* * *
The shoes are waiting for me when I get home from work on Tuesday. Macie is already prancing around in her glitter-encrusted platform heels. They remind me of a disco ball. I decide to try my shoes on in reverse order of desirability. The black ones are cute, but they pinch my pinkie toes a little too much to be tolerable all night. Okay, no big deal. Two more to go. A few of the straps on the rhinestone ones are tight across the instep, but not too bad. They're a little flashy, though. More Macie's taste than mine.
Finally, the silver stilettos. The strap across the toes hits just the right spot to contain my unwieldy little toe without being too tight, and the adjustable ankle strap is comfortable. The T-strap down the center sits flush against my foot. A perfect fit.
Macie grabs my hands and pulls me to my feet, whirling me around the living room in a frantic little dance. With the two of us giggling and spinning around in our new shoes, the moment is absolute perfection. That is, until we bump into the rickety bookcase, which sways and sends a snow globe tumbling off the top shelf onto my left foot.
* * *
The doctor hands me a pair of crutches after showing me how to wrap the bandage nice and tight. The verdict: a nasty sprain, some swelling and a bruise, but nothing broken. I'm supposed to avoid putting pressure on it for a few days. When the swelling goes down, I can wear sneakers, but nothing else. No heels.
"Mom, I'm so sorry." Macie apologizes for the fiftieth time since we arrived at the Urgent Care center. She grabs my purse while I fumble with the crutches. We manage to get out to the car in twice the time it should've taken.
"Macie, baby, it's okay. It's not your fault." I know she's thinking the same thing I am about Saturday's gala. "You drive, okay?"
Not even the prospect of flexing her new driving rights brings a smile to her face, which it usually does. She slumps into the driver's seat and takes her time adjusting the mirrors.
I had Macie during my senior year in college. Her father chose not to be involved. So besides my parents, whom Macie visits in New Mexico for two weeks every summer, she and I have been each other's constant companions. She's tuned into my moods and thoughts the way a husband might be, if I had one. There have been a couple serious relationships along the way, but nothing that ever stuck. It's just Macie and me. I never realized before just how strong that's made our silent bond. She knows it was never really about The Shoes. Nonetheless, those shoes won't go to waste.
"I'm going," I say.
She glances at me for a second, but keeps her focus on the road. "What?"
"I'm going to that damn dinner if it kills me."
She grins, and that grin stays plastered across her face the whole way home.
* * *
I work the rest of the week from home, treating my injured foot with ice and ibuprofen, using my crutches as much as possible. Carter drops off some of my supplies from the office and stays for dinner at Macie's insistence. She's mesmerized by the dimple, which she coaxes into permanent position on Carter's face with an endless supply of jokes and wisecracks. Maybe I should bring Macie on dates with me. I'd never have to worry about having a dull time.
Saturday morning, I wrap my foot tight to keep any swelling at bay. Those shoes will fit tonight.
That evening, in the shower, I flex my foot and ankle. Feels okay. A little tight from lack of use, but okay. Macie zips me into my gown: sleeveless, with a low scoop neck and high waist. The soft chiffon layers fall to the floor in the back, but are slightly higher in the front, perfect to show off The Shoes. While I finish my hair, Macie dabs concealer over what's left of the bruise on my foot.
Before I leave, my daughter gives me the once-over and announces me fit for public consumption.
"I already know you're awesome," she says, kissing my cheek. "Now everyone else will have to notice, too."
Her vote of confidence chokes me up a little. Isn't this supposed to happen the other way around? She sends me off, joking that if I'm not back at a reasonable time, I'll have to let her stay out late on prom night. At least I think it was a joke.
The fundraiser is at the Convention Center in downtown Baltimore. Judging by the traffic, there's also a Baltimore Orioles baseball game about to start. By the time I park and find my way to the right room, the festivities are in full swing and most of my coworkers are there. I head toward our table and Carter falls in step beside me.
"Nice shoes," he says.
"Thanks. Nice—" I'm struck by the sight of him in a crisp tuxedo. Clean-shaven, too, not the usual five o'clock shadow he sports at the office. "Is that gel in your hair?"
