Ruby's Slippers

by Tricia Rayburn

  There wasn’t anything I could do about my ears between yesterday and today, so I left my hair down to make it harder to see that they aren’t pierced. And neither Momma nor I own makeup, but I do have an old lip balm that smells and tastes like cookie dough, which I put on.

  Now there’s just one thing missing.

  I double-check the door to make sure it’s locked, then take my old plastic Walkman from my backpack. Satisfied no one will barge in on me, I put on the headphones, crank the volume . . . and press play.

  “Dancing Queen” explodes in my head. I wiggle, spin, and sway to the music with my eyes closed. I feel a little silly at first but do my best to pretend I’m in our living room in Curly Creek instead of in a bathroom at Sweet Citrus Junior High. I relax a little more with every note, and by the time the song ends, I feel strong, confident, and like I can handle anything that happens today.

  The last morning bell rings just as the final note fades. I grab my backpack, unlock and throw open the door, and sprint to homeroom.

  I feel twenty pairs of eyes on me as I enter the room and walk to my desk. I tell myself to meet at least one or two of them and smile, but I don’t. I can’t. My Converse have once again become the center of the earth, pulling my eyes down with some sort of gravitational force. I don’t look up until I sit down and my feet disappear.

  “Nice headband, Venus,” a voice says from behind me.

  My breath catches as I realize I’m still wearing my Walkman. I was so startled by the bell that I forgot to take it off before running out of the bathroom. Now everyone can see that I still listen to cassette tapes, which I know must be ancient because Momma and I always buy them used at Mr. Lou’s Junk ’n’ Treasures.

  “Mars.”

  I yank off the headphones, open my backpack, and swap the Walkman for a notebook.

  “Jupiter?”

  I’m about to continue a note to Gabby but stop at the third planet. I’m pretty sure my face is the same color as my shirt as I look over my shoulder. Ava Grand’s smile is small and thin. It’s the kind that holds back laughter.

  “Kansas,” I say, wincing when my voice cracks on the second syllable.

  Her lips part, and a giggle escapes. She turns toward her friends, whose desks surround hers, and shakes her head like she can’t believe what she just heard and wants to make sure they heard it too.

  The final bell rings and I turn back. Mr. Soto, our homeroom teacher, leads us through the Pledge of Allegiance and takes attendance. Ten minutes pass rather uneventfully, and I’m about to tell Gabby as much in my letter to her when the classroom door flies open.

  My pencil stops. The room falls silent. Twenty-two pairs of eyes—mine and Mr. Soto’s included—lock onto the woman floating before us. She’s tall and thin, with shiny black hair that hangs straight to the middle of her back and thick, square-cut bangs. Her eyes are shielded by round ivory sunglasses. She wears a sleeveless peach shirt and a matching skirt made of a light, shimmery material that falls to her ankles and swooshes around her legs as she glides to the front of the room.

  We’re too awed to move.

  She glides by Mr. Soto’s desk. A short man in a white suit and peach bow tie dashes into the room next; his white dress shoes squeak on the linoleum as he skids to a stop next to her. The man’s presence unfreezes Mr. Soto, who seems to suddenly remember why the pair’s here and returns his attention to his attendance book.

  The short man pulls a white rectangular device from the inside pocket of his sports coat. He sticks another device on top of the first and presses a button.

  I jump as the room fills with music. It’s unlike any I’ve ever heard, with a loud, fast beat and a choppy melody. Someone sings, but the voice is so screechy and distorted, I can’t make out actual words. The sound pierces my ears—and not in a good way—so I’m surprised when everyone else seems to enjoy it. A quick scan of the room shows my classmates bobbing their heads and tapping their feet.

  When it ends, the silence that follows is louder than the music that just played. The woman takes a deep breath, holds it, and exhales dramatically. She twirls around and glides back across the room. I think she just might float through the closed door like a ghost, but then she pauses two inches in front of it.

  “Citrus Star,” she says without looking at us. “Countdown to celebrity: twenty-eight days.”

  The short man reaches around her and pushes open the door. “Details to follow via e-mail,” he says.

