Read A Crooked Kind of Perfect for Free Online

tell Sally to get lost, but when I open my mouth no words come out. Instead, I launch an Earthquaker that makes Henry Olivetti beam with pride.

Another Diploma
    My dad is a Biscotti Hottie.
    That's what it says on his diploma for Bake Your Way to the Bank: Turning Cookies into Cash.
    "Congratulations," I say.
    "Thank you," he says. "Now what are we going to do with all these cookies? The freezer is full from Rolling in Dough."
    There are cookies everywhere.
    Fat, plastic zippy bags of cookies.
    Chocolate Chip. Oatmeal Raisin. Carmel Nut Clusters. Zing-Bang-Doodles. Madeleines. Coconut Igloos. Lemon Melvins. Barney Goo-Goos. Butterscotch Biscotti. Pecan Sandies. Haystacks. Molasses Chums. Marshmallow Puff-Daddies. Cornmeal Bows. BadaBings. Maple Macaroons. Shortbread. Gingerbread. Almond Mandelbrot. Icebox Swirly-Qs. Cinnamon Crackles. Figgy Cram-Handies. Brazen Hussies.
    "Did you give any to Hugh?" I ask.
    "Three bags full," says Dad. "He wouldn't take any more."
    "You could put a few in my lunch," I say.
    "Perfect!" says Dad.

Fireside Chat
    "What's in the box, Goober?" asks Wheeler Diggs. He pushes aside his Tater Tots to make room on the lunch table.
    "You'll find out when you stop calling me Goober," I say.
    "Fine, Zsa Zsa. What's in the box?"
    It's a big box, almost too big for me to carry. It is full of cookies.
    "Beastly!" says Colton. I think this is a good thing.
    "Extremely beastly," I say. "Help yourself."
    He does. And Henry Olivetti does, too. And a bunch of the other boys: Danny Polzdorfer, Mario Pollack, Felix and Oscar Mellenderry. Pretty soon our lunch table is surrounded by kids.
    "Help yourself," I say again.
    "These are awesome!" Danny Polzdorfer is monopolizing the Maple Macaroons.
    "Out of the way, Dorf," says a sixth grader. "What do you got that's chocolate?"
    I point out the Swirly-Qs and the Brazen Hussies.
    Joella and Emma slide into the crowd.
    "Puff-Daddy?" I offer.
    "We 're dieting," says Joella. Emma doesn't say anything. She loves marshmallows. Passing up a Puff-Daddy must be killing her.
    "Where'd you get all this?" asks somebody with a Haystack.
    "My dad made them."
    Kids are shoving their way to the table, hollering about Molasses Chums and Zing-Bang-Doodles. Crumbs are flying. And then, suddenly, it is quiet.
    A wall of Fireside Scouts has circled the table.
    "What's going on here?" says Sally Marvin. "Are you trying to ruin our business?"
    Beethoven's lunch lady! The Fireside Scout cookie sale!
    "I forgot," I say.
    "Forgot?" a red-headed scout says. Her fingers are all twitchy and she looks like she wants to tie me in a slipknot, or whatever kind of knot it is that Fireside Scouts do. "You bring buckets of cookies to school so often that you just forgot about our sale?"
    It's a box, actually. A UPS box. Not a bucket at all. I suspect this is not her point.
    "I really forgot. My dad had all these extra cookies..."
    Red pokes me in the chest. "You just made enemies with the Fireside Scouts of America."

I Don't Need No Stinking Badges
    When I was eight, I wanted to be a Fireside Scout.
    I made one of those sashes out of paper towels and drew a bunch of badges on it and I used to wear it around the house sometimes.
    But I never was a Fireside Scout.
    Fireside Scout meetings are after school and they last an hour and a half, which means you can't take the bus home. So somebody who works, who might be in the middle of a meeting or something, would have to go get her coat and boots and everything on and go pick you up and drive you home and then drive all the way back across town to the office, because it's only four-thirty and work doesn't get done all by itself.
    So even if I wanted to be a Fireside Scout, I couldn't.
    But I don't want to be one now.
    Which turns out to be a good thing.

The Wheeler on the Bus
    "Zsa Zsa!" It's Wheeler Diggs. What is he doing on the bus?
    "My brother used to drive me, but he joined the army," says Wheeler.
    "Sorry," I say.
    "You got any more cookies?"
    "Not