He flashes the dimple and extends his elbow to escort me. Our usually ultra-casual crew looks surprisingly debonair. I'm not the only one who cleans up well. As Carter and I sit down, Frank lets out a low whistle, staring past us. I look back to see Nicolette, looking like Audrey Hepburn, coming toward us. I smack Frank on the knee.
"Have some class," I say.
"What? She looks good."
"So say that, don't whistle. And try to say it without using a stupid nickname."
He holds his hands up defensively. "Okay, sorry."
Carter raises his eyebrows at me. I shrug. Apparently my inner princess has a stiff backbone.
Nicolette seems nervous, shifting her eyes from one person to another as she approaches. She's wearing a fitted black sheath dress with elbow-length gloves, and her hair is done up in a sleek ponytail adorned with a rhinestone clip and her trademark pink streak. She's traded her usual nose ring for a tiny diamond stud. She looks like a Nicolette tonight.
She comes to a stop in front of me. I smile warmly because she looks like she might pass out.
"Is this okay?" She motions to her dress. "I've never been to a black tie event."
She's asking me? Really?
"You look amazing, Nicolette." I have to resist calling her honey, because her sudden vulnerability makes her seem even younger, and I can't help but think of my daughter. "Beautiful, really."
She smiles and there's no hint of the animosity she'd shown me last week.
"Oh, and thanks for that CD, Georgia. It's great." She walks around the table to her seat. Frank stands and pulls out the chair for her. It's funny how some people can change when you put them in fancy clothes.
Carter leans in close to me and whispers, "I guess she finally realized she can never compete with you."
I'm flattered he thinks so. I look at him for a long moment. It's also funny how your perception of others can change when they're wearing fancy clothes. I turn away, blushing.
"It's not a competition." That's one thing people get wrong about women. We're never really trying to compete with each other, only ourselves, our own insecurities.
"If it's not a competition, why are you killing yourself in those shoes?"
I lean to the side so my lips almost brush his ear. "If it's not a competition, why'd you slick your hair back like James Bond?"
He laughs rather loudly, drawing looks from the rest of the table. He stands and extends his hand.
"Think you can stand to dance in those shoes?"
I know I can.
After a few dances, dinner is served, then the music starts up once more. Carter takes my hand again, but when I stand this time, my foot protests. During dinner, my instep has swollen so that the strap of my shoe is painfully tight. Sasquatch is down for the count.
"Did you bring your crutches?" he asks. I shake my head. "Do you want me to take you home?"
"No, I'm fine."
"You should get some ice on that."
"I said I'm fine." I'm not ready for the night to end yet. It's been too much fun.
"Who are you trying to impress?" He asks it with a smile, but it still irritates me.
"You wouldn't understand." I struggle to stand and walk gingerly away. Hardly the indignant huff I'd intended.
Carter slips his arm around my waist and supports part of my weight while I limp. "You can explain it to me on the rid
e to your house."
He drives and I stare out the window. Neither of us speaks for a while. Something's been simmering between us all night, but where it was pleasant at the beginning, now it's not. I'd give anything to start over again.
"I'm sorry," he says finally.
"You know, it was never about you, or them, or trying to impress anyone. I don't have anything to prove to anybody." I pause for a moment, then add, "Besides myself."
He glances over at me, a serious look on his face, no dimple in sight.
"I don't care if Frank or Nicolette can't see it, or if you can't see it, but I'm not the mousy mom people think I am. I'm a lot of fun. Maybe I'm a little crazy, too, I don't know. I'm pushing forty and I still like going to rowdy concerts, okay? I'm not all sneakers and pantsuits."
I take a deep breath, embarrassed at my outburst. My hands tremble.
"Maybe I'm a little quirky, but I know how to have a good time. I'd even say I'm kind of cool, and my daughter would agree—"
"I know, Georgia."
"Well I didn't! I had to prove to myself that I'm still the exciting, interesting person I used to—wait. What do you mean you know?" How could he know when I wasn't even sure?
We pull into my driveway and Carter helps me out of the car.
