Ruby's Slippers

by Tricia Rayburn

  “That’s very nice, but it won’t solve this problem, will it?”

  In trying to avoid the ballerina and the wall of mirrors, I spot a white grandfather clock in the corner of the room. I’m already ten minutes late to math. If we don’t hurry this up, I’ll miss class, do poorly on my homework, fail the upcoming test, and potentially flunk school. That has to be a bigger consequence than failing Citrus Star.

  “What if—”

  “Constellation.”

  I stand on tiptoe to see over the top of her computer screen. “Excuse me?”

  “You’ll join the group Constellation. They’re excellent, so if you truly have no talent, theirs will make up for it.” Her dainty fingers flutter across the keyboard. When she stops typing, the printer next to her computer shoots out a piece of paper. “You’re welcome.”

  “Thank you,” I say, even though I’m not sure I’m grateful. I don’t have to worry about finding an already formed group to join or, worse, performing solo, but it’s obvious Miss Anita helped me only because she found me helpless. Momma always says I can do anything I put my mind to, so this quick dismissal is a first.

  The office door opens. I recognize the short man who bursts into the room from Miss Anita’s homeroom visit. He’s carrying two plastic cups and talking around the paper sack clenched between his teeth. Noticing me, he unclenches his teeth and catches the bag on his forearms.

  “The good news is the tuna roll couldn’t be fresher if I plucked the fish from the sea myself,” he says. “The bad news is they were out of wasabi. But I got you extra soy sauce and had a lengthy conversation with the chef to let him know that this was completely unacceptable. He gave his word that it will never happen again.” He pauses. “I didn’t realize we were having lunch guests.”

  “Ruby was just leaving.”

  They move to the couch and start eating like I’m already gone, so I let myself out. I feel the ballerina’s iris eyes on me even after I’m back in the hallway with the door closed. I’m so busy trying to shake the sensation, I don’t look at the paper Miss Anita handed me until I’m sitting at my desk in math class.

  Thank goodness for small favors. Because if I hadn’t already been sitting down I would’ve fallen over.

  According to the printout, there are four members in Constellation besides me.

  Hilary Smith. Megan Hanley. Stephanie Zilco.

  And Ava Grand.

  10.

  “Don’t do it, Dorothy. Stay home. Just stay home, where everyone loves you and nothing will hurt you.”

  She doesn’t listen. I shake my head and shove another handful of popcorn in my mouth. What’s so great over the rainbow? What’s so wrong under the rainbow? I think if you can see it, stand below it, and appreciate its pretty colors from afar, that should be enough. Unfortunately, Dorothy is going to learn this the hard way.

  I pause the movie, then pick up the phone and dial Gabby’s number. It’s still busy. It’s been busy for twenty minutes, and I try not to think about what this must mean: Gabby has a new best friend. One she talks to for hours every night even though they spent all day together at school, just like we used to. I’ve been gone less than a month, and I’ve already been replaced.

  I un-pause the movie and watch Dorothy visit the fortune-teller. He guesses that she’s running away because she feels unappreciated, but he convinces her to return home.

  “Listen to him, Dorothy,” I urge, cramming another handful of popcorn in my mouth.

  She does, but the universe decides to teach her a lesson anyway. As the tornado nears, their farmhouse shakes. Miss Almira Gulch, the Wicked Witch of Kansas who threatens to get Dorothy and her little dog, too, flies past a window on her bike.

  Miss Almira makes me think of Miss Anita. Miss Anita makes me think of Citrus Star. Citrus Star makes me think of Constellation. Constellation makes me think of Ava Grand. And all that thinking makes me pick up the phone and dial Gabby’s number again.

  “Hello?”

  I haven’t even punched in the last number when I hear a voice. Maybe Nana Dottie’s phone is so high tech it remembers your calling patterns and does the work for you. “Mrs. Kibben?” I say, bringing the receiver to my ear. “Hi! It’s Ruby.”

  “Ruby, I’m on the phone.”

  I pause. That’s pretty obvious.

  “I’ll be off in a bit. Would you mind calling your friend later?”

