“Are you sure she’s not just jumping to music? That’s natural for Q-Bees.”
“She does real steps,” I say defensively. “Ballet, cha-cha, and rumba. She jumps through hoops, too, and somersaults. She’s the smartest dog ever.”
I expect him to argue, so I’m surprised when he smiles and scratches Toffee’s snowy head. “Smart little girl, are you? Well, you should be with Chelshire Fields Golden Toffany for a sire – a champion with no equal. What a pity your markings are too flawed for breeding.”
“Markings aren’t everything.” I hug Toffee tightly. “She’s uber talented.”
Blake regards me curiously. “Tell me about this competition. Is it sanctioned by the AKC?”
“Um, no. Not the Kennel Club. But it’s a huge event with Mayor King awarding first place.”
“How much does first place pay?”
“Nothing. I mean, not in actual money.”
“Ribbons and trophies don’t pay bills, but I’d like to see what your dog can do. I have experience training dogs and can give you some tips.”
“That would be great, but what I really need is a costume.” I look up at him, hopefully. “Rory says there’s this great costume shop at the Empire Mall and she’ll give me a ride there. I just need some money.”
He takes a step back from me, shaking his head. “This isn’t a good time.”
“The competition is a week away, and a costume is mandatory.”
“Sorry, but I can’t help.”
“Can’t or won’t?” I glare at him. “If this was about the stud dogs, you wouldn’t refuse.”
“Brutus and Cretin are assets, not liabilities.” At the sound of their names, the stud dogs wag their tails.
“Are you calling Toffee a liability? If she is, then I am, too. I’ll quit school and get a job. Is that what you want?”
“Don’t be childish, Ashlee. You’re misconstruing my words.” He rubs his forehead as if in pain. “I’d help you if I could, but there isn’t any extra money.”
I reel back, my thoughts spinning. The last time I went to Bow-Wow Boutique it was quiet with only one customer. And no one has come by to see Honey’s new litter. How long has it been since we sold a Q-Bee?
“Is the business in trouble?” I hold my breath, terrified of the answer. When he looks away, his face furrows like a roadmap.
“You should have told me. I can help,” I offer. “What I said before about getting a job, I’ll do it. I can groom dogs or pet-sit. How much do we need to save Mom’s business?”
He stiffens like he’s turned to stone, an impassible mountain of granite. “It’s my business to take care of, and I don’t need your help. End of discussion.”
With his stud dogs flanking him, he storms out of the garage.
Bow-Wow Boutique is more than a building made of wood, mortar, and nails. It’s my mother’s heart and soul, and as long as it’s in business, her dream stays alive. I thought Blake felt the same way, that his passion for the store was his way to honor my mother. I can take being ignored and even a forgotten birthday knowing we share memories and the pain of losing Mom. But now it’s obvious he only cares about himself.
I’m curled on my bed, clasping a pillow and petting Toffee. I’m all saggy and deflated like one of Toffee’s chew toys. No fight left in me. I have to drop out of Talent-Mania. In a way, it’s a relief. I don’t have to stress over a costume. So what if Beatrice calls me a quitter? She’s said worse, and I didn’t fall down dead. Her words may bite but they can’t break through my skin if I don’t let them.
It’s really over. No competition. The little girl who dreamed of visiting the King mansion and the older girl who can’t stop dreaming of a gap-toothed prince will have to accept that dreams don’t come true.
“Sorry, Toffee,” I whisper into her soft fur, the apology more to myself than her. She holds no grudges. She wags her tail and licks my face.
The harder part will be telling Rory. I look over to my desk where I left my phone, and cringe. This could get ugly.
I’m reaching for the mauve phone, rehearsing what to say, when it flashes and blasts a pop song by Kelly Clarkson, the one about what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.
The song abruptly stops. The screen blinks like bright headlights. I’m hypnotized by strangeness. Can not look away. The screen mists over like someone’s breathing on it from the inside. Then a shape emerges, lines sharpening into human features – a cherubic face with a grin that fills the screen.
“Farley!” I choke.
