Ruby's Slippers

by Tricia Rayburn

  “Oh, Ruby. I’m so sorry. But it’ll get better, right? I mean, every first day in a new place is rough. Not that I know from personal experience, but remember when Parker Jameson moved here from Oklahoma? He cried on his first day. Seriously bawled like a baby in front of the whole class.”

  “We were in first grade. Parker Jameson was six. If I were six and cried today, I don’t think I’d beat myself up over it.”

  “Did you cry today?”

  “No, thankfully. But I did dress like a tourist, get lost on the way to six of my seven classes, circle the cafeteria for forty-three minutes without sitting down, trip on the school steps, and nearly get run over by a two-person bicycle while crossing the street to Momma’s car. Oh, and that’s another thing—kids don’t call their mommas ‘momma’ here.”

  “What do they call them?”

  “Mary. Betty. Granter of My Every Wish and Command.”

  “Not so catchy.”

  “No.” Too drained to lift my head, I reach down and feel around the tile for my Yoo-hoo. “Anyway, it stunk. But it’s over. And the good news is that tomorrow can’t be worse.”

  “Hang on,” Gabby says, and then talks quietly with someone in the background. She comes back several seconds later. “Ruby, I’m so, so sorry, but—”

  “You have to go.” I checked the kitchen clock when I took the cordless phone outside. I knew we wouldn’t have much time, but some was better than none. “Heading down for some Cannonball Creek?”

  “It’s going to be crazy. Tracy’s dad made a special inner tube with an extra-wide hole out of tarps and balloons, so we’re going to use it as a target and have a contest to see who can score the most bull’s-eyes in five minutes, and whoever wins gets . . .”

  I’m gulping Yoo-hoo so fast the bottle’s empty in seconds. “Gets what?” I ask, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

  “I’m doing it again. You had an awful, terrible, miserable day, and I keep rattling on about these ridiculous things.”

  “They’re not ridiculous. They’re traditions.”

  “Same thing when your best friend’s unhappy a million miles away.”

  I smile. As bad as today was, as bad as tomorrow and the next day might be, I still have Gabby. Even if she is a million miles away.

  “I really have to go,” she says, “but I love you and miss you and wish you were here. So much.”

  “Me too. Tell everyone I said hi. Talk tomorrow.”

  I hang up and rest the phone on my stomach. It’s almost six o’clock, and it’s still as hot as it was when the sun was directly overhead. I was too tired to shower when I got home a few hours ago, so I thought I’d just jump in the pool to cool off . . . but I didn’t have the energy for that either. I’m not sure what I have energy for, besides lying here and imagining what everyone’s doing back home.

  “Aloha!”

  Momma, however, has other ideas.

  “Where’d you get the guitar?” I ask.

  “This isn’t a guitar!” She strums the strings like she’s Steven Tyler, her favorite rock star. “It’s a ukulele.”

  I sit up on my elbows. “A you-ka—”

  “Lay-lee.” She finishes with two strums.

  “Momma,” I say, choosing my words carefully, “did you know Florida is home to the biggest box of Cracker Jack? Is that the real reason we moved here?”

  She stops strumming and perches on the edge of my lounge chair. “Florida’s home to the biggest box of Cracker Jack? Did you learn that in school today? How big is this box? Do you have a map?”

  I raise my eyebrows at the hula skirt, purple lei, and plastic coconut bra she’s wearing over her bathing suit. “Your outfit looks like it’s made out of Cracker Jack prizes. You look like one of those hula girls people stick on their dashboards.”

  “Thanks, sweetie!” She kisses my head and jumps up. “I didn’t think I’d make it to Honolulu and back before you got out of school, so I went to this magical Floridian land called Party Palace.”

  “Where grass skirts grow on trees?”

  “Isn’t it great?” She twirls and the green strands float around her waist. “And don’t worry—I got you one too!”

  I laugh as she pulls another skirt, a pink lei, and a plastic coconut bra from a big shopping bag. “Thanks, Momma . . . but what exactly am I supposed to do with this tropical ensemble?”

  She holds out one hand to pull me up. “It’s six o’clock on your first day of school.”

  I lift my hair out from under the lei after she’s placed it around my neck. “And?”

