Ruby's Slippers

by Tricia Rayburn

  She groans, takes my elbow, and steers me toward a restroom. I’m relieved when it’s another single-person-only restroom.

  “She said she e-mailed you about our rehearsal this morning.” Megan locks the door and turns toward me.

  “Who said?” I can guess, but I want to hear Megan say it. As nice as I thought she was a few days ago, right now, in her pretty sundress and metallic sandals, she’s no different from her friends.

  “Ava.” She goes to the sink and drops her silver tote bag on the counter. “She sent the e-mail last night about rehearsal after school today, and I saw you were copied on it. But then she texted us all this morning to say plans had changed and that we were rehearsing before school.”

  “Texted?” I ask, watching her rummage through her bag.

  “Sent notes. To our cell phones.”

  “I don’t have a cell phone.”

  She looks up, surprised. After a second, she returns to her bag. “Well, at the very least, I knew that if you had a cell phone she didn’t have your number. So I texted her back and asked if she’d e-mailed you about the change, and she swore she did. She also said she could tell that you’d opened and read the note.”

  “You can do that?”

  “I can’t. But Ava seems to know how to do lots of things other people don’t.” She pulls a pair of flip-flops from her bag.

  “I only got two e-mails,” I say. “Both were sent yesterday. One was about rehearsing this afternoon. The other said she’d talked to Miss Anita and that I was definitely in the group, and that we were all wearing our rehearsal outfits to school. It also included a very specific list of what I needed for my rehearsal outfit and where I should get everything.”

  She frowns at me in the mirror above the sink. “And where was that?”

  “Coco Costumes—which actually had a very limited selection. I thought black leotards, pink leg warmers, white tights, and black jazz shoes would be easy to find, but the store didn’t have any of them.”

  She digs in her purse again and yanks out a tank top.

  “Anyway, I got that e-mail late yesterday afternoon, so by the time we got to Coco Costume and learned they didn’t have what I needed, everywhere else was closed. And I thought it was better to show up in some sort of dance outfit than none at all, so . . .”

  I turn and face the full-length mirror. I don’t know how Momma and Nana Dottie let me leave the house like this. I was too embarrassed to check my appearance this morning, but the outfit looks even more ridiculous than I imagined. But then, how could I look anything but ridiculous in a neon-yellow leotard with silver sequins, green leg warmers with pink fringe, purple tights, and tiger-striped jazz shoes?

  “This was all they had,” I explained reluctantly.

  “Of course it was. Coco Costumes is for Halloween, not for Citrus Star—or for any other kind of legitimate performance. I wouldn’t be surprised if Ava even went there before e-mailing you just to make sure they didn’t have what she told you to get.”

  I shake my head. “But why? Why would she do that? What have I done to her to make her dislike me so much?”

  “Nothing. Except move here and take attention away from her.”

  “That’s impossible,” I say automatically. “I haven’t done anything to take attention from her. I couldn’t even if I tried.”

  “You’re new.” Megan joins me in front of the mirror and places the flip-flops on the floor next to my feet. “That’s enough right there. But you’re also nice and funny and sincere—three things Ava Grand will probably never be.”

  I eye the tank top she holds toward me. “What’s that for?”

  “I can’t get through a meal without half of it ending up on my clothes, so I always bring backups. If I hadn’t spilled chocolate milk on my first dress of the day before homeroom, I’d give you the one I’m wearing now.”

  “And you were just going to wear a tank top if you spilled something on this dress at lunch?”

  She smiles. “If I spill anything else, I may have to go home sick. This is from last week. My shirt and shoes were spared when a plate of spaghetti fell on my lap at lunch on Friday, and I forgot to take those backups out of my bag.”

  I look at her. “You really want to loan me your clothes?”

  “I really do. It’s the least I can do for underestimating Ava.” She reaches into her purse again and removes a square plastic box. She opens it, pulls something out, and hands it to me. “Take this too. It always helps me feel better.”

  I take it, too stunned to speak.