  My friend?

  “Oh, and your mother asked me to tell you that she’s bringing home Chinese food for dinner. Though how they can call that fried nonsense ‘food’ is beyond me.”

  Ah. It’s not Mrs. Kibben after all. The phone must’ve already been in use when I picked it up. “Sorry, Nana Dottie,” I say, and hang up.

  I eat popcorn and watch Dorothy meet the Munchkins. After fifteen minutes, I pause the movie and try the phone again. This time I listen first instead of automatically pushing buttons. When I hear Nana Dottie telling someone about a recent tennis match, I gently hang up.

  I do this three more times over the course of an hour. By the third try, Dorothy has already picked up the Scarecrow, the Tin Man, and the Cowardly Lion, and is well on her way to Oz. I begin to worry that I won’t get to talk to Gabby at all tonight, since it’s Thursday and she’ll be leaving for Curly Creek Cosmic Bowling Night soon. And if I don’t talk to her tonight, I probably won’t talk to her again until Monday, since Friday through Sunday nights are always jam-packed with drive-in movies, board-game parties, and sleepovers.

  Suddenly, I feel quite jealous of Dorothy. She may be far from home and have no idea where she’s going, but at least her friends are with her as she tries to find her way.

  “I’m off the phone, Ruby.”

  I look up. Nana Dottie’s standing in the family room doorway. She starts to smile but stops after scanning the room.

  “What on earth happened in here?”

  I sit up on the couch, sending granola bar wrappers fluttering to the floor. At first I don’t know what she’s talking about, but then I realize she probably hasn’t been in this room in a while, since she never watches TV.

  “Momma’s using this as a temporary work space,” I say.

  “‘Work space’ implies that work is being done. All I see here are mountains of yarn, knitting needles tossed about like confetti, and garbage.”

  I look around. Nana Dottie’s eyes don’t lie. “She says if a room’s too neat, her creativity can’t breathe,” I explain.

  Nana Dottie picks up an open bag of potato chips from the coffee table. She holds one corner of the bag between her thumb and forefinger, lowers her head, and sniffs. “Forget creativity.” She reels back and drops the bag on the table. “What about you? How can you breathe when this place smells like McDonald’s?”

  Mmm. McDonald’s. Maybe Momma will change her mind and get Happy Meals instead of egg rolls for dinner.

  I shrug. “I’m fine.”

  Apparently, something in my voice makes Nana Dottie think otherwise. She seems to forget the mess as she steps into the room. She glances at the TV, on which Dorothy and her friends are waking up in the beautiful poppy field, and then pushes aside a pile of orange yarn on the couch before sitting down.

  I think she’s going to say something—most likely something disapproving about Momma—but she doesn’t. She simply sits back and watches the movie.

  “I love this part,” she says when Dorothy and her friends are whisked away for makeovers after reaching the Emerald City.

  “You’ve seen The Wizard of Oz?”

  She looks at me, surprised that I’m surprised. “Well, of course I have. Who hasn’t? It’s only the greatest movie of all time.”

  She looks at the TV again, and I smile. I think The Wizard of Oz is the greatest movie of all time, but until she said so, I never would’ve thought Nana Dottie liked it too. Her DVD collection consists of documentaries about classical composers and classical music concerts. The Wizard of Oz seems too . . . silly . . . for someone
so reserved and refined.

  “That reminds me,” she says after the Tin Man emerges from his buff-and-polish looking shiny and new, “we should probably get you a cell phone.”

  She says this so casually I almost nod before fully processing the suggestion.

  “We’ll get you something simple and just add you to my plan.”

  She’s still looking at the TV, like the idea of buying me a cell phone is no big deal. Even though it’s a huge deal—especially since Momma hates cell phones. She thinks they’re enormous wastes of time and money and believes they drive people apart instead of bringing them together. I know this. Nana Dottie knows this. So why’s she suggesting I get one when Momma’s not even here to discuss it?

  “It’s very nice of you to offer,” I say just as casually, “but I don’t know if I really need a cell phone.”

  “Don’t you talk to your best friend every night?”

