“We’ve been sitting here for an hour. Nana Dottie’s house is right across the street. If she hasn’t seen us by now, the neighbors have—and they must be wondering what we’re up to. Cops could be showing up, lights flashing and sirens wailing, any minute.”
“I bet jail’s air-conditioned,” she says, as though that’s enough to make me stop trying to convince her to get out of the car. Since it almost is, I sit up and reach for the passenger door handle.
“I’m going in.”
“Don’t.” She grabs my hand. “Ruby, please try to understand. Nana Dottie and I don’t get along like you and I do. She eats caviar and I eat Cheetos. She gets manicures and I give manicures. She vacations in Paris and I vacation in our backyard.”
I’ve only met Nana Dottie twice, so the fact that she and Momma aren’t close isn’t exactly hard to comprehend. But, “We’re here now,” I remind her. “Like, for good. If you wanted to live in the car, we probably should’ve bought one with air-conditioning.”
“How about we go in tomorrow? Today we can drive around, hit the beach, maybe check in to a cheap motel—”
“I’ll bring you some ice-cold lemonade after I take an ice-cold shower.” I lean across the gearshift and grab the keys from the ignition so she can’t make a fast getaway.
“Okay, okay, okay.” She holds up both hands, closes her eyes, and inhales deeply. “I’m coming. Just give me one more minute.”
I sit back and watch her breathe.
“Good,” she finally says. She opens her eyes and turns to me. “I love you, Ruby Lee.”
“Love you, too.” I take my camera from my backpack, fling open the door, and slide out of the car. “Let’s go.”
Momma takes my sweaty palm in hers and we start across the street. Realizing I’m about to find out exactly what we left Curly Creek for, my heart suddenly feels like it’s been snatched up by the kind of tornado Momma claims Nana Dottie wouldn’t see coming. Maybe delaying the inevitable for another twenty-four hours wasn’t such a bad idea.
“Have you ever seen such a thing?” Momma asks before I can suggest revisiting the option. “This is a house. For one person.”
I raise the camera and snap three quick pictures. Houses are different in Coconut Grove. In fact, Nana Dottie’s looks more like a palace. It’s two stories tall, made of some kind of yellowish concrete, and has dozens of windows taller than Momma and I’d be if I stood on her shoulders. The front yard is enormous and filled with tall palm trees, shorter flowering trees, and colorful gardens that seem to stretch on for miles. Nearing the front door and peering through two sets of windows, I see a pool glittering in the backyard.
“I didn’t know Nana Dottie was this rich,” I whisper.
“That’s why she left Curly Creek,” Momma whispers back. “She wanted more than our little town could give her.”
I look over my shoulder at our falling-down hatchback with its garbage bags for windows parked across the street, and then down at my jeans, T-shirt, and red Converse sneakers. Five minutes after leaving Curly Creek, I dropped an open can of Dr Pepper in my lap, and the spray dried an ugly brown on my jeans. And in Georgia, Momma hit the brakes to avoid hitting a cat, which made me lose my grip on the meatball sandwich we got for lunch. I tried fixing the damage with tissues and bottled water, but two round red spots still stained my T-shirt.
Maybe we should’ve stopped somewhere to freshen up. I know grandmothers are biologically programmed to love and accept their grandchildren no matter what, but it’s been so long since I last saw Nana Dottie, this will be like meeting her for the first time. And judging by her house and the other huge citrus-colored estates in her neighborhood, it probably wouldn’t have been a bad idea to brush my windblown hair and change into clean clothes to try to make a good impression.
But it’s too late for that.
“Ready?” Momma gives me a nervous smile.
I nod, hoping I appear calmer than I feel.
“Now remember, Nana Dottie might be sad. Let’s try to give her room to breathe and to not ask too many questions.” Momma squeezes my hand, then gently lets go to reach for the doorbell. As I watch her pointer finger slowly get closer to the official start of our new life, I think, This is it. This is really it.
“The lettuce is limp.”
