Kissing Snowflakes
Page 17
“I can totally stop by Barton’s now,” Maxine exclaimed, suddenly grateful that her schedule was so empty. “Want to walk back with me?” she added casually, as if the thought of an afternoon stroll with Heath wasn’t making her belly flip over.
“I’d love to, Maxine,” Heath replied, knitting his brows together. “Only I still need to run a couple of errands for my dad. But hey —” He took another step closer, rested a hand on the sleeve of her corduroy jacket, and gave her arm a small squeeze. “Do good, okay? If you get the position, maybe I’ll see you at the store tomorrow?”
Forget maybe. Maxine Silver was going for the gold.
She could still feel the warmth of Heath’s hand on her arm seconds later, as she flew down Central Park South, passing the glitzy entrances to The Essex House and The Plaza, unable to stop grinning. A shopgirl at Barton’s! Visions of free Lola lip glosses, marked-down Rock & Republic jeans, and, most tantalizing of all, daily doses of Heath Barton, danced in her head. Maybe while she was folding sweaters tomorrow morning, Heath would swing by and suggest they mix business and pleasure together. Maxine giggled out loud at the thought, prompting a curious glance from an all-blond family waiting in line for a horse-and-carriage ride. Normally Maxine would have ignored them, but she was so suffused with goodwill that she waved a mittened hand at the pigtailed little girl.
Her scarf streaming behind her like a victory flag, Maxine rounded onto Fifth Avenue, where a giant, sparkling white snowflake hung suspended overhead. Panting and a little sweaty from her impromptu workout, Maxine paused and stared up at the snowflake as if it were her personal good-luck pendant. Please, please let me get the job, she prayed silently. Then, tossing her head back, Maxine whirled around and pulled open the heavy double doors of Barton’s.
I would also like to say thank you to Aimee, Abby, and Molly for their great insight and inspiration. To Sam A., Sam B., Sara, Gabra, Jo, Megan, Susan Shapiro, Paula Derrow, the Tigers, and Simonie Alice. And to my loving family, especially Mr. Bird.
ABBY SHER
is a writer and performer living in Brooklyn. She has written for The New York Times, The Los Angeles Times, Self, Jane, Redbook, Heeb, and Lost Magazine. Before moving to New York, she wrote and performed for The Second City and NPR in Chicago. Before that, she wrote a play that was too long, a report about Stalin, a lot of notes in class, and some letters to her dog.
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Copyright © 2007 by Abby Sher
All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Inc.
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First printing, November 2007
Cover photo © Anne-Marie Weber/Taxi/Getty Images
Cover design: Steve Scott
e-ISBN 978-0-545-53008-8
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