  “Yes, ma’am, but—”

  “And didn’t we just have a situation wherein we both wanted to use the phone at the same time?”

  “Yes, ma’am, but—”

  “So we’ll get you your own. It’ll be convenient and economically efficient. My plan includes free long distance and unlimited nights and weekends. And I already have a ton of rollover minutes I’ll have moved to your account.”

  I don’t understand half of what she’s saying but know I have to change her mind before it becomes permanently decided. “But most kids my age don’t have cell phones.”

  Nana Dottie looks at me and lifts one eyebrow. “That might be true in Curly Creek. But you’re in Coconut Grove now.”

  She’s right. At Sweet Citrus, as soon as the bell rings after eighth period, kids whip out their cell phones to call their parents, nannies, babysitters, or personal assistants and remind them where they need to go at what time and when they need to be picked up. They’re so fast, so businesslike, I’ve wondered if the only reason kids in Curly Creek don’t have cell phones is because they’re just not in that big of a rush to get anywhere. And since I don’t ever have anywhere to be, let alone anywhere I have to be quickly, it seems pretty unnecessary.

  Although, I have to admit . . . it would be nice to call Gabby whenever I want without worrying about tying up Nana Dottie’s line.

  “Would you look at that?” Nana Dottie smiles at the TV when Dorothy reunites with her friends after their makeovers. “She’s as pretty as a picture.”

  Pretty as a picture. I look at Dorothy but see the ballerina with the iris eyes. My mind replays snippets of my conversation with Miss Anita. A cell phone might be fun, but considering Miss Anita’s not-so-friendly sort-of advice, another technological advancement is essential.

  “Nana Dottie,” I say timidly, “what do you know about the Internet?”

  “Enough to teach a class of thirty retirees at the Coconut Grove Public Library. By the time I’m done with them, they’re surfing like pros.”

  “Do you know how to hook it up on a new computer?”

  She looks at me, eyes wide. “You’re not . . . ? Your mother didn’t . . . ?”

  I shake my head, unable to admit our technological failings out loud. It’s embarrassing, and I also don’t want Momma to think I ratted her out by answering Nana Dottie’s second incomplete question.

  “Where’s your laptop?”

  “In the living room.”

  The words are barely out of my mouth when she jumps up. I quickly gather the empty granola bar wrappers, stuff them in the popcorn bowl, and stop the movie. When I reach the living room, Nana Dottie already has the laptop open and is typing away.

  “I’m really sorry,” I say, standing behind the desk chair and peering over her shoulder. “I know I should know how to do this, but we just didn’t use the computer much back home. I mean, back in Curly Creek.” I hope she doesn’t see my reflection wince in the computer screen.

  “Ruby.” She swivels in the chair to face me. I expect her to look angry, or at the very least, annoyed. But she doesn’t. If anything, she looks sad. “You never have to apologize for not knowing what you haven’t been taught.”

  I look down at my red Converse. I’m pretty sure she’s not just referring to the Internet, and wish I had at least some idea of what else I don’t know.

  “Now, why don’t you go get a piece of paper and a pencil? I’ll give you a lesson, and then you’ll always be able to get online, no matter where you are.” She turns back to the computer as I hurry toward my backpack. “And I love questions, so make sure you ask a lot!”

  After our thirty-minute lesson, it’s clear that Coconut Grove’s technologically challenged retirees are in extremely good hands. Nana Dottie teaches me everything there is to know about the Internet and then some. I learn which cord to plug in where, what a network is and how to configure one, why I need a firewall to block harmful viruses, and how to search for healthy vegetarian recipes. I’m nervous at first, but Nana Dottie’s very patient. And she wasn’t lying when she said she loves questions. Each time I ask one, she listens thoughtfully and answers in such a way that I never feel silly. If I don’t get it right away, she tries explaining it differently until I do.

  “How did you learn all this?” I ask in awe when we’re done.

  Smiling, she removes a small square cloth from the desk and wipes the spotless laptop screen. “Papa Harry loved computers like I love crosswords. To him, they were great, challenging puzzles. He taught me the basics of e-mail and search engines, and then when he got sick and couldn’t tinker like he used to, I picked up a lot by reading him computer books and magazines.”