He giggles like a child and waves. There’s a plop as he vanishes. The screen fades to black and I think the weirdness is over – until a curved line like a lopsided smile slides across the screen. Another shape follows, a circle rolling behind the smile. Wait. Not shapes but letters tumbling together on the tiny screen, spelling: C-O-S-T-U-
“Costume? What are you trying to tell me?” I ask the phone as if it’s a living thing.
The screen flashes a rainbow of whirling colors, until it settles into a picture of an old-fashioned man with a bearded face and intelligent eyes. He’s not someone I know, but I recognize him from my English class. The “Bard of Avon,” and the world’s greatest writer.
“William Shakespeare?” I speak out loud, puzzled. “What does he have to do with a costume?”
Of course! I snap my fingers then grab my phone just as it goes black and shove it into my pocket.
“Come on, girl,” I tell Toffee, “We’re going on a walk.”
Her godmother then touched her with her wand, and, at the same instant, her clothes turned into cloth of gold and silver, all beset with jewels. This done, she gave her a pair of glass slippers, the prettiest in the whole world. (Perrault)
Shakespeare shows zero surprise when he answers his door and finds me on his sagging porch. I’ve gone to his backyard many times, but never his house. He’s wearing ordinary clothes – dark slacks, a blue button-down shirt, and brown loafers.
Before I can tell him why I’ve come, he says, “Follow me, Miss Ashlee.” His voice booms with theatrical force and, instantly, there is nothing ordinary about him.
I want to ask him how he knew I was coming, but he’s moving too fast for questions. I run to catch up with him as he rushes off the porch, leading me down the creaking steps to a gravel path. We wind around his house, beneath a whispery willow and through an orchard path to a tiny house with gingerbread trim so sweet-looking that I expect the walls to taste like candy. When he opens the door, it’s what’s inside that makes me drool with a different kind of hunger.
Costumes!
Every color, design, era, size, and style. I’ve left the audience of my real life and entered a fabric fairy tale. Costumes from every play imaginable – cats, lions, devils, demons, angels, phantoms, narrow skirts, hoop skirts, tuxedo suits, bridal dresses, and even a green-scaled dragon costume.
The awesomeness doesn’t stop there, because there are props, too, from cannons to swords to feathered angel wings. I ask how he knew I needed a costume, and Shakespeare winks then whispers, “Farley told me.”
Farley again! My head spins as I try to make sense of everything. But there is no sense. Only wonder, amazement, hope.
Impossible things are becoming my normal since I stepped into the W.I.S.H. store. It makes me think of being little and blowing soapy bubbles into the air then trying to catch them. Only when my finger touched a bubble it popped and vanished. I have a feeling my weird happenings are like airy bubbles that will pop and vanish if I grasp for answers.
“I’m performing with my dog in the Talent-Mania contest,” I explain, although he probably already knows. I gesture to Toffee, who is tugging at the long tail of a lion costume. “That’s why I need a costume.”
“Something exceeding the ordinary.” He steps in front of a fun-house mirror, his reflection stretching to gigantic proportions and sweeping his beard into a tornado. I’m feeling swept away, too.
“I just want something shin
y. Maybe with sequins,” I add in a small voice.
He wags a gnarled finger at me. “As Van Dyke said, ‘Genius is talent set on fire by courage.’ Do you have the courage to fire your inner genius and push your talent to the limits of imagination?”
“Well, um, I guess so.” No clue what he’s talking about, but I have this weird suspicion he can read my mind.
“A performer’s appearance is much like that mirror; it’s a mask of illusion created to deceive and delight.” He rubs his gray beard, pausing for a thoughtful moment before snapping his fingers. “I have just the illusion for you.”
“Illusion? But I’m a dog trainer, not a magician.”
“Performance is a science of mass perception. You must accept what is possible with the impossible for the best results. Watch carefully.”
He taps a painting on the wall and a hidden door slides open. He slips into the darkness, seeming to vanish before my eyes. I hear bangs, squeaks, and a burst of chimes, then silence until he steps back into the light, twirling a large purple Hula-Hoop. “This is your trick.”
A hoop trick? Been there; done that. Not impressed, and the audience won’t be either. “Thanks, but I already have my own hoop.”