  “And what do we always do at six o’clock on your first day of school?”

  I was almost beginning to feel better, but remembering what we’re missing makes the pain come rushing back. “We go cannonballing in Curly Creek with Gabby, Mrs. Kibben, and all our friends.”

  “Right.” She wraps the skirt around my waist. “Now, unlike the breakfast of champions, that tradition’s tough to duplicate here since we don’t have a creek—”

  “Or friends.”

  “So instead, I thought we’d start a new one.” She ties the plastic coconut bra over my T-shirt and turns me around. “Aloha!”

  My chin drops. I must’ve still been staring at my Converse when I came outside, because that’s the only way I could’ve missed the “First Annual Coconut Grove Luau and Sand Castle Carving Contest” set up on the other side of the pool. Nana Dottie’s patio set has been replaced by a tiki hut surrounded by white sand. Orange lanterns are strung between tiki torches and inflatable palm trees. Striped beach chairs sit beneath a pink beach umbrella, and a small, short table between them holds two topless pineapples with curly straws. A banner bearing the party’s official name is taped on the fence behind the hut above a poster of the sun setting over turquoise water.

  “Party Palace sells sand?” I’m so surprised, it’s the first thing I think to say.

  “No, unfortunately. It took two plastic buckets and eighteen trips to carry that much from the beach to the car.”

  She dashes around the pool, her grass skirt flying behind her. As she puts on hula music and lights torches, I take it all in. I think about how hard she must’ve worked to pull off this new tradition. I think about everything that happened at school and how none of it seems completely catastrophic right now, in this moment, at the First Annual Coconut Grove Luau and Sand Castle Carving Contest.

  After all, Ava Grand might have fancy clothes, pierced ears, and three best friends . . . but she doesn’t have Momma.

  “Where are you going?” she calls after me as I start jogging toward the back door.

  I glance over my shoulder to see her carrying a big plastic bin, which, I assume, holds the wet sand that will soon become a castle. “I’ll be right back. Just want to get my camera!”

  I slow from a jog to a walk once I’m inside the house. It’s totally silent; I can’t even hear the hula music playing outside. I haven’t seen Nana Dottie since I got home from school, when she invited me to talk about my day over a platter of skinny crackers and something beige and mushy she called hummus and I politely declined. She might be working on her crosswords now. Or napping. I don’t want to disturb her by clopping like a horse across the marble floor.

  I make it to my room as quickly and quietly as I can, grab my camera from the bed, and hurry back to the living room. Through the tall windows I see Momma dancing in the sand as she straightens the inflatable palm trees. I’m about to slide open the door when the silence breaks inside the house.

  I hold my breath and wait. Maybe it was me. Maybe I was too busy watching Momma I didn’t realize my camera knocked against the glass door or my sneakers squeaked on the floor.

  But there it is again. It’s some kind of rattling, like dice rolling across the table during Yahtzee. And it sounds like it’s coming from the kitchen.

  Did Momma invite Nana Dottie to the luau? If so, did Nana Dottie decline the invitation, just like I declined hers earlier? Deciding it’
s worth making sure, since I don’t want to hurt Nana Dottie’s feelings, I tiptoe across the room.

  “Fifty-eight.”

  I freeze in the hallway. That definitely didn’t sound like my grandma.

  “Which brings you up to two hundred and eleven. Nicely done.”

  My eyes widen. Unless Nana Dottie caught a bad cold that deepened her voice several octaves over the past two hours, that’s not my grandma.

  It’s a man.

  The rattling starts again, and I tiptoe to the kitchen doorway. Nana Dottie’s back is to me. She’s sitting at the kitchen table, across from a younger man with a dark tan and black hair. She shakes a red felt pouch, reaches in with one hand, pulls something out, and places the pouch on the table next to a square board.

  They’re playing a game, but it’s not noisy enough to be Yahtzee. I step into the room and lean forward to try to read the box on the floor.

  “Well, aloha,” the man says.

  I grab the kitchen counter to keep from falling over. Clearly, this greeting’s meant for me. “Hi.”

  Nana Dottie swivels in her chair. Her eyes travel up slowly from my Converse to my chest. “Ruby? What on earth are you wearing? Are those . . . coconuts?”