  I pause. This is the first time Nana Dottie’s mentioned Papa Harry since the day I asked about the yellow convertible in the garage. This is also the first time since we’ve been here that she’s referred to what happened to him. And since what happened to him and how that affected her were the reasons we moved here, I don’t know how to respond.

  Do I say I’m sorry? Ask how she’s feeling? Ask if she misses him, or if there’s anything I can do? The moment suddenly feels too big, too important for me to handle on my own, and I find myself listening for Momma’s car growling in the driveway.

  “Ready for more?” she asks after several seconds.

  “More?”

  “Don’t you need to know how to access your school e-mail?”

  “Oh. Yes, I definitely do.”

  I’m relieved and disappointed that Nana Dottie doesn’t offer more about Papa Harry and wonder if I should ask about him anyway, just to let her know I care. Before I can decide, she turns back to the computer and starts typing. Knowing the conversation is done for now, I find the e-mail instructions in the Sweet Citrus information packet on the desk.

  “I’ll bookmark the link so all you have to do is click on it and then enter your username and password.” Nana Dottie barely glances at the instructions I’ve spent hours trying to decipher. “And here you go.”

  I watch the screen fill with unread e-mails. When my in-box hits fifty, I’m sure each new note will be the last, but then another pops up. And another, and another. “Those are all for me?” I ask, thinking there must be a mistake. The most e-mails I ever had in my Curly Creek library account was ten, and that was only when Gabby sent me jokes from a funny new website she discovered.

  “Don’t worry, they look fairly standard. Lunch menus, fund-raiser announcements, sports schedules . . . and about a hundred regarding Citrus Star.”

  “A hundred?” My stomach flip-flops as I lean forward for a better look.

  “Maybe more.” Nana Dottie scrolls down so I can see what she means. “Have you decided which talent to astound the audience with yet?”

  I look at her. “You know about Citrus Star?”

  “Of course. It’s quite an affair. Papa Harry and I went every year.”

  “Really? Papa Harry’s grandchildren went to Sweet Citrus?”

  “He didn’t have grandchildren—besides you, of course. The show’s open to the community,
so we always went with some of our friends. It’s so popular they hold it at the Coconut Grove Theater downtown instead of in the junior high auditorium. And even in that large space it’s standing room only.”

  My head spins with this new information. “How many people does the Coconut Grove Theater hold?”

  “There are six hundred seats, and another fifty people can stand in the back. There’s also an overflow room that shows the performances on an enormous television. That room holds a hundred people. And they usually set up an outdoor viewing area around a drive-in movie screen for especially large productions—like Citrus Star.”

  My legs wobble beneath me. I grab the desk for support. “How many people can fit in the outdoor viewing area?”

  Nana Dottie tilts her head as she thinks about this. “Two hundred? Two-fifty?” She shrugs. “It’s always hard to tell with all those reporters and news crews milling about.”

  Thankfully, the phone rings then and she gets up to answer it. I drop into the desk chair and stare at the computer screen without seeing it. I’m pretty good at math, so it doesn’t take long to add up the numbers.

  A thousand people. Plus reporters and news crews whose coverage could reach thousands more. Which means not only am I weeks away from looking like an idiot in front of my classmates and their families, I’m weeks away from looking like an idiot in front of the entire state of Florida.

  If only Coconut Grove had a magical field of poppies, I’d lie down for a nice long nap and not wake up until Citrus Star’s curtain call.

  11.

  The auditorium at Sweet Citrus Junior High is ten times bigger than the one at Curly Creek Junior High. It’s ten times fancier too. Each blue velvet seat is so wide it could comfortably fit two people instead of one. The dark wood floor is so shiny you can look at your feet and check your hair at the same time. The ivory walls are framed by an intricate floral trim made of dark wood that matches the floor. Drapes of blue satin hang from the ceiling like the full sails of a dozen boats. And its most striking feature is the beautiful blue velvet curtain that spans the full length of the stage.