll my piano up the ramp and into the house and into its spot in the living room.

"Are your parents here?" they ask me.

Mom is on the phone with her office. "What's the final tally?" I hear her say. "Does it all reconcile?"

"My mom is busy," I say. "And my dad is taking a nap." Dad had his first early-morning baking shift today.

"You can sign this then." They hand me a proof of delivery slip. I sign it. The piano is mine.

"The tuner will be by tomorrow afternoon," they tell me.

I nod. "Thank you."

The Rewind guys leave, clanging their dolly down the porch steps. It is so loud it wakes Dad. Even Mom gets off the phone.

"Your piano," says Mom.

Dad stretches and yawns. "I'm sorry it isn't a shiny new one."

It isn't shiny. Or new. It has a few scratches along the sides and the music stand is a little crooked. But it is mine.

"Try it out," says Wheeler.

Try it out?

"It 's probably out of tune. I should wait until tomorrow. It will be perfect tomorrow," I say, but even as I say it, I'm sitting down on the piano bench and lifting the cover off the keys.

Dad waits.

Mom waits.

Wheeler waits.

They don't say anything.

They don't even breathe.

I rest my fingers on the keys.

I don't care if my piano isn't perfect yet.

I just want to play.

And I do.

"As long as I can have you here with me
I'd much rather be
Forever in blue jeans."

Nearly everything I know about writing I learned by working at an independent bookstore. The education I received while at Vroman's Bookstore was Ivy League, thanks to my professors: customers, colleagues, writers, artists, and friends. I am especially grateful to Sherri Gallentine, Jodi Kinzler, and the Northshire Bookstore's Stan Hynds, who read early bits of this story and only laughed when they were supposed to.

Lisa Wheeler read this story in its first incarnation—as a picture book. She told me it was funny, but it wasn't a picture book. It was a novel. I had no idea.

Susan Sandmore and Kelly Fineman read it as a novel, and their insight made it a better one.

Jeannette Larson had faith in this book when it was barely a scribble. Thank you, Jeannette, for your humor, grace, and dedication. You are the Horowitz of editors. I feel awfully lucky to have landed at such a welcoming and supportive place as Harcourt, and I'm grateful to Allyn Johnston and Jessica Dzundza for sharing their enthusiasm for this project.

My mother, Joanne Urban, told me to write what I had to and not to worry what she or anyone else would think. That may have been the bravest thing she 's ever done. Thanks, Mom.

Marita Frey, Joe and Sharon Knipes, and the good folks at the Family Center of Washington County cared for my kids and gave me time to write.

My kids, Jack and Claire, inspire me to play, to see things fresh, and to make up words when regular ones don't fit. I'm still working on making up a word powerful enough to thank my husband and best friend, Julio Thompson, who pretends I am perfect, despite my dents and lopsidedness.

Finally, I must thank Marla Frazee and Myra Wolfe, my courage and counsel, without whom I would not be a writer.

A grant from the Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators helped make this novel possible.