  I’m fully clothed underneath my hula-girl outfit, but I suddenly feel naked. “Momma’s throwing a luau in honor of my first day at Sweet Citrus Junior High.”

  “A luau?” Nana Dottie’s face twists. “Where does she think she is? And what kind of way is that to spend your first school night? Surely you have homework.”

  “I don’t, actually.” It’s true. I always had at least a reading assignment after the first day of school at Curly Creek, but Sweet Citrus teachers apparently like to give their students a few days to warm up to the idea of homework. “Would you like to join us? I’m sure there’s enough sand for everyone.”

  “Sand?” Nana Dottie half stands from her chair and tilts toward the window facing the backyard.

  “I’m Oscar,” the man says with a wave. “Nice camera.”

  “Oh.” I’d forgotten I was holding it. “Thanks.”

  The doorbell rings. Nana Dottie’s so distracted by the scene outside, I don’t think she hears it. “Do you want me to—”

  “Got it!” Momma shouts, coming into the house.

  I smile as the back door slams shut and her bare feet slap against the living room floor. Unlike me, she doesn’t care who hears her.

  “Whew! That was a challenge, let me tell you.” Momma’s voice grows louder as she nears the kitchen. “Would you believe they’d never heard of Hawaiian pizza? I had to tell them exactly how to make it, with—”

  She stops in the doorway.

  “Good grief, Francine.” Nana Dottie shakes her head as she gives Momma the same once-over she gave me. “It’s the first day of school, not Halloween. What kind of example are you setting for your daughter?”

  My eyes shift to Momma. She doesn’t embarrass easily, but her face is cherry red as she stares at the top of the pizza box. I frantically try to think of something to say, something that will make both Momma and Nana Dottie feel better. But my brain must still be recharging from the day, because it draws a blank.

  “Ham.”

  Momma looks up. I look at Oscar.

  “And pineapple—in rings, not cubes.” He shrugs. “Everyone who’s anyone knows that’s how you make a Hawaiian pizza.”

  He smiles at Momma, which makes me smile. Nana Dottie’s still shaking her head and now she closes her eyes, like she can’t believe Oscar would stoop so low.

  “Right,” Momma says. The corners of her mouth lift only slightly before dropping again. “Ruby? Shall we?”

  “It was nice to meet you,” I say before hurrying after Momma. When I’m halfway down the hall, I spin around and dash back to the kitchen. I take two quick pictures before Nana Dottie and Oscar even know I’m there, and then spin around again.

  When I reach the patio, Momma’s in the tiki hut, cutting the Hawaiian pizza like it’s made of wood and not dough.

  “Oscar seems nice, doesn’t he?” I hold the pizza box in place as she saws. “And I think he thinks you’re pretty. Did you see the way he smiled at you, like—”

  “Like my outfit’s made of Cracker Jack prizes? Or like I fell off a dusty dashboard?”

  I frown. She sounds annoyed—almost mad. “Momma, I promise I wasn’t making fun before. I think this—all of it—is amazing. It was so nice of you to go to so much trouble, and I really appreciate it.”

  Momma puts down the knife. She takes a deep breath and offers a small smile. “I know you do. Making you happy is my greatest joy, and I didn’t mean to snap. It’s just . . . your grandmother knows how to push buttons I never knew I had.”

  I look around. The sun is setting, and the paper lanterns glow softly in the darkening light. The inflatable palm trees sway in the warm breeze. The hula music still plays. The sand cubes sit in front of the beach chairs, awaiting artful transformation.

  We had a minor setback . . . but the party must go on.

  “I’m hot,” I announce suddenly.

  “You are?” Momma’s eyebrows furrow in concern. “Do you want to cool off in the air-conditioning? Or take a cold shower?”

  “That’s okay. I’ll be fine in a few seconds.” I kick off my Converse and take off my socks, but leave on everything else. “We both will.”

  She looks at me. I look at the pool.

  “Ruby Lee,” Momma says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. “You are your mother’s daughter.”

  “Thank goodness for that.”

  And then we cannonball into the pool, grass skirts, coconut bras, and all.

  7.

  Now that I know how to get to homeroom, I take my time getting there the next day. I sit on a bench until the last group of students reaches the metal detectors. Once they start passing through, I dash across the lawn and sprint up the steps.

