A Crooked Kind of Perfect by Linda Urban Read Free Book Online

two and a half cups? How many ounces go into three pints?
    "Easy," says Wheeler.
    He scribbles the answers in his notebook. Twenty ounces. Forty-eight ounces. He doesn't even look at the measurement chart.
    "Bakers know these things," he says.
    I don't know these things. I know how many mistakes I can make in a single bar of music (fourteen). I know how many times I want to play "Forever in Blue Jeans" again (zero). I know how much I want Wheeler Diggs to go home (infinity).
    "Wheeler, it's seven o'clock," says Dad.
    Wheeler shoves his notebook into his backpack. "Thanks for helping with science," he says.
    "No problem," says Dad. "See you tomorrow."
    "See ya," says Wheeler. "See ya, Zsa Zsa."
    I stare at my measurement chart. "Sixteen ounces in a pint," I say. Wheeler turns and shuffles down the
hall. The front door clatters shut. "Thirty-two ounces in a quart. Four quarts in a gallon. Nine gallons in a firkin."
    Dad flips a dish towel onto his shoulder and sits down next to me. "What's a firkin?" he says.
    "I thought bakers knew these things," I say.
    "I'm still workin' on firkins," says Dad. He bumps my shoulder with his. I'm supposed to bump him back, but I don't.
    The only sound in the room is the scrape of my pencil.
16 gallons,
I write.
23 quarts.
Finally, Dad pushes himself up from the table.
    "How come Wheeler's own dad doesn't help him with his science homework?" I say.
    Dad sits back down. "You know Wheeler's parents are divorced, right? Well, Wheeler lives with his dad and his dad works late."
    "Why doesn't he help him when he gets home?" I say.
    Dad runs his palm along the tabletop. "Have you ever met Wheeler's dad, honey?"
    I shake my head.
    "Me neither. I asked Wheeler to describe him once. Wheeler said he had a racing stripe—a long line of suntan down his left side from driving so much with the window open."
    I laugh, picturing a grown-up Wheeler-looking person with a half-tanned face.
    "Seems Wheeler's dad just isn't happy unless he's in motion. If he's not working, he's jogging or mowing the lawn or going out for long drives in his pickup. He's as uncomfortable caged up in his house as—"
    "As you are outside of ours?" I ask.
    Dad chuckles. "Guess John Diggs needs to feel the wind in his hair as much as I need to feel this linoleum under my feet."
    "What about what Wheeler needs?" I ask.
    Dad pats the table a couple of times. He looks at me like he does when he's helping with my homework. Patient. Waiting for me to figure things out for myself.
    "Wheeler needs to be here?" I ask, but even as I do, I know the answer.
    "And what about you?" asks Dad. "What do you need?"
    All this time I've been waiting to tell my dad that I'm quitting, but now that he 's ready to listen, I'm not ready to say it.
    "I need to know how many gallons are in two and a half firkins," I say.
    Dad pulls his chair tight up to mine. "Let's figure it out."

Still Quitting
    Thursday, I don't play the organ.
    Friday, I don't play the organ.
    Saturday, I don't play the organ.
    Saturday night, me and Mom and Dad are watching TV. During a commercial Dad asks, "How come you're not playing the organ?"
    I just shrug my shoulders and then that show about the guy who's this crazy neat-freak detective comes on and Dad starts watching TV again.
    But Mom is watching me.
    I don't look at her, but I know she is watching me.
    I should tell them I'm quitting.
    I should.
    But I don't.
    I just watch the detective on TV get all weirded out about being in a crowded elevator. I watch and Dad watches and eventually Mom stops watching me and goes back to watching TV.
    I will tell them I'm quitting tomorrow.

Who Knew?
    Dad is out of eggs. Usually we have stuff delivered by GiddyUpGrocer! but it is Sunday and our GiddyUpGrocer! order won't come until Tuesday and Dad is in a popover crisis. You can't make popovers without eggs.
    "I'll get some," says Mom. She gives Dad a wink, then turns to me. "You want to come with?"
    Mom never asks me. It's faster just to go