"How could I not know? We've shared an office for almost a year now. You think I could sit across from you five days a week, listening to your Irish punk bands, seeing the kind of creativity you put out, and not know all that about you?"
We stand on the front step and he pushes a stray lock of hair from my face.
"I like that you wear sneakers and skirts."
"Shut up. I don't even like it."
"Maybe you don't, but you don't care if anyone else does, either. The best part about you is that you never apologize for being who you are. I never thought you bought into the idea that beauty is pain, so I was surprised you did tonight."
I tried to support all of my own weight on my feet and crossed my arms over my chest.
"I don't. The shoes fit before my foot swelled up."
Carter grins and I'm glad to see the dimple again. "I know. But I like the way you stick your chin out like that."
He leans down and kisses my cheek, his lips lingering for a few seconds.
"Oh." I'm a bit dumbfounded. He's right. We've been working together for almost a year. Somehow I missed the signs along the way. "I guess I've been a little oblivious."
"Only a little."
I open the door and invite him in. I have every intention of hobbling around the kitchen to make coffee, but he points to the chair and I don't argue. He takes an ice pack from the freezer and wraps it in a towel for me before starting the coffee. I slip my shoe off and prop my foot up on another chair.
"Sasquatch Plays Cinderella," I mutter softly.
"What?"
"In high school, my best friend named my life The Adventures of Sasquatch, and different events got chapter headings. Like Sasquatch Goes to Prom, Sasquatch Fails Chemistry. I was trying to figure out what tonight would be called."
Carter lifts my foot off the chair and rests it in his lap after he sits down.
"How about Sasquatch Finally Notices the Guy Who's Been Trying to Pursue Her For Months and All It Took Was James Bond Hair?"
I tilt my head back and laugh. It's an unselfconscious kind of laugh that usually only Macie can get from me. I'm laughing so hard that I don't hear Macie come into the kitchen.
"I've got one," she says.
I stop laughing long enough to listen.
"Sasquatch Snags a Hottie."
Carter looks at me and shrugs. "I'm fine with that."
"Of course you are."
He grins that good-natured grin, the one with the dimple, and Macie gives me a look that says what I'm thinking. It doesn't matter what this chapter is called, because it's only just beginning.
The Pit by A.M. Supinger
The sand was hot and the tiny grains stung the cuts on her feet. Sweat stung every other wound. Hanna added more salt to the slice on her cheekbone and winced at her own tears. Her naked body rippled with fear-bumps and adrenaline pushed blood through her heart with rib-cracking force.
Men and women were seated all around her, high above in the amphitheater. She was in the pit, bare and shivering like a dog. Cheers fluttered over her head as though a bird's wing batted at the wind. The people above her didn't matter.
But the naked girl stumbling toward her did.
They had to fight. Only one could win the honor of survival. Hanna would have to kill this half-grown child. By the amount of blood dying her opponent's pale skin crimson, it wouldn't take much. This one would only need a quick snap of the neck. She'd never even feel pain. Hanna tried to be merciful whenever possible. She'd killed dozens of them; some had let her, others had fought with their last tooth and every single nail. Scars and fresh scratches across Hanna's limbs proved their determination to live.
She understood their ferocity; she couldn't die, either. Not yet.
It wasn't that she didn't want to die. Because oh, did she ever. Even Hell would not be such torment. But she fought and screeched and performed. She was a true gladiator and when she killed enough of these sad, pitiful creatures, she'd be set free.
The proper citizens would laugh and toss her out, naked, into the streets. As a nonconformer, she'd starve within two weeks. She'd have to let them look at her and she'd have to endure their foul touches. She'd even kill for that chance. Breathing fresh air would mean she could find her husband, the father of her children.
The bastard.
She'd been married for ten years when he'd turned her over to the government. Nonconformity was an automatic sentence to the pit. She'd been stripped and branded a danger to society before she'd even realized what had happened. All because he wanted a younger woman. And now her children were probably on the streets, emaciated corpses like so many others clogging the sewers of this rotten place. After all, what use were daughters who couldn't inherit?