  The room explodes as soon as the door closes behind them. Desks push together. Small groups form. Excited discussion ensues. I have no idea what’s going on and am just starting to panic when Mr. Soto raps a ruler on his desk.

  “You heard Miss Anita,” he shouts over the buzz. “You have four weeks until you share your talents with the entire school. I don’t need to tell you what a significant opportunity this is, so prepare wisely.”

  “Excuse me,” I say to the boy at the desk next to mine as the bell rings. Everyone else has already bolted for the door, excited to continue their discussions outside the classroom. I’d like to bolt too—preferably back to my personal restroom—but I can’t risk not knowing what’s obviously very important information. The last thing I need is to be out of the loop even more than I already am. “What just happened? What’s Citrus Star?”

  He sighs. “Citrus Star is an annual embarrassing display of ego that many of our classmates prepare for all summer. It’s the school’s version of American Idol, America’s Got Talent, and a variety of other ridiculous time-wasters.”

  American Idol? America’s Got Talent? What’s he talking about?

  “It’s a glorified talent show,” he explains.

  “Oh!” I’m so relieved I smile. We had talent shows in Curly Creek too. I couldn’t sing or dance worth a lick so never got onstage myself, but I always enjoyed attending.

  “Participation’s mandatory.”

  My smile drops. “Oh.”

  “Exactly.” He shoves the book he’d been reading into his backpack and stands up. “You’re new, right?”

  I hesitate, then nod. “My name’s Ruby. I just moved here from Kansas.”

  “Kansas,” he repeats thoughtfully. “Amelia Earhart. Charlie Parker. Vivian Vance.”

  I wait for Dorothy Gale to follow in this list of famous Kansans, but he stops there. “You know Vivian Vance?” I ask. I know Vivian Vance because she played the funny neighbor in I Love Lucy, a really old TV show Momma watches on video. But I didn’t think anyone else my age from anywhere outside the Kansas border did.

  “Nice state,” he says instead of answering my question. “Talented people.”

  “Thanks,” I say, even though I’m definitely not one of them.

  He starts walking, so I quickly get my stuff together. I don’t remember him being in my first-period class yesterday, but maybe his is near mine. Maybe we can walk to the locker hallway together. Maybe he can answer some of my other questions, like why all the girls at Sweet Citrus Junior High look like they should be in high school, or why Ava seems to hate me without even knowing me, or where else you can spend lunch besides the cliquey cafeteria.

  “So do you know what you’re going to do?” I ask as I zip up my backpack. “Sing? Dance? Juggle?”

  I look up when he doesn’t answer.

  The room’s empty. He’s gone, and I’m alone. Again.

  8.

  “Sweetie, would you please hand me another skein of green?”

  “Momma, the basket of yarn is by your feet. I’m on the other side of the room.”

  “I have a really good rhythm going. I don’t want to mess it up.”

  I turn around. She’s sprawled out on the white leather couch. A half-finished blanket’s on her lap—and so are her knitting needles. “I can see why.”

  She shoots up and leans forward, happy to have my attention. “Want to go swimming? Or watch a movie? Or go swimming and watch a movie? Not at the same time, but one after the other?”


  “Absolutely. Right after I figure this out.”

  She groans as I turn back to the laptop. “But you’ve been doing that for an hour. At this rate you may not be ready till tomorrow, and I’m very busy tomorrow.”

  “Busy?” I turn around again. As far as I knew, the busiest day Momma’s had since our arrival was when she planned the luau. “Doing what?”

  “Yes. Doing what?”

  I look up. Nana Dottie stands in the living room doorway, arms crossed over her chest. “Hi, Nana Dottie,” I say, since Momma’s already trying to disappear into the couch.

  “Hello, Ruby.” She leaves the doorway, walks around the couch, and perches on the piano bench. “How was school today?”

  “Fine. You’ll be happy to know that three of my teachers assigned homework, which I’ve already finished.”

  “You’re right. That does make me happy.” She smiles and looks like she wants to say something else, but she’s not sure what. “Good girl.”

