Ruby's Slippers

by Tricia Rayburn

  I’m wearing the same jeans I wore on the drive down (though they’ve been washed), a black T-shirt, and my Converse without socks. Momma’s wearing navy blue shorts, a white T-shirt, and brown canvas flip-flops. And while we’ve spent more time in the sun this week than we have every summer before now put together, we lathered on SPF 50 and still look ghostly pale compared to these ladies.

  “Lois, I really don’t have time for this.”

  I lean against Momma as the office door swings open and almost hits me in the head.

  “I have tennis in twenty minutes, a kayaking date with Trevor an hour after that, and the most important shopping event of the entire year at the Lemon Grove Mall with Megan, Stephanie, and Hilary after that.”

  The tall girl with long white-blond hair doesn’t bother holding the door open for the short brunette who follows close behind, shuffling papers and looking frazzled.

  “Ava Grand.” The woman who frowned at Momma and me when we came in now jumps up, all smiles and arms outstretched. “So good to see you, sweetie! You look fabulous.”

  “Thanks, Marie.”

  I glance at Momma. Do all kids call adults by their first names in Florida?

  And do they all dress like that? Ava’s wearing a short white skirt, a fitted light blue tank top, and wedge sandals with three-inch heels. My idea of accessorizing is wearing a rubber band on my wrist in case I want to tie my hair up, but Ava’s idea includes a white leather purse three times the size of my old purple backpack and a shiny pink watch with a face so big it could probably work as a clock if you hung it on the wall.

  She’s definitely a few years older than I am, maybe even in high school, but she still looks young enough to call “Marie” Ms. Mean Office Lady (or Smith, or Jones, or whatever).

  “I have a huge problem,” Ava says sweetly.

  “We’re here to help,” Marie promises.

  “My parents made it very clear months ago that I absolutely had to have English with Tom Crane, and that math with Elizabeth Brinkley was absolutely unacceptable.” Ava holds out one hand, into which Lois places a single sheet of paper. “So you can imagine my surprise when my schedule came in the mail completely incorrect.”

  Marie takes the paper and examines it closely.

  “I mean, it’s like it went to the wrong address or something.” Ava laughs, as though generously willing to forgive the mishap once corrected.

  “My apologies, Ava. Let me see what I can do.”

  As Marie scurries to her desk, Ava turns away from the counter. I look down at the papers on Momma’s lap, but not fast enough.

  “Are you new?”

  I raise my eyes to make sure she’s talking to me, then nod.

  “Cool. Where are you from?”

  “Kansas.”

  “Is that near Naples?” She tilts her head and squints, as though trying to mentally place it on a Florida map.

  “Honey, I found the problem.” Marie returns to the counter, saving me from having to answer Ava. “Silly little mix-up. For you, I’m happy to do some bumping and rearranging.”

  “Thanks, Marie.” Her voice is sugary sweet again. “I really appreciate it. Cute top, by the way.”

  Marie smiles down at her sleeveless yellow shirt. Ava hands the corrected schedule back to Lois and spins away from the counter.

  “What grade?” she asks abruptly, one hand on the door.

  “Seventh.” I feel my face turn red.

  “Me too.” After her eyes travel curiously from my face, to my Converse, then back up, she flashes me a quick smile. “See you around.”

  My chin drops as soon as the door closes behind her. She’s in seventh grade?

  “All set.” Momma signs the papers with a flourish and jumps up.

  Marie, who reverted back to Ms. Mean Office Lady the second Ava left the room, reviews the forms with a frown. “Ah,” she says, pointing to an empty space on the entrance form. “You forgot something.”

  Momma follows Marie’s finger. “Nope. I didn’t.”

  “Father’s name and address.” Marie looks at Mom suspiciously.

  “I’m afraid Ruby’s dad moved across the country without leaving a forwarding address, so I don’t have that information for you.”

  Marie blows—and pops—a big green bubble. Then, as though doing us a favor, she collects all the papers in a neat pile, takes them to her desk, and starts tapping her fake fingernails on the keyboard.