So she had survived. Her babies at least deserved revenge. She'd kill him for them. She'd torture him. Every single vile thing that had been done to her and her daughters would be done to him—and she'd laugh as his wicked soul was dragged to Hell by demons. She'd burn the whole world with her vengeance.
But first she had to kill this other nonconformer. The poor wretch looked more like a child than a woman. She barely had breasts, but her soul would bear the taint of this place, if Hanna's soul was any indicator.
Killing left its mark.
Hanna feinted left, then right. The girl never moved. In fact, she never looked up from under her dark fringe of hair. With practiced skill, Hanna jumped forward and grasped the girl's neck. The poor thing didn't cry out or resist. The sound of her bones snapping swallowed the cheers from the seats encircling them.
She'd wanted to die. Hanna knew what the guards did to the new nonconformers. She'd experienced it. Some women couldn't handle it; some chose death over degradation. Hanna had wondered, on occasion, what would happen when two such women were put together. Did one snap out of it and fight? Did both just stand there until the guards shot them dead? Did the crowds stone them?
She shook her head. It was a waste. So many women died in the pits. Ten fights a day, every day. She'd never been to the amphitheater before her husband had condemned her. She'd hated the thought of death. She'd heard the propaganda, though, that the population had to be controlled. That women who threatened society didn't need to breed anyway.
She hadn't been a threat then. She had never dreamed that she would be considered a danger to society. Her husband had simply used her and then discarded her. He probably brought his new wife to watch her fight to scare her replacement into obedience. He had no idea that he'd recreated Hanna. Death clung to her and she craved it now. She would reap souls for the underworld, but soon she'd choose which lives to end.
Hanna looked down at her fallen foe, wanting to remember th
e girl, like she remembered all of them. She'd spared this one pain, but murder still stained her soul. She needed to remember, to keep from being empty on her quest for vengeance. The temptation called to her every day. She could murder her own emotions, make herself not care. And she wanted to. That's why she always memorized their faces; she hated herself for what she'd done to them, but hate was better than living with nothing.
Hanna brushed aside the dead girl's knotted hair. Underneath the dirt and tearstains were cheekbones passed down through Hanna's own family. Eyes that used to shine with constant amusement. A scream welled deep within her, gripping her heart with deadening pain. Hanna knelt, trying to shield the delicate limbs from the crowd. Her daughter. Her own flesh and blood. Her baby didn't deserve this, a monster for a mother and a dishonorable death in front cheering spectators.
Hanna screamed as guards yanked her up by her hair. Anger and fear forced sobs from her lips, shock gnawing at her mind. Her Kimmy, her firstborn! And what of her younger daughter, her sweet-faced Lissa? Would she be forced to murder both girls?
Hanna howled and jerked away from the guards. The hot sand under her toes held bits of people and blood in the grains. Her daughter, now. Hanna reached down and caught up a fistful. She ground the sand into her palms and vowed to her daughter that the whole world would bleed—starting with her bastard husband.
Dreams by Robb Grindstaff
Why You Should Never Discuss
Them With Your Girlfriend
So I wake up in the morning, or maybe it's afternoon, but if it's afternoon it isn't by much, not like late in the afternoon, but about one-ish or so. Maybe two-ish. But anyways, I drag myself out of bed and it's maybe two or two-thirty, but that's okay because it's a holiday. Presidents Day or MLK Day or one of those and I don't have to work. Not like I actually have a job at the moment anyways. But if I did have a job, it wouldn't matter that it's afternoon because it's a holiday and I prefer working second shift anyways. And I got pretty wasted last night and had some pizza about three a.m.
So the first thing I do is get a cup of coffee and wait for it to kick in so I can clear out my system. I'm glad Magnum, my girlfriend, got up first and already made the coffee. She's sitting at the kitchen table reading the newspaper, which means she's been up long enough to shower and do her hair and make the coffee and go to Circle K to buy a newspaper, because we don't subscribe and she would never go to Circle K without a shower first. Me, I wake up some mornings or afternoons and go to Circle K without even brushing my teeth first. I don't buy the newspaper when I go to Circle K. Usually cigarettes and beer. Usually 'cause I ran out the night before, which meant it was time to go to bed.
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