Momma jumps and I stumble backward as the front door flings open, unprompted. An older woman in lime green linen pants and a matching floral shirt stands just inside the entryway. Her hair is midnight black and puffed above her head in a perfect circle; her skin is orangey brown, like an old penny; and her lipstick is lollipop pink. She seems to be smiling at us, but her mouth is sort of frozen. And she sounded serious when she spoke—but not sad. More like . . . mad.
This woman can’t be related to us. She has to be the maid or cook, since Nana Dottie is obviously rich enough to have one, the other, or both.
“Hi, Mom.”
I try to keep my mouth from dropping open, I really do. My outfit isn’t doing anything for me, so if I’m going to make a good impression, it’ll be thanks to my ladylike charm and manners. And unfortunately, revealing my Slurpee-blue tongue to Nana Dottie before even shaking her hand doesn’t exactly make me ready for afternoon tea.
But this is my grandma?
“You said you’d be here early this afternoon.”
“It’s three thirty,” Momma says through her own frozen smile.
“Three thirty isn’t early afternoon. Three thirty is midafternoon, teetering on the edge of late afternoon, which is practically evening. You might as well have said you were coming tomorrow.”
“We hit some traffic,” Momma says.
“Well, I made a delicious salad for lunch, and it’s been sitting out for hours. I’m afraid it might be completely ruined.”
“Thank you for the thought, but I don’t think Ruby and I are very hungry anyway.”
Then, as though noticing me for the first time, Nana Dottie turns to me, bends forward, and slaps her palms against the tops of her thighs. “Look at you! Little Ruby, all grown up. The last time I saw you, which was a very, very long time ago”—she pauses as her eyes dart to Momma—“you were about two feet shorter and running through a sprinkler in your underwear.”
I try to laugh, but it sticks in my throat. My underwear has come up in under two minutes. That has to be some kind of record.
Nana Dottie stands up straight and brings her clasped hands to her chest. “You should probably come in and stop letting the air-conditioning out. Where’s your car?”
I step aside as she comes between Momma and me and looks out the door.
“It’s across the street,” Momma says.
“Which street?” Nana Dottie steps onto the front porch and looks to the left, then to the right. “All I see is an oversized trash can on wheels.”
“That’s the one.”
Nana Dottie turns to Momma, opens her mouth to say something, and then closes it.
“Should I move it?” Momma offers.
This sounds like a pretty easy question, but Nana Dottie inhales quickly and holds her breath, as though trying to pick an answer. “Yes,” she finally says. “There’s no street parking here.”
Momma kisses the top of my head. “You stay inside and cool off. We’ll be right back.”
Through the most crystal clear, fingerprint-free window I’ve ever seen, I watch them walk down the front steps together. It isn’t necessarily the fact that Nana Dottie doesn’t look like my grandma that surprises me—it’s that she doesn’t really act the way I imagined she would. I mean, Momma’s her daughter. And I’m her granddaughter. Even when family members haven’t seen one another in a while, don’t they still hug once they do?
I make a mental note to ask Momma about this later, then turn from the window and wander into the next room. I assume it’s the living room, even though it looks nothing like our living room in Curly Creek, with its milk-crate coffee table, old TV, beanbag chairs, and random stacks of record
s. This living room has three couches, shiny wooden tables that hold weird sculptures and empty bowls, and a zebra-printed area rug that I really hope is fake. Instead of TV, there’s a shiny white piano. The room’s pretty, but it doesn’t look like a place you could relax in after a hard day at school.
But the pool, which is visible through two sets of glass double doors on the other side of the living room, definitely does.
“Ruby.”
I spin around to see Nana Dottie standing in the entryway. “Sorry.” My Converse squeak across the living room’s marble floor as I hurry toward her. “I didn’t mean to—”
She holds up one bronze hand. “You have nothing to apologize for.” Her frozen smile softens. “Now, I know your mother says you’re not hungry, but I just can’t believe that. What do you say we head to the kitchen and see about saving that salad?”
“Okay,” I say, even though my meatball-and-potato-chip-filled stomach grumbles in protest, and I never, ever eat salad—ever.
