Ruby's Slippers

by Tricia Rayburn

  Oscar catches my eye. I shrug. I don’t know why she won’t accept his help.

  “Two hundred dollars?” Momma leans against the counter. She shakes her head slowly as she listens to the person on the other end of the phone. “Will you take a check?”

  There’s more rustling. I look over to see Oscar standing up after bending down to pick up the tree trimmers he just dropped.

  “I don’t have a credit card.” Momma pauses. “What’s a bank card? Never mind—I don’t have that either. Will cash work? Or is Florida beyond that, too?”

  Uh oh. Judging by her tone, Momma’s just jumped from frustrated to mad.

  “Oscar?” she calls out suddenly.

  I cover my mouth to keep from giggling when he drops the trimmers again.

  “I’m very sorry to bother you, but do you happen to know where you found us?”

  There’s a fresh wave of rustling as he brushes through the branches to get to her. As she gives him the phone and he gives the shop directions, I lift my camera and quickly take a few shots. Not only am I sure Momma will want to laugh about this moment later, when we’re finally settled and all this is a distant memory, the image of her standing next to Oscar just makes for a good picture. She’s tall, but he’s two inches taller. Her skin, while tan for her, is creamy white compared to his. Her thin arms look delicate next to his, which aren’t huge but still are muscular and strong. She’s wearing her black skirt and camisole. In the stress of the moment she forgot her heels in our car, so her feet are bare. He’s wearing jeans, a red polo shirt, and leather sandals. They look completely different, totally mismatched, like two random socks grabbed from a messy drawer . . . except for their faces. She looks worried but grateful. He looks the same.

  “An hour?” Momma says when Oscar hangs up. “Why on earth will it take so long?”

  “They’re backed up, short-staffed, and who knows what else. Are you sure you don’t want me to take a look? If I fix it, we can cancel the tow before they’ve even left.”

  “No, that’s okay.” Momma’s face softens. “But thank you. It’s so nice of you to help out a couple of total strangers.”

  “You’re not total strangers. You’re the daughter and granddaughter of my toughest Scrabble competitor. If I take good care of you, maybe Dictionary Dottie will go easy on me the next time we play.”

  I smile when Momma laughs. “I doubt that,” she says.

  “Are you hungry?” Oscar turns and ducks, looking for me through the leaves. “I can order some food.”

  “Actually, we should probably get going. If you don’t mind my borrowing your phone again, I’ll call Dictionary Dottie and ask her to pick us up. I’m sure Ruby has homework, and we don’t want to take up any more of your time.”

  “It’s Saturday,” I say, popping out from behind the tulips. “Homework is for Sundays.”

  Momma looks surprised. Oscar looks hopeful.

  “Plus, after doing seven laps around HauteCoco, I’m starving.” I look at Momma and shrug. We both know she can’t stand between food and me.

  “HauteCoco, huh?” Oscar says, reaching for the phone book. “Doing some shopping?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “No,” Momma says at the same time. I look at her again, and now she shrugs. “I was trying to find a job. But if you say one word to my mother I’ll make sure the only easy thing about your next Scrabble game is the way she beats you.”

  Oscar laughs. Momma smiles. Not long ago it seemed like nothing would make her feel better about the afternoon—not even ice cream, though I thought it was worth a try. But now she’s joking about it. And all it took was Oscar.

  “So what’ll it be?” he asks. “Chinese? Mexican? Italian? All of the above?”

  “I could really go for an egg roll,” I say, patting my stomach, “but I could also really go for a slice of pepperoni.”

  “And I’m kind of feeling like a fajita,” Momma says apologetically.

  This kind of culinary indecision isn’t unusual for us; most people who didn’t know that would probably find it strange—if not annoying. But Oscar grins. “An international smorgasbord it is. Write down what you want, and I’ll order.”

  Twenty minutes later, we’re having a picnic by Oscar’s pond—which, we learn, he built himself. We also learn that he prefers smaller, quieter bodies of water to the ocean, which just about makes Momma and me choke on our garlic knots. Up until when he said this, we thought we were the only ones in Florida who felt that way.