  Because it’s a cassette tape. The square plastic box was a Walkman . . . just like mine.

  “It’s the Mamma Mia! soundtrack,” she says. “I know this great company that converts iTunes files to tapes. Most people think it’s crazy, but I think music sounds better this way, don’t you?”

  “Definitely,” I say, even though I’m not sure what an iTune is.

  She smiles and grabs her purse. “Anyway, I have to run—I have kindergarten math today, which is on the other side of the building. See you at lunch?”

  She’s through the door before I can respond. I’m still looking at the cassette tape when the door flings open again.

  “By the way,” Megan says, popping her head into the room, “there’s one other thing you are that Ava Grand will probably never be.”

  Short? Average? Technologically challenged?

  “Brave.” She grins and then disappears.

  I lock the door and reach for my backpack. As I dig around for my camera, I’m excited to find Nana Dottie’s yellow scarf. I’d forgotten about it, but it’s long enough to wrap around my waist and wear as a skirt, and it will look great with Megan’s white tank top and flip-flops.

  I can’t wait to change, but there’s something I need to do first.

  I don’t know if I’m brave. I certainly don’t feel very brave—especially not in Coconut Grove. But just in case Megan sees something in me that I don’t, I want to take a picture to examine for clues later.

  15.

  “So then Andy do-si-dos Brian, and Brian do-si-dos Clint, and Clint do-si-dos Justin, and around and around it goes until they all get so dizzy they slip away from one another, stumble across the barn floor, and crash into bales of hay.”

  Giggling, I step onto the diving board.

  “And it’s not confirmed, but we think someone did something to the punch, because after a few cups, Mr. Lou’s words started running together. Which was pretty dangerous, since he was calling the square dancing and people started running into each other when they couldn’t make out his instructions.”

  “Did anyone get hurt?” I ask, bouncing gently.

  “Physically, not really,” Gabby says. “Emotionally, definitely. I’m still recovering from the image of macho-man Clint wearing cowboy boots and skipping to country music.”

  “It sounds like it was everything we always thought it’d be.”

  “Well, not quite everything, since our very first boy-girl dance of junior high was missing one key guest.” Gabby pauses. “Are you, like, exercising or something?”

  I sit up on the pile of pillows on the grass, where I landed with a thud after jumping off the diving board. “You heard that?”

  “I think Momma Kibben heard it, and she’s down at the high school for karaoke night. It sounds like you’re running hurdles or doing the long jump. Have those outdoorsy sports nuts turned you into an athlete already?”

  I smile. Gabby asks this like athletes are also criminals. “Don’t worry, I’m as muscle-free as I was the last time you saw me. I’m just practicing for Citrus Star.”

  “Citrus Star? What’s that?”

  “The talent show? Featuring all my fame-obsessed classmates?” I hop on the diving board again. “I must’ve told you about it.”

  “I don’t think so. We haven’t really talked lately.”

  I stop bouncing. Can that be right? Have we really not talked since I started rehearsing? “I don’t want u
s to be so busy that we can’t find time to call and then don’t know what’s going on in each other’s lives.”

  “Me neither. What about that letter? Weren’t you trying to break the world record for longest note ever written?”

  “Yes.” I start bouncing again. “I think I broke it three weeks ago. And I’ll mail the letter tomorrow. It might take you a few days to finish it, but when you do, you’ll know absolutely everything about life in Coconut Grove.”

  “And what about pictures? Will you send some of those, too? So I can have visuals while I read?”

  I wince. “Those might take a little longer. I haven’t gotten to the drugstore to develop them yet.”

  “You know . . . if we e-mailed, we could update each other every day. And then you could put your pictures on a CD and I could look at them three seconds after you send them.”

  “True.” I bounce once more, bend my knees, and leap from the diving board. I watch my reflection in the sliding glass door as I sail through the air and drop to the ground. “But I still hate e-mail—probably more now than ever. Let’s just promise to talk on the phone at least every other day.”