  A half an hour later, after I’ve gotten a locker combination, class schedule, campus map, school handbook, ID card, and directions to homeroom, Momma and I finally leave Sweet Citrus Junior High.

  My new school. Officially.

  “So,” Momma says as we walk toward the car. “What’ll it be? The beach? Zoo? Movies? Miami? Key West? You name it, we’re there.”

  I can tell she’s trying to sound happier than she feels, so I refrain from saying the truth: back to Curly Creek, ASAP. Instead, I settle for what, at the moment, seems to be the next best thing.

  “Lemon Grove Mall.”

  I’m not about to convert to neon, but if I’m really going to be a Sweet Citrus Junior High student, and if Ava is an example of what’s to come, a new shirt or two can’t hurt.

  4.

  “I’ve never seen anyone sit so still in one spot for so long before,” Momma whispers. “If she weren’t surrounded by one-hundred-and-ten-degree air, I’d think she was frozen.”

  “She’s about to move.” I hold my breath. “There! Her pencil just tilted to the right.”

  Momma parts the branches of the indoor tree we’re hiding behind and squints for a better look. When Nana Dottie remains motionless, Momma shrugs. “Maybe she fell asleep. Sitting in this heat and listening to the same song for two whole hours is bound to bore anyone enough to nap.”

  “She hasn’t been listening to the same song.”

  “With the way that piano clatters on, who can tell when one snore-inducing piece ends and the other begins?”

  “The more important question,” I say, choosing not to point out that some people actually enjoy classical music, “is how are we going to get her attention?”

  Momma releases the tree branch and turns to me. “I think you should do it.”

  “And that makes sense because . . . ?”

  “You’re her granddaughter.”

  “You’re her daughter—and my mother. Isn’t it kind of your job to keep me out of harm’s way?”

  “Sweetie.” She puts both hands on my shoulders. “How will I ever be able to keep you out of harm’s way if my mother stabs me with her freshly sharpened pencil for interrupting whatever’s going on out there?”

  I peer through the leaves. “Maybe she’s just feeling sad. This could be her way of dealing with everything.”

  “Dealing is devouring a gallon of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream during an old movie marathon,” Momma clarifies. “That out there is harnessing negative energy to keep from attacking innocent family members.”

  I shoot her a look.

  “And do you really want to have to borrow paper and a pencil on your first day of school tomorrow?” She wrinkles her nose and shakes her head.

  “Fine. But you’re not going to be able to hide behind me forever. I’ll have to leave for college eventually.”

  “Road trip!” Momma squeals softly, clapping her hands just loud enough for me to hear.

  I can’t help smiling as I step out from behind the tree. Nana Dottie doesn’t exactly make me feel warm and fuzzy, but I’m not seriously scared of her the way Momma seems to be. And it’s not like she’s done anything especially scary. She’s just kind of quiet, keeps to herself, and does things that Momma and I never do—like sitting in the scorching sun while listening to classical music and working on crossword puzzles.

  Still, as I cross the living room and head for the sliding glass door that leads to the patio, I’m a little nervous. What if Nana Dottie really is sleeping? Or extremely deep in concentration? Or thinki
ng of Papa Harry? Or anything else that might make her mad at me for interrupting?

  Pausing in front of the door, I lift my camera from my chest (where it now sits every day, hanging on a Momma-knitted strap) and sneak a quick shot of Nana Dottie sitting perfectly straight and still.

  “Unforgivable.”

  I’ve just opened the door and stepped onto the patio, and now I freeze, like the ability to move is immediately snatched from anyone daring enough to venture outside.

  “Detestable.”

  I glance over my shoulder but can’t see Momma through the sun’s glare on the door and windows. When I turn back, Nana Dottie is staring right at me. Was it the picture? Did she see the camera’s flash all the way out here?

  “Ten-letter word for ‘hateful,’ ending in e.”

  Is she asking me or telling me? “Terrible?” I guess.

  “Too short.” She turns back to the newspaper folded on her lap. “But good try.”

  I take the sort-of praise as an invitation to move away from the door. After three steps I’m already sweating. How does she do this every day? And why, when there are so many comfortable chairs and sofas inside, in air-conditioning?