  I don’t know if she’s praising me because I already finished my assignments, because I paid enough attention to know that it would make her happy, or because the combination actually does make her happy. I don’t wonder for long, though, since the feeling doesn’t seem to last.

  “What are you doing tomorrow?” Nana Dottie asks Momma. Her smile is gone.

  “Stuff,” Momma says, picking at imaginary pulls in the blanket on her lap.

  “What kind of stuff?”

  “Stuff, stuff. My stuff. Personal stuff.”

  I frown. Momma sounds like me when I’m cranky and don’t feel like doing something she’s asked me to do.

  “It’s a simple question, Francine. I’m just making conversation.”

  “Sure you are.”

  Momma mumbles this last part, and I hope Nana Dottie doesn’t hear it. I sneak a peek at the piano bench to check, and see her lips purse and eyes narrow.

  “Excuse me for being concerned. But you’ve been here three weeks, and I haven’t seen you do much more than swim, shop, and play. This is your life now, Francine. Not a vacation.”

  “I know that,” Momma snaps. “We’re settling. Adjusting. I’m not going to abandon Ruby before she’s completely comfortable.”

  “Since when is getting a job abandonment?” Nana Dottie asks. “Ruby’s in school for seven hours a day. What can you do for her then?”

  “Make sure nothing keeps me from being in front of that school ten minutes before the last bell rings so that she doesn’t have to wait. Plan fun, relaxing evenings to help her unwind.”

  “She’s not a music box. She’s a young adult—a sharp, capable one at that. And she can take the bus home. Or I can pick her up. I’d be happy to pick her up.”

  Despite our careful SPF 50 application, Momma’s face looks like it’s been baking in the sun all day.

  “I’m fine either way,” I say quickly. “I love that you pick me up, Momma, but I’d also be perfectly willing to take the bus or ride with Nana Dottie, if that’s easier.”

  “It’s not,” Momma says.

  There’s a long, awkward silence. I’m tempted to break it but don’t want Momma to think I’m taking Nana Dottie’s side by moving the moment along. Momma seems pretty irritated right now, and it’s obvious she wants Nana Dottie to know it.

  “Caroline, the wonderful receptionist at my club, is having a baby,” Nana Dottie finally says.

  I raise my eyebrows. This is an unexpected—but appreciated—change of topic.

  “Isn’t that nice.” The politeness in Momma’s voice is strained.

  “Is she having a boy or a girl?” I ask, wanting them both to know that ignoring the awkwardness is A-OK with me.

  Nana Dottie gives me a small smile. “She doesn’t know yet. She wants to be surprised.”

  “That’s a pretty risky surprise,” I say. “How will she decorate the nursery? Or know what clothes to buy? She doesn’t want her little boy to be dressed in pink or her little girl to be dressed in blue, does she? I guess there’s always yellow. And light green would probably work. Still, I think I’d want to know. You wanted to know too, didn’t you, Momma? You knew I was a girl before you had me?”

  “Yes, Ruby,” Momma says, her voice warmer. “I knew.”

  “I knew too,” Nana Dottie adds. “I went on a shopping spree for pink Onesies, dresses, bibs, and shoes as soon as your mother told me. I sent boxes and boxes of beautiful little-girl clothes before you were born. And every year, right before your birthday, I sent more.”

  “Really? Thanks, Nana.” I smile. “That was so nice of you.”

  Nana Dottie’s hot-pink lips immediately set in a straight line, and though I didn’t mean to upset her, I can guess why I did.

  She assumed I knew about the boxes when, really, this is the first I’ve heard of them. I always got a present from Nana Dottie every birthday and Christmas, but it was usually a single sweater or pair of pajamas—never an entire box of clothes. Momma clearly had kept this from me. Why she did, I don’t have a clue.

  “Anyway,” Nana Dottie says, “Caroline will be on maternity leave beginning next week. She’ll be out seven months, perhaps longer.”

  “Good for her,” Momma says. “All mothers-to-be should have that option. Pregnancy can be brutal. No offense, Rubes.”