  “Good idea. Cross my heart.”

  “Me too.”

  After we hang up, I continue jumping off the diving board. There’s one thirty-second stretch in Constellation’s routine that’s nothing but jumping. We did a run-through this afternoon, and it turns out that just as I’m the group’s worst singer and dancer, I’m also its worst jumper. When Ava saw how stiff my legs were, she threw up her hands and stormed out of the auditorium for an extended break. But Megan assured me that stiff legs can limber up, and she gave me a few pointers—including this diving board technique. I think it’s working, too. After a dozen jumps, my reflection’s head disappears above the glass.

  “Ruby, would you like a snack?”

  “No thanks, Nana Dottie!” I bounce three times and jump again. “No time for food.”

  Nana Dottie called to me through the kitchen window. A few seconds later, she opens the sliding glass door and strides across the patio. When she reaches me, she puts both hands on my shoulders to stop my bouncing and then holds one palm to my forehead.

  “You don’t have a fever,” she says, relieved.

  “I feel fine,” I say, surprised.

  She raises her eyebrows. “I know we haven’t been living together for very long, but in that time, I’ve never once heard you refuse food.”

  She has a point. And now that I’m standing still, I realize I am a little hungry. “Do you have anything light? Something that will keep my energy up?”

  Her whole face breaks into a smile, like I’ve just offered to give up chips for tofu forever. “Come with me.”

  I follow her inside. I swing by the desk in the living room to pick up my laptop and continue on into the kitchen.

  “Hi, Oscar.” I smile, then cover my mouth when I see what he’s doing. “Sorry,” I whisper through my fingers.

  “Don’t be.” He looks up from the Scrabble board, leans back in his chair, and grins. “I’m always happy to see my favorite Kansas sunflower.”

  This is one of the things I love about Oscar. He can do things like call me a Kansas sunflower, which might sound silly if anyone else said it, and make it seem like the easiest, most natural thing in the world.

  “Plus, your grandmother is currently destroying me. My brain could use a break.” He nods to my laptop. “Doing some homework?”

  “Sort of.” I put the computer on the kitchen table and open it. “I’m rehearsing for Citrus Star.”

  “Ah, yes. The beloved tween variety show. I hear MTV is doing a live broadcast of it this year.”

  I fall into a chair. “Please tell me you’re kidding.”

  He winks. “I am.”

  “Ruby’s a member of Constellation, the popular singing and dancing group that’s going for a third first-place victory,” Nana Dottie says proudly as she bustles about the kitchen.

  “Nice.” Oscar sounds impressed.

  “Yeah. No pressure or anything.” I turn on the computer and load the Internet. “Want to see what crazy things I have to convince my body to do in eighteen days?”

  “Are there diagrams?” Oscar asks, scooting over his chair.

  “Even better—or worse, depending on how you look at it.”

  “Is that video?” Nana Dottie comes around the counter for a closer look. “Of Ava Grand?”

  “The one and only.” I shake my head as Ava glides across the screen. “She hired a choreographer to help with the routine, a videographer to record her performing the routine, and some kind of website genius to put it online.”

  “What if someone else from school finds it?” Oscar asks. “And tries to copy your moves?”

  “It would be like trying to find a diamond in a dust storm. The video link is hidden in all sorts of fake websites, and you need four different passwords to load it.”

  Nana Dottie pats my shoulder before returning to snack preparations. I know she’s proud of the tech-savvy words I’m throwing out, like “link,” “websites,” and “passwords.” It doesn’t seem like a big deal now, but I guess compared to a few weeks ago, when I didn’t even know how to find the Internet on my computer, it kind of is.

  “Ouch,” Oscar says as Ava does a hands-free cartwheel and lands in a split.

  “You’re telling me,” I say.

  “You’re going to be great,” Nana Dottie says. “It’s a challenge, but you’re in extremely talented company. And there’s no better teacher than Ava Grand.”