  And that’s not the only surprise. Oscar loves old movies, especially anything with Audrey or Katharine Hepburn, who just happen to be two of my favorite actresses of all time. He watches The Wizard of Oz with his nieces every Thanksgiving. He grew up with his mom and four sisters, so he understands the special bond between a mother and daughter. (Thankfully, this part of the conversation manages to stay away from the special bond between Momma and Nana Dottie.) He started working while he was in high school. He learned business from his uncle Paulo, who owned a tobacco store, and his love of flowers from weekend visits to the neighborhood park with his grandparents. He’s never been married and doesn’t have kids—unless you count Bessie, his chocolate lab, which we do.

  He also loves music. Old music. Like the kind Momma and I listen to, not the loud, thumping kind everyone at Sweet Citrus listens to. We learn this when “Sweet Caroline” by Neil Diamond comes on the radio and Oscar immediately jumps up and holds out both hands.

  “Oh. No. I can’t.” Momma shakes her head when she realizes what he’s doing.

  “Maybe later,” I groan lightly. “When the food digests.”

  Our laziness doesn’t stop him. He sings and dances around the pond, over the bridge, and by the pile of rocks and dirt. He sings and dances about as well as Momma and I do—which isn’t well at all—and the great thing is, he doesn’t seem to care. What he definitely does care about is having fun. A minute into the song he looks like he’s having so much of it that I get up and join him. Another thirty seconds after that, Momma follows. We shuffle, wiggle, and laugh. Every now and then Momma spins me, Oscar spins her, and I spin him. Whenever my hands are free I take a few pictures that I’m sure will be fuzzy, since I don’t stand still long enough to make sure they’re not.

  “So,” Oscar says when we collapse on the grass, exhausted, three songs later. “Tell me about Curly Creek. What’s it like? How big is it? What was your favorite thing to do there? What do you miss most about it?”

  Momma and I look at each other. We could spend hours talking about Curly Creek . . . and I have a feeling that eventually, we will with Oscar. But this doesn’t feel like the right time.

  “Usually we miss everything,” Momma says, taking my hand. “But right now . . . ?”

  I smile. I know she wants me to answer, just to make sure I feel the same way. And as much as I’ve missed Gabby, our house, and our old life, and as much as I’ll probably miss Curly Creek later tonight and tomorrow and the day after that, I do feel the same way.

  “Right now?” I squeeze Momma’s hand. “Not much.”

  14.

  As predicted, it doesn’t take long to start missing Curly Creek again. Thirty-six hours after our impromptu pond dance with Oscar, I’m sitting in the backseat of Nana Dottie’s Jaguar, wishing I were two thousand miles away.

  “Are you sure there’s nowhere else we can try?” I ask.

  “Sweetie, it’s eight in the morning,” Momma says. “The stores don’t open for another two hours.”

  “One of my friends from the club has a friend whose cousin’s husband’s sister has a dance shop in Key Biscayne. I could give her a ring and see if she’ll open early for us.”

  “Would you?” I sit up and stick my head between the two front seats. “I’d really appreciate it, Nana Dottie.”

  “It would be my pleasure, Ruby.” Nana Dottie takes her cell phone from the cup holder and starts dialing.

  “Mom,” Momma says, her voice firm. “It’s eig
ht in the morning. That’s really early, even for your set.”

  Nana Dottie lowers the phone. “And what set would that be, Francine? The senior set? The cane-and-walker set? The gee-I-wish-I-still-had-my-teeth set?”

  “I meant your friends, Mom,” Momma says, trying not to roll her eyes. “Eight in the morning is really early, even for your friends who play tennis before they eat breakfast.”

  “It’s okay, Nana Dottie. Even if your friend’s friend’s husband’s . . .” I give up. “Even if your contact is awake, we don’t really have time to drive to Key Biscayne and back. It’s bad enough I look like this. I can’t look like this and be late.”

  “I think you look adorable,” Momma says, turning in her seat to smile at me. “Very professional.”

  “You know, there’s a lovely studio in Coral Gables.” Nana Dottie starts dialing again. “They must have early rehearsals, and I bet they sell—”

  “Hang up the phone, Mom. Ruby doesn’t want to be late, and neither do I. If we leave in the next sixty seconds, we’ll make it to the garage just in time for me to pick up the car and get to my appointment.”