“Like this?” He taps the hoop then flings it spinning up into the air – where it stays. Seriously, the hoop hovers by the ceiling! Electricity sparks from the hoop like stars exploding in a night sky, as if the universe exists inside the hoop.
“Wow.” Hairs rise on my skin. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“You’ll do more than see. You will master this illusion.” His smile sets his eyes twinkling like he’s made of stars, too.
“Will it be good enough to win the competition?”
He tilts his head, studying me. “That, my dear, is up to you.”
Then he shows me my costume.
By the time I leave Shakespeare, the afternoon has shadowed into early evening. It’s too late to stop by Swap Market. Also, I’ve missed the turtle races (frogs are only on the first Saturday of the month). I have no regrets because I’ve learned the BEST EVER dog trick. I have a costume, if you can call it that. With so many fabulous costumes to choose from, I expected Shakespeare to offer me a glittery gown of sequins or satin. Instead, he gave me a bodysuit woven with wires that stretch like metal vines across my arms, legs, and up my neck to a rubber cap that hides my dark hair. SERIOUSLY! I feel like Frankenstein hooked up with all these wires. But it gets worse. The white bodysuit is so sheer that when I look down at myself I see the outline of my beige bra and blue-striped bikini underwear. If I can see them, everyone in the audience will, too.
“I can’t perform in this!” I’d protested, peeking out from the bathroom I’d used for changing my clothes.
“You can and you will,” Shakespeare insisted.
“But I’m practically naked!”
“You’re covered sufficiently. Once you click on the remote control, which I’ll give to you, the hoop’s illusion will alter your appearance. Your suit will function like the screen for a movie, blank until a holographic image supersedes reality. The audience won’t see wires or whatever charming color of underclothes you’re wearing. They will only see a glittering princess in a glamorous costume. Trust me.”
So I do.
I practice every day. Blake isn’t around, working long hours (no shock), and when he does show up, he doesn’t ask to see Toffee perform. Whatever. He doesn’t want my help, and I don’t need him. I put all my energy into practice. Thanks to Shakespeare (and my marvelous mauve phone) I think I have a real chance to win the competition. Suck on that, Beatrice!
The act is going great, except the finale. That’s when Toffee gets stubborn. When the firework effects go off, she sits on her haunches and refuses to jump. I bribe her with treats but she won’t budge. By the weekend, I’m so frustrated I’m almost in tears and ready to give up when I get an idea. We run through the act again, but this time when we reach the finale, I pull over a stool so I’m level with the hoop. Then, instead of begging Toffee to jump through the hoop, I do it myself.
Toffee stares at me, tilting her head curiously. Then she’s flying through the hoop right after me. I catch her.
After that, we don’t have any more hoop issues. I reward her with a walk to Shakespeare’s Theater. We’re just in time to watch him perform a version of Hans Christian Andersen’s The Red Shoes, starring a tap-dancing goose. Seriously, I’m not making this up. Afterward, I watch pig soccer and laugh like crazy when Granny Dermott’s pig, Fluffy, tries to eat the soccer ball. Then, Toffee’s dancing scores enough swap-its to “pig out” (excuse the pun) at Swap Market.
It’s not until later, while I’m slaving in the kennels and spreading clean newspapers in the cages, that I realize I’m missing a crucial accessory for my act – shoes!
The hoop illusion doesn’t cover my feet, and a barefoot dog trainer will not do. Rory wears larger shoes than I do, but I send her a quick SOS and ask if she has fancy shoes that might fit me. She texts back a frowny face. Sighing, I slip my phone into my back pocket then cry out when it scorches through my jeans like coals on fire. I jerk it out and instantly the heat cools. When I look at the tiny screen, a text message spells out a single word: S-H-O-E-S.
“Where?” I ask desperately, accepting that this smart phone has wisdom beyond the combined knowledge of Google and Wikipedia.
The phone shows me a dark room piled with boxes, folding chairs, holiday decorations, and a sewing machine.
The attic! I palm-smack my forehead. Duh! I should have thought of looking there myself, except it’s someplace I avoid since it’s full of memories of Mom. I’m not sure if my phone is being helpful or hurtful, reminding me of feelings I’d successfully shut out for so long.