  “Nana Dottie,” I say, knowing I need to focus on the matter at hand, “I don’t mean to interrupt, but I had a quick question.”

  She looks up, her dark eyebrows rising above the top of her sunglasses.

  “School starts tomorrow—”

  “Your very first day at Sweet Citrus Junior High.” As she speaks, the corners of her mouth lift. “It’s going to be great. I’m certain of it.”

  That makes one of us. “Right. I just need a few things, like pencils, paper, maybe some folders . . .”

  She rests her pencil on top of the newspaper, pushes her sunglasses on top of her head, and leans forward. “Okay.”

  “So, I wondered if there was a Walmart nearby? Or some kind of school-supply store?”

  “Ruby, you’re in Florida now!” she declares, her mouth officially breaking from its straight line into a full smile. “We’ve got Wal-Mart, Kmart, Target, you name it.”

  “Great!” I try to sound as excited as she seems to think I should be. “So, if you could just tell us how to get to one of them, Momma and I will be on our way.”

  Her lips drop. She lowers her sunglasses from the top of her head, sits back in the chair, and takes the pencil and newspaper from her lap. “There’s a notepad by the phone in the kitchen. Bring it to me, and I’ll write out directions.”

  I open my mouth to thank her, but then decide against it. She seems upset, but I’m not sure what I said wrong. I turn and head back across the patio. When I reach the sliding door, I pause and watch her reflection in the glass. She’s sitting perfectly straight and still again, like I never came outside.

  “Nana Dottie?” I turn back to face her. “Would you like to come with us?”

  Her lips twitch twice before settling back into a straight line. “I suppose that would be fine.”

  “Great!” I slide open the door, catch Momma’s eye behind the indoor tree leaves, and cock my head to one side. “Maybe we can get ice cream after.”

  “Ice cream?” Momma mouths, looking worried as she flies out from behind the tree and lands on one of the white leather couches.

  “Or a fresh-fruit smoothie.” Nana Dottie comes inside and crosses the living room. “Blueberries are antioxidant powerhouses, you know.”

  As soon as Nana Dottie’s back is to us, I steal a quick picture of Momma looking miserable on the couch. She’s slumped down so far her head is almost on the seat cushion, and she holds her face in her hands. “Next time, you can ask for directions,” I whisper once Nana Dottie is out of the room.

  “Antioxidant powerhouses?” Momma whines quietly. “Seriously?”

  “They can’t hurt.” I refrain from reminding her that moving here was all her idea. I want to shake her and say that if she never actually talks to Nana Dottie (beyond “Please pass the I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter!” at dinner), then we left Curly Creek for nothing.

  “Ready?” Nana Dottie stands in the living room doorway, orange purse in one hand, car keys in the other.

  “I’ll drive,” Momma offers as she leaps from the couch.

  “School supplies are very important, Francine,” Nana Dottie says, lowering her sunglasses over her eyes, “but I’m not about to die for them. That thing you call a car screeches, squeals, and drops what are probably very important mechanical parts every time you pull in and out of the driveway.”

  Momma looks to me, as though I might be able to defend Nana Dottie’s claims as part of the car’s charm.

  “We’ll take the Jag,” Nana Dottie says.

  I shrug apologetically to Momma and follow Nana Dottie. I haven’t been in her car before, but I’ve seen her drive it in and out of the garage. It’s supersleek and shiny, and it looks like it was just driven off the lot . . . so I’m pretty sure it has air-conditioning. And since it’s burning up outside and things are sure to get pretty heated inside the car, I’ll take all the help I can get.

  In the garage, Nana Dottie’s big white car sits next to a tiny pineapple-yellow convertible.

  “Wow.” I open the Jaguar’s back door and pause. “What’s that?”

  “What’s what?” Nana Dottie asks.

  I point to the convertible.

  “Oh.” She frowns. “That’s Papa Harry’s car.”

  She gets in the Jaguar without another word, so I climb in too and gently close the door. Judging by his car, which is about a third of the size of Nana Dottie’s and looks like it only drives at one speed—fast—Papa Harry must’ve been very fun. Momma’s never really talked about him, and whenever I ask any questions, she simply kisses my head, says that sometimes grown-ups do very silly things, and offers to make me a double-decker grilled cheese sandwich.