  “None taken. Besides, I’m sure I’ve more than made up for it by now.”

  “And then some.” Momma winks.

  I relax. This is good. We hit a small rough patch, but that’s to be expected. Like Momma said—we’re settling. Adjusting. Nana Dottie’s doing the same thing. The situation’s new for all of us, and it’ll take some time before we’re completely at ease with one another. As long as we talk, as long as we try, then we’re on the right track.

  “How are you on the phone?”

  My head snaps toward Nana Dottie, who’s looking at Momma.

  “I mean, with people other than your mother,” she continues. “I know those skills could use improvement.”

  Momma’s cheeks glow pink, then red, then purple. “What do you mean?”

  “You had a job in Curly Creek, did you not? At that—what was it? Spa? Salon?”

  “Nail boutique.” Momma speaks, but somehow, her lips don’t move.

  “She was great on the phone there,” I offer, since Momma looks like a volcano on the brink of eruption. “I stopped by after school a lot, and she was always friendly, courteous, and professional. And she’s one of the best multitaskers I’ve ever seen. She could juggle a phone, date book, and nail file all at the same time.”

  I’m smiling because I really am that proud of Momma and think Nana Dottie will be too . . . but then she frowns. And I wonder what I said wrong.

  “You stopped by after school.”

  “Yes?” I glance at Momma to see if she knows what I said wrong, but her eyes are closed and she’s tapping the tips of her knitting needles against her forehead.

  “Really, Francine? A nail boutique? Why not just give her a pouch of marbles and tell her to play in the street?”

  “Okay, Mom.” Momma opens her eyes and drops the needles in her lap. “What? You want me to work at your club? Is that it?”

  “Yes. The pay’s excellent and the hours are perfect. Monday through Friday, eight to four. You can still take Ruby to school, and she’ll only beat you home by an hour and a half. She might even finish her homework before you’re off, and then you’ll have the whole night to . . . unwind, or whatever it is you do. I’m friends with the club owner, so if you want the job, it’s yours.”

  This actually sounds pretty good to me, but I can tell right away Momma doesn’t agree.

  “Thanks,” she says, “but I have it under control.”

  Nana Dottie sighs. “Francine, as we discussed, I’m happy to assume all household expenses, but many others are your responsibility. You need money.”

  “I have savings.”

  “They won’t last. You need an income.”

  “Don’t take this t
he wrong way, Mom . . . but no kidding. I’ve provided for us just fine for thirteen years. I know what I have to do, and I’m doing it.”

  I open my mouth to talk about anything—school, Ava Grand, Citrus Star—but before I can decide which topic will grab and hold their attention best, the doorbell rings. “Got it!” I exclaim, barely beating Momma to the chance to leave the room. I feel bad, but she is the grown-up, and Nana Dottie is her mother. As hard as it is, they’re going to have to figure this out.

  “Quick,” Oscar says when I open the door, “what’s the Kansas state flower?”

  “The sunflower,” I say automatically. “Prettiest one in the country.”

  He’s holding both hands behind his back. When I get the answer right, he brings one hand forward.

  I gasp. “That’s, like, a sunflower tree!” It’s almost as tall as I am, and its bright yellow blossom is bigger than my head.

  “If your grandma doesn’t have a vase that’ll hold it, let me know. I’ll get you one.”

  My eyes grow wide. “This is for me?”

  His smile quickly turns to concern. “You’re not allergic, are you?”

  “No, not at all.” I take the thick stem from him, and then grab it with my other hand. Not only is it as tall as me, it probably weighs as much too. “That was just so nice of you. Thank you.”

  “Every pretty girl deserves a pretty flower.” He leans to the side and peers into the foyer. “Speaking of, is your mom home?”

  “Yes,” I say, relieved. “And you came just in time.”

  “Why’s that?” He follows me inside. “Order too much Hawaiian pizza?”

  “Oscar!” Nana Dottie jumps up from the piano bench and heads toward us before I can answer. “What are you doing here? Did we make a Scrabble date? Did I forget?”