“Ruby, how about we toss our stuff in our rooms, take quick showers, and then cruise through the neighbor-hood?” Momma comes in from the garage, her arms wrapped around a fat garbage bag of clothes. “Check out the sights, the hot spots, the local color?”
“We’re having lunch now,” Nana Dottie says. “We’ll discuss our plans for the rest of the day when we’re done.”
I pause in the hallway, unsure if I should stick by Momma, who stands perfectly still with her mouth wide open, or listen to Nana Dottie. When Momma finally closes her mouth and shakes her head, I give her a hug and hurry down the hallway.
Fair or not, weird or not, we’re not in Kansas anymore. And until someone gives me a pair of ruby red slippers, I have no choice but to tiptoe around in my dirty Converse and try not to make things even messier.
3.
I think I’ll start my own business.”
“Oh?” Careful not to tangle the pink yarn wrapped around my hands, which I’m holding up and out like a football goalpost, I pick up my cheesy chicken burrito with one hand and take a big bite.
“Yes.” Momma tugs on a loose strand, then winds her knitting needles around until it’s neatly tucked and tied. “And I know what you’re going to say.”
“You do?” I ask around a mouthful of gooey cheddar.
“Yes. Like, we’re in Florida, where, even in the dead of winter, people wear lycra instead of wool and sandals instead of socks. And where nights aren’t any cooler than days, so people sleep under sheets instead of cozy blankets. And where people go so that they never have to bundle up in sweaters, hats, scarves, and mittens ever again.”
I swallow. “I’m pretty logical.”
“But you know what I say?”
“Sweating’s good for the skin?”
She stops twirling the knitting needles long enough to glance around and make sure no one’s listening. “Two words.” She leans toward me. “Senior. Citizens.”
“Huh.”
“They’re always cold.” She lowers her sunglasses and winks, then opens her mouth and nods to my plate.
I pick up the burrito and hold it out for her to take a bite.
“Just you wait.” She knits as she chews, the flying needles glinting in the afternoon sun. “Total jackpot.”
“Momma,” I say, not wanting to steer her away from her favorite topic but also knowing that we might sit here for hours if I don’t, “I think I’m ready to go in now.”
Her needles freeze. “Are you sure? Because we’re in no rush. We can take as long as you want.”
Unfortunately, we don’t have that kind of time. We’ve already put it off for an entire week, choosing to swim and sun instead. “School starts in five days. We should probably just get it over with.”
She narrows her eyes, apparently trying to judge whether I’m really sure. “Okay,” she says a second later. “Junior high, here you come.”
Junior high. I knew leaving elementary school forever would feel kind of strange—it was the only school I ever attended. Plus some pretty major things, like changing classes and going to boy-girl birthday parties, are supposed to start once you hit seventh grade. But leaving elementary school for Sweet Citrus Junior High is like leaving my life for someone else’s. Not helping is the fact that my new school looks nothing like my old one. In fact, it looks like a bigger version of Nana Dottie’s house. It even has its own outdoor Mexican restaurant, which, coincidentally, has a great view of the Atlantic Ocean across the street.
“After this, the day’s yours,” Momma says as we head for the front doors. “We can do whatever you want, wherever you want. Beach, movies, Disney World, you name it.”
I try to smile. It’s a nice offer, but it’s not like we can ride Space Mountain after school every day. Or that those three exciting minutes will make up for the seven hours that come before.
“Name.”
Momma and I stop short just inside the building.
“Name, please,” the deep voice says again.
We spin around. A tired-looking man peers at us from behind a glass partition.
“Francine Lee.” Momma strides toward the window like she knew it was there all along. “And this is my daughter, Ruby.”
“Pleasure,” the man says. “I’m George Fox. Do you have an appointment?”
“We’re here to sign up for school,” Momma says. “We just moved from Kansas.”
“So you don’t have an appointment.”
Momma looks down at me, then back at him. “Well, no. I didn’t know—”
“I’ve got a code green in quadrant 1A,” Mr. Fox says to no one in particular.