  “Right. Your appointment.” Nana Dottie turns off the phone and replaces it in the cupholder. “What’s that for again?”

  I temporarily forget my own troubles. I’m curious to know where Momma’s going too. She hasn’t said much about it, so I’m hoping it’s somewhere with Oscar.

  “You look great,” Momma says to me, ignoring Nana Dottie. “I promise.”

  I don’t believe her but don’t have much of a choice. The second bell has already rung, and the front lawn is nearly empty. As I lift my backpack and slide out of the car, I remind myself that at least I won’t be the only one who looks like she rode to school in a tiny clown car.

  “Break a leg!” Momma calls after me.

  I’m about to cross the street when Nana Dottie rolls down her window.

  “Ruby, take this.” She unties the long yellow scarf that’s around her neck and reaches it through the window. “Just in case.”

  “Thanks.” Personally, I think adding to my outfit will only make it worse, but I take the scarf anyway. Once I do, Nana Dottie smiles, Momma blows me a kiss, and they start to drive away. I wait until the Jaguar rounds the corner down the street before stuffing the scarf in my backpack.

  “Well, hi there, Tiny Dancer!” Mr. Fox says when I reach the metal detectors.

  Despite my bad mood, I can’t help but smile. “Morning, Mr. Fox. You like Elton John?”

  “I like lots of singers, Dorothy. Now tell me, what’s the occasion?”

  I take out my lunch box and camera and pass them through the doorway. “Citrus Star. Everyone in my group is wearing their rehearsal outfits all day. It’s supposed to help us ‘mentally prepare for infinite fame.’ Or something.”

  “Looking the part can only help you feel the part,” he says, snatching my stuff as quickly as we’d practiced last week. “Why do you think I put on this silly blue security uniform every day? It’s hot as heck, but if I showed up in shorts and a T-shirt, I might relax on the job, and then who knows what you kids would do.”

  “Go to class?” I guess.

  “You’re all right, Dorothy.” He chuckles. “How many members does your group have?”

  “Five. Including me.” I pass through the doorway.

  “So I should’ve seen four others come through here this morning?”

  “If they were on time, yes.” I take my camera and lunch box.

  “Huh.”

  I glance up from my backpack. Mr. Fox seems puzzled. “They probably looked a little different,” I explain. “Not quite as . . . bright.”

  “Actually—”

  The bell cuts him off.

  “Have to run,” I say, hurrying down the hallway. “Have a great day!”

  As I jog toward homeroom, I can’t decide if it’s good or bad that I’m late. The halls are nearly empty, which significantly limits the number of curious looks I get, but that just means everyone’s already in classrooms and that the looks will hit me all at once. At least Ava and the rest of Constellation have already made their public appearances. Mine will still be different, but it shouldn’t come as a total shock.

  Except that it does. I stand in the homeroom doorway, unable to move under the pressure of twenty pairs of eyes.

  “Laundry day?” a high-pitched voice asks from the back of the room. Stephanie’s question is followed by a series of snorts and giggles.

  I force my neck to turn. My head’s swirling so I can’t tell one thought from the next, but somewhere in there I already know what’s happened. Unfortunately, that doesn’t keep the truth from stinging once I look it in the face.

  “Missed you at rehearsal this morning,” Ava Grand says. She looks mad at me—even though I’m the one in a clown costume, and she’s wearing another pretty sundress. Stephanie and Hilary giggle on either side of her. They’re also wearing regular clothes. I want to look for Megan, but moving once is apparently all my neck is willing to do.

  “Ruby?” Mr. Soto says gently. “The Pledge is about to start. Why don’t you take a seat?”

  Little does Mr. Soto know that if only I could feel my feet, sitting at my desk in this room would be the last thing I’d do. I’d be running after Nana Dottie’s Jaguar so fast, I’d catch up with it before it even reached the highway.

  “Oh, look. Luis Lobo’s Hummer is pulling into the parking lot.”

  The room explodes. Some kids gasp. Others squeal. Chair legs screech against the floor. Books topple off desks. I think Luis Lobo must be some sort of Floridian Santa Claus and his Hummer the warm-weather equivalent of a sleigh filled with millions of presents. Because everyone pushes and nudges their way to the wall of windows.