But instead of the usual sadness when I enter the attic, I get a warm feeling around my shoulders, like someone is hugging me. I can almost hear Mom’s voice, urging me to search through boxes until I find one labeled shoes. I trace my fingers over Mom’s bold inked lettering, the loopy Ss like curving roads beckoning me.
My fingers tremble as I lift off the lid, and there they are.
Shoes. Not just any shoes but shoes more beautiful than anything I’ve ever worn, made of velvety leather the color of snow with twists of silver laces and a sprinkle of crystal beads with three-inch heels. They seem familiar, like I’ve seen them before but can’t remember where.
When I slip them on, they’re a perfect fit.
Two weeks until Talent-Mania.
Against all odds, I’m ready.
She asked them the name of that princess; but they told her they did not know it, and that the king’s son would give all the world to know who she was. (Perrault)
It takes a few days to get used to the high heels so I don’t slip and fall in the middle of the act. Between practice, school, chores, and homework, I’m moving in a fog like the walking dead. I’m so ready for a break when Rory suggests a girl’s night sleepover on Friday.
She comes over to my house lugging a backpack full of henna supplies. “I made the mistake of telling Mom I was thinking of going into the henna business, and next thing I know she’s ordered boxes of henna kits online.” Rory sighs as she dumps her backpack on the couch. “Love the products. Hate enabling Mom’s shopping addiction.”
“Not your fault.” I pick up a box labeled Henna Hexes. “This looks interesting. My fairy-bird is starting to fade, so I volunteer as a victim if you want to experiment.”
“You’ve guessed my evil scheme.” She gives a witchy cackle.
“Diabolical, but first I need your opinion about my act.”
I invite Rory into my garage for my “dress rehearsal,” (or maybe I should call it an “undress” rehearsal), showing her like an usher to a folding chair I’ve set up for my audience of one.
When I step onto the “stage” in my wired bodysuit, Rory’s eyes widen. “Seriously? You do realize I can see your pink undies, right?”
“Yeah, I k
now.” I lift up the remote control Shakespeare gave me. “But you shouldn’t see them for long.”
With a click of my CD player, the garage rocks with techno music, and I lift a screwdriver to my mouth like it’s a mike. “Prepare to be amazed by a display of extraordinary canine tricks!” I announce in a theatrical voice that would make Shakespeare proud. “Introducing Dancing Queen!”
I fling the hoop into the air, and it dazzles in lights like a rainbow struck by lightning. I gesture to Toffee with a hand signal to trigger her first jump. She somersaults through the hoop universe, dancing into holographic scenes of sky, stars, and galaxies. The routine lasts only minutes yet feels much longer as holographic images send me traveling from the earth to the stars with a tiny gold and white dog. When the fireworks spark for the finale, Toffee doesn’t hesitate to jump through the hoop.
Rory bounces to her feet, applauding. “OMG, Ashlee!”
“You liked it?”
“Abso-freaking-lutely loved it! Your act is awesome-sauce to the max! I knew Toffee was smart, but this is beyond anything I’ve ever seen. And you look gorgeous! It’s so cool how your hair and gown change with each hoop scene, all glowing and glittery like a Disney princess. And when did your boobs get so big?”
I glance down at myself. Hello, cleavage! Too bad they’re an illusion and I can’t keep them. The hoop’s energy only lasts two hours, and Shakespeare warned me not to waste the battery. Regretfully, I click off the remote control. The hoop thuds to the ground, and the glamour vanishes, except for my shoes.
Rory develops a massive case of shoe love and begs to try them on. I kick them over to her, but no matter how much she pushes and pulls, they don’t fit. I inherited my Mom’s narrow triple-A feet.
“Oh, well. They look great on you, and that’s what matters.” Rory gives my shoes a wistful glance then grins at me. “I can’t wait to see Beatrice’s face when the mayor announces you’re the winner.”
“A singer will probably win,” I say, not wanting to get my scholarship hopes up. “Katelyn’s performed on Broadway.”
“She’s good, but can she send a dog dancing through the universe? I don’t think so. That hoop trick blows my mind. Show it to me again. Please!”
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