  “Morning, Mr. Fox.” I stop outside the door and try to catch my breath.

  “Good morning, Miss Dorothy! I see we survived the first day.”

  “Barely.” I slide my backpack in front of me. I remove my lunch box and camera, which I now carry with me everywhere, and reach them through the doorway. The metal detector beeps four times before Mr. Fox pulls them out of range. I reach my hands back through.

  “If you’re wearing invisible metal rings, the machine’s not picking them up.” Mr. Fox eyes my wiggling fingers.

  “Would you mind if we try that again?” I ask.

  He looks down at the lunch box and camera, and then at me. “What’s wrong with the way we just did it?”

  “It was too slow.”

  “If you’re worried about being late, trying again won’t help.” He starts to open the lunch box—apparently to make sure I’m not using it to conceal other, more dangerous weapons. “You might want to ask your mom to bring you a few minutes earlier tomorrow.”

  I lower my hands to my sides. “Mr. Fox, have you ever been the new kid?”

  He raises his eyes and lifts his chin, like he’s trying to recall that far back.

  “It’s hard,” I say, since I don’t know how far back he’s going or how long it’ll take, and I do have to get to homeroom. “But I think the key is to blend in as soon as possible.”

  “And I don’t suppose the metal detectors are helping that cause.”

  “No, sir. It’s hard to go unnoticed when your lunch makes you look like a criminal every day. The faster I get my stuff through the doors, the fewer times the detectors will beep, and the less attention I’ll get.”

  “Miss Dorothy, I’m happy to help . . . but why don’t you bring your lunch in a paper sack? Or buy it here, the way most kids do?”

  He moves his hands as he talks. The motion makes the Dancing Queen sparkle—and me smile.

  “Because, Mr. Fox . . . I guess I’m just not like most kids.”

  This seems to please him. He winks at me, then thrusts the lunch box and camera th
rough the door like they’re on fire and I have an extinguisher. The metal detector beeps three times. I shove them back, and he grabs them. The metal detector beeps twice. We try it two more times. On the fourth try, the metal detector manages a half beep you wouldn’t hear in a crowd of kids unless you were really listening for it.

  “Perfect.” I grin. “Thank you.”

  I check the sunburst clock hanging on the wall next to the doors as I hurry into the building. I still have two minutes before the last bell, so I swing by the girls’ restroom just off the lobby. I noticed it yesterday and figured it might be quieter than the main one, which coincidentally separates my locker from Ava Grand’s and seems to serve as her personal lounge.

  I’m right—it’s empty. It’s a small room without stalls, so I lock the door before resting my backpack on the floor and facing the mirror.

  “Today will be better,” I quietly tell my reflection, which doesn’t look convinced. “It has to be better.”

  One of Momma’s favorite mottos is “Kill them with kindness.” Which means if someone’s giving you trouble, your best retaliation is to be as sweet as sugar until that someone stops. Momma had muttered this phrase during our drive to school this morning when a red sports car cut her off while getting on the highway and made her drop her iced coffee. The driver zoomed away without looking back, but Momma waved and called “Have a great morning!” through her open window anyway.

  And I’ve decided that’s the perfect way to get through today. No matter what Ava Grand says or does to embarrass me, I’ll thank her and give her a compliment. Guessing that might be challenging in the heat of the moment, I already started a list on the palm of my hand. So far it includes her pretty hair, nice dress, and commanding presence. (I almost wrote “demanding presence” first, since that seemed more accurate, but then thought that might not go over as well.)

  I turn from side to side in front of the mirror. It took twenty minutes to get ready this morning—twice as long as usual—and I’m still not sure I did it right. I passed on the only dress I own, a short denim jumper covered in purple butterflies, because it makes me look younger, not older like Ava’s and her friends’ dresses do for them. My other new clothes included a pair of white jeans and four shirts like the South Beach one but featuring different towns like Miami, Coral Gables, and Key West. The shirts were out, but I thought the jeans could work; I didn’t see one girl in jeans yesterday, but most of the boys wore them, so at least they were acceptable. After careful consideration, I paired an old, but still bright red, tank top with the jeans.