  Everyone, that is, but Sam.

  He’s still sitting at his desk, looking at me instead of out the windows. For a second I’m mortified that with the entire class on the other side of the room, he has a clear view of my circus ensemble. But then I realize he’s not looking at my clothes. His eyes don’t leave mine. He gives me a half smile and shakes his head slightly, and I know that whoever Luis Lobo is, he’s not pulling into the school parking lot. Sam just said that so I could walk to my desk and sit down without everyone watching, whispering, and giggling.

  I dash to my desk, surprisingly grateful for the footwear portion of my outfit. The jazz shoes might be orange with black tiger stripes, but at least they’re quiet. I’m already seated and pulling out a notebook when the class starts trickling away from the windows.

  “Luis Lobo isn’t out there,” one kid says.

  “Maybe he was, but then he left before we could see him,” another says.

  “You know how secretive he is,” a third adds. “He’ll probably hide in the auditorium and watch rehearsals this afternoon.”

  This guess prompts more gasps and squeals. I’m pretty sure I hear Ava Grand whispering frantically to the rest of Constellation, but I don’t care. Even when I think I’m in the loop I’m not, so there’s no point trying to listen.

  Instead, I continue my letter to Gabby, which is currently fourteen pages long. At this rate, I’ll need to mail it in a box instead of an envelope.

  My pencil freezes when a crumpled paper ball lands in the middle of my notebook. My body has barely recovered from its initial paralysis, and now it’s tense again. I wait for more, for a paper snow-ball attack brought on by—what? Silly clothes? Looking different? Being the new girl? If these are my biggest crimes, I hope I never really mess up here. I don’t think I’d make it out of the paper avalanche alive.

  Five seconds go by. Ten. Twenty. After thirty seconds pass without another hit, I think I might be okay. Maybe that one wasn’t even meant for me. I relax enough to brush the paper ball from my notebook.

  Hey Ruby—

  My eyes lock on the handwriting. Apparently, this paper ball was meant for me.

  I look up and scan the room without moving my head. Everyone’s
discussing the supposed sighting of Luis Lobo and what it might mean. No one’s watching me or waiting to see if I’ll open the note.

  So I do. At this point, what’s the worst that can happen?

  Hey Ruby—

  What was that about?? Are you okay?

  —S

  S. Given her earlier laundry day comment, I’m guessing Stephanie’s not too concerned about my well-being. Which means Sam is.

  Gabby and I used to pass notes in class all the time, so this one shouldn’t seem like such a big deal—especially after my morning trauma—but it does. And not just because it’s from a cute boy who has the best name ever and who knows of Vivian Vance. That doesn’t hurt . . . but it’s a big deal mostly because it’s the first note I’ve gotten since starting at Sweet Citrus.

  Hey Sam. I guess Constellation decided to have some fun with their dullest “star.” Thanks for distracting the class. I owe you one! —R

  PS Who’s Luis Lobo?

  I quietly crumple the note back into a ball and wait for Mr. Soto to turn to the blackboard before tossing it toward Sam. It grazes his arm and lands on his desk. A minute later, it lands on mine.

  L.L. is some hot-shot talent agent. He comes to Citrus Star every year looking for the next big thing. Much to Ava’s dismay, he hasn’t found it yet. By the way, I hate the spotlight too. (Though for what it’s worth, you wear neon well.)

  —S

  I smile. If anyone else here said I wore neon well, I’d think they were making fun of me. Somehow, I know Sam’s not like anyone else.

  I want to continue our written conversation, but the bell rings before I can toss the ball back for another turn. I gather my stuff quickly, hoping Sam and I can walk to first period together, but by the time my backpack’s zipped, he’s already gone.

  And unfortunately, no one outside of our homeroom was alerted to Luis Lobo’s fake presence. Which means everyone is immediately alerted to my very real, very noticeable presence as I head down the hallway.

  “Tell me you didn’t check your e-mail this morning.”

  I look up from my tiger-striped jazz shoes to see Megan walking next to me. “I know it’s kind of the thing to do here, but I can’t lie.”