  I think that last point’s debatable but don’t say so. “The hardest part is actually the music. My body’s never done half this stuff, but it’s learning—slowly. The bigger problem is putting the moves to music. What we’re dancing to is just so different from what I’m used to.”

  “I can see that,” Oscar says, his head bobbing with the beat. “Is this Beyoncé? With Jay-Z? The radio remix?”

  I look at him. “How did you know that?”

  “My nieces are nuts for this stuff. It’s pretty good, once you get used to it. And you do get used to it, believe it or not.”

  “He’s right, Ruby.” Nana Dottie places a tray of strawberries, blueberries, whole-wheat pita wedges, and guacamole on the table. “You just need another lesson.”

  “You know pop music, Nana Dottie?”

  She bites into a strawberry. “You’d be surprised. We’ll start with an iPod. And lots of CDs. You can load the CDs into iTunes, sync iTunes to your iPod, and listen to music whenever you want, wherever you are.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  I jump in my chair. We all turn to see Momma standing in the kitchen doorway.

  “An iPod? iTunes? What kind of technological takeover are you planning without my consent this time, Mom?”

  “Momma?” I stand up. “Are you okay? You look . . . hot. And sick.”

  “After walking two miles in the blazing hot sun, yes, I’m a bit warm. And after the day I’ve had, I do feel rather nauseous.” She tears a paper towel from the roll on the counter and blots her damp face.

  “Of course you’re hot,” Nana Dottie says. “It’s ninety degrees out, and you’re wearing that heavy black suit.”

  Momma looks at Nana Dottie. Nana Dottie looks at Momma. Each seems to be daring the other to speak, but neither wants to be the first to give.

  “How about some water?” Oscar finally asks, reaching for the beverage cart next to the table.

  The movement breaks their silent stare. Nana Dottie sits down and turns her attention to the Scrabble board. Momma takes off her jacket and fans her face with a spatula. Oscar hands me the glass of water to take across the kitchen, and I wait until Momma finishes it before speaking again.

  “Why did you walk two miles?” It seems like an obvious question to me, and I’m not sure why it’s taken this long for someone to ask it.

  Momma swallows the last of the water and takes a deep breath. “The car died.”
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  “Again? But you just picked it up this morning. I thought it was fixed.”

  “So did I. And it got me everywhere I needed to go today, but on the way home, it just stopped in the middle of the street. In the middle of rush-hour traffic. Which won me lots of points with our professional new neighbors, since going around me—and then around me and the tow truck when it came—made everything move that much slower.”

  “That’s terrible.” Oscar gets up from the table and stands across the counter from Momma. He’s immediately concerned, which is more than can be said for Nana Dottie, who continues to plan her next Scrabble strategy. “Where’s the car now? Can I take a look?”

  “It’s right outside. You can look if you want, but the mechanic said it’s as dead as a doornail. The only way to bring it back to life is with a new engine. And even then there are no guarantees, since the car’s so old and its parts are so rare.”

  “They brought the car all the way back here but made you walk?” I ask in disbelief. That would never happen in Curly Creek.

  “They offered me a ride, but I wanted to walk.” Momma gives me a small smile. “I thought it would help clear my head.”

  “It sounds like you need all the help you can get in that department,” Nana Dottie says without looking up from her tiles. “What did you think would happen to that rusty pile of scrap metal? It’s a miracle it got you here from Kansas. It’s done its job; now let it rest in peace.”

  Momma squeezes the water glass so tightly I brace for sharp flying shards.

  “I’ll be back.” Oscar pats Momma’s other hand, which is turning white against the counter.

  “How was school today, sweetie?” she asks when he leaves the kitchen. Her voice is warm but tired. “And rehearsal?”

  “School was fine,” I say, still worried but willing to distract her for now. “And rehearsal was—”

  “She needs an iPod.”

  I spin around. Nana Dottie’s holding a strawberry in one hand and rearranging tiles with the other.

  “There are certain things Ruby needs to know in order to be successful here and in life. Music is one of them.”