I peer through the glass and into some sort of control room. There’s a long electronic board with blinking lights and five small television screens that flash shots of empty hallways, classrooms, and courtyards.
“Will conduct a thorough search, then permit them to enter. Ten-four, out.”
“All I want to do is sign my daughter up for school,” Momma tries again, her eyes following his movements. “I apologize for not making an appointment. Should we come back later?”
“That won’t be necessary.” Mr. Fox comes out from the control room holding a long, thin, metal device.
“Neither will that.” Momma grabs my hand and pulls me back toward the door.
He stops where he is and holds up the pole for inspection. “It’s a metal detector. The door units won’t be up and running till the kids return next week.”
I glance behind us. The inside of each doorway is framed by a large gray box.
“I just have to give you a quick once-over with the wand. Like when you go through airport security. Standard procedure.”
This is mildly comforting—I’ve never been on a plane before, but I’ve seen enough movies to get the idea. Still, I’m not at the airport; I’m at school. What’s with the high security?
Noticing my concern, Mr. Fox adds, “Don’t worry. Sweet Citrus Junior High is about as pleasant as its name. But all the schools have them, and you can never be too careful.”
“Not all schools have them,” I say.
“My apologies, Miss Ruby,” he says, looking amused. “But you’re not in—”
“Kansas anymore,” I finish glumly. “Yes, I know.”
Momma holds on to my hand as he steps toward us and demonstrates the metal detector by waving it in front of his chest. He turns to me, and I close my eyes as he quickly lifts and lowers the wand over my clothes. I must pass the test, because by the time I open my eyes ten seconds later, he’s moved on to Momma.
Anxious to get going, I take two steps down the hall. But then the metal detector starts whining—soft and slowly at first, then louder and faster.
Mr. Fox holds the wand above Momma’s pocketbook. “Cell phone? iPod? BlackBerry? Common culprits, every one.”
“I don’t have any of those things.” Momma’s cheeks redden as she reaches into her pocketbook and pulls out her knitting needles.
“Momma holds
the Kansas state record for purling,” I explain when Mr. Fox looks surprised. “May we please go now?”
“Of course.” He steps aside and raises the metal detector wand in mock salute. “Welcome to Sweet Citrus Junior High.”
“Sweetie, I know what you’re going to say,” Momma says as we walk down the hall. “But I promise this is a great school. Nana Dottie has extremely high educational standards, and she never would’ve given the green light if she thought it was going to be anything but the best for you.”
Well, that is hard to believe. Nana Dottie hardly knows me, and she hasn’t tried very hard to get to know me. The only thing she asked me in the past week was whether I liked my tofu grilled or baked. When I told her I’d never had tofu, she simply made it the way she liked it: grilled, sprinkled with lemon, and served on a mountain of lettuce. So while I appreciate the thought, I don’t really buy it.
Just as I’m about to remind Momma of the tofu incident, she puts her arm around my shoulders and steers me toward the main office.
“You didn’t make an appointment?”
Momma’s smile fades when the woman behind the counter clucks her tongue.
“I’m Ruby Lee, and this is my momma, Francine Lee. We’ve just come here from Kansas, and we’d like to sign me up for school.” I ignore Momma’s surprised look. I don’t want to be there any longer than necessary. “Please.”
“Ruby’s a very good student. I have all of her records here.” Momma pulls a manila folder from her purse.
The woman’s chewing a big wad of green bubble gum, and she snaps it three times as she seems to consider us. “Fill this out,” she finally says, sliding a packet of papers across the counter.
We sit on a bench near the office door, and while Momma concentrates on the paperwork, I look around. The woman behind the counter is now sitting behind a desk; her orange-blond hair sticks out above the top of the computer screen, and her nails tap loudly against the keyboard. Two other women sit at nearby desks, also tapping away. They all wear an assortment of neon-colored capri pants, miniskirts, sleeveless shirts, and high-heeled sandals. And they are all very, very tan.
Ruby's Slippers Page 2