  “I’ve never been in a convertible before,” I say, hoping it’s not too late to learn more now. “Do you take it out a lot?”

  Nana Dottie removes a lipstick tube from her purse and pouts into the rearview mirror as she applies a fresh shade of pink. “That’s Papa Harry’s car.” She smacks her lips, replaces the tube in her purse, and looks toward the kitchen doorway. “Where’s your mother?”

  I immediately feel terrible for asking about the convertible and appreciate the change of subject. I open my mouth to say I’m not sure where Momma is—and promptly close it when something starts banging on the other side of the garage door.

  “Not very subtle, is she?” Nana Dottie catches my eye in the rearview mirror.

  “No.” I smile. Momma’s many things, but subtle definitely isn’t one of them.

  Nana Dottie pushes a button above the rearview mirror, and the garage door lifts behind us. Momma stands in the middle of the doorway, her arms filled with cassette tapes, cans of soda, and bags of chips. She steps to the side as Nana Dottie starts the car and backs out of the garage.

  Nana Dottie stops next to Momma and rolls down the front passenger side window. “Francine, really,” she says, leaning across the middle console. “You could’ve waited to clean your car. It isn’t going to make any difference.”

  “I didn’t clean.” Momma juggles the tapes, cans, and bags until one hand is free to open the door. “I grabbed provisions.”

  Nana Dottie sits back and brings one palm to her forehead, as though checking for a fever that must be causing her to see what she’s seeing. Taking that as her cue to get in, Momma yanks the door open and flops into the passenger seat.

  “Leather, huh?” She pats the seat. “Fancy.”

  “You’re letting out the cold air,” Nana Dottie says.

  Momma closes the door and drops everything in her arms to the floor at her feet. As Momma sits up and buckles her seat belt, Nana Dottie automatically locks all the doors and starts down the driveway.

  “So, Ruby,” Nana Dottie says brightly, once we’re cruising down the palm tree–lined street. “Pencils, paper, and folde
rs?”

  “Yes. And maybe an eraser or—”

  “What’s this?”

  I slide forward and peer between the front seats to see what has Momma perplexed.

  “What’s what?” Nana Dottie’s eyes dart from the road to Momma’s hand fiddling with the radio.

  “Your stereo can hold thirty CDs, but not one tape? Even our car has a tape player.”

  “New cars don’t have tape players, Francine. This car has a CD player, satellite radio, and an iPod adapter. That’s enough for most people.”

  I sit back. In the side view mirror, I can see Momma trying not to pout.

  “We’ll be gone an hour,” Nana Dottie says, her voice gentler. “Surely you can last sixty minutes without that old rock and roll—or carbonated beverages.”

  Momma’s head snaps to the left.

  “Have you ever tried cleaning leather?” Nana Dottie continues. “It’s not worth the risk. If you become so thirsty it’s absolutely unbearable, just tell me and I’ll pull off the road.”

  Momma falls silent, and I stare out the window at the passing palm trees. I’m used to music blaring at top volume, wind whipping my hair around, and yes, the car screeching and squealing while we’re driving. Nana Dottie’s car is so . . . quiet. The only noise is the air-conditioning whispering through the vents. If I were Nana Dottie and had just lost the most important person in my world, I’d definitely want to surround myself with as much noise as possible.

  “Ruby,” Nana Dottie says suddenly, as though reading my thoughts and wanting to distract me.

  I scoot forward.

  “Do you have a computer?”

  I glance at Momma, whose face remains blank. “Nope.”

  Nana Dottie nods and taps her fingers against the steering wheel. “Would you like one?”

  Would I like a computer? That goes without saying. The only reason I don’t have one is because Momma thinks technology is overrated—and because we could never afford one. I always used one of the two computers at Curly Creek Elementary, or I booked an hour on Curly Creek Library’s single laptop when I needed to do research for school or write a paper. But having my own would mean I could e-mail and send Gabby photos whenever I want.