Heaven Is Paved with Oreos Read Online Free PDF Page A

from Z does not find it hilarious at all. That is where I come in. I am supposed to walk Jack Russell George to the park and throw him a tennis ball so he can release all his stair-bouncing kilowatts of energy.
    The problem is that while Jack Russell George is tremendously good at fetching the ball, he is not so interested in returning it.
    I think I need a book on dogs.
    I am back home in Red Bend now. On the ride back, Paul listened to music in the back seat and ignored us. I asked D.J. about her basketball practice. She said it went really well and she really likes playing with girls on this level. But she was far more interested in Z than in basketball, which I appreciated because then I could contribute to the conversation. D.J. wanted to know, for example, why we call her Z, which is a tremendously long story and it makes some people uncomfortable, so I have to be careful how I tell it.
    You see, Z had Dad when she was only eighteen years old. My dad was born in the 1960s, when a lot of people didn’t like girls having babies when they weren’t married, and Z had to drop out of college and move back to Two Geese. But Z didn’t want to stay in northern Wisconsin with a baby, and she couldn’t raise him on her own, so she kind of gave Dad to her parents and then moved to California, where there was more work and stuff for someone like her. Dad grew up in Two Geese with a bunch of uncles and aunts, including an uncle who is only three years older than he is. Uncle Tommy’s more like an older brother. And out in California my grandmother changed her name from Alice Zorn to Azalea Zorn, but everyone called her Z. Even my dad as a little kid said Z because he already called his grandmother Mom. Sometimes Z jokes that she’s Plan Z, as in the opposite of Plan A. She’s the last resort.
    â€œPlan Z . . .” D.J. laughed. “I like that.” Then she asked the question people usually ask. “So, who’s—if you’re okay talking about it—who’s your dad’s dad?”
    I chewed on a hangnail, but then I stopped because that is bad for your nails. “Z was in New York, you know, when it happened, and she’s really, really into music, and Dad’s full name is Robert Zimmerman Zorn . . .”
    D.J. looked blank. A lot of people do not know who that is.
    â€œRobert Zimmerman is the real name of Bob Dylan. You know, that singer from the 1960s? He wrote ‘Like a Rolling Stone’ and a bunch of other songs . . .”
    â€œYour grandfather is Bob Dylan?”
    â€œNo. Z says he’s not. She’s never said who Dad’s father is. She named Dad that because Bob Dylan was born in a small town in Minnesota and he ended up world famous, and she wanted her son to know he didn’t have to be in a small town forever. Also she really likes Bob Dylan.”
    â€œSo Z wanted your father to be famous?”
    â€œShe wanted him . . . she wanted him to know he had options.”
    â€œHuh,” said D.J., thinking about this. “That’s wild.”
    â€œDo you know what I think?” I lowered my voice. “I think my dad’s father
is
someone famous—someone famous besides Bob Dylan. Z knew a lot of famous people—you should see her apartment. She’s always saying a girl has to watch herself around musicians. I think that’s why she taught Paul music—so he’d have some luck with girls.”
    We both looked back at Paul with his eyes closed, jamming on his air guitar.
    â€œHuh,” D.J. said again. She did not say,
That seems like a stretch
, although I bet that’s what she was thinking. I was thinking it.
    â€œZ loves coming to your basketball games,” I told D.J., which is a true fact and I have been waiting for a good time to tell her and this seemed like it. “She is your hugest fan.”
    D.J. laughed. “Whew, now I