“It’s kelly green.”
“Kelly green. It has a platform and a four-inch heel.”
“Three inches. The platform makes them seem higher.”
“Three inches.” She twirls again. “I love them. But I guess I should take them off.”
“I guess.” But I like looking at them, so I say, “Are they comfortable?”
She uses her announcer voice again. “Like walking on the beach.” She kicks her feet onto my lap. The fluorescent lights glint off the green leather, and it’s magic, just like Victoriana said. “Are there others?”
I reach into the box and hand her the folder at the bottom, the one with all my designs. “Just here.”
She flips through, admiring. “Oh, you have to make this one.”
“That’s the problem. I can’t afford the materials right now. But I have a plan.” I point to the sign that says, ITEMS LEFT MORE THAN 14 DAYS WILL BE DONATED TO CHARITY. “I figured I could put them on eBay, make some money, and still donate part of it to Goodwill. I ended up making a pretty good profit. But sometimes, people leave just a single shoe. I couldn’t sell those or donate them, so they ended up trashed. But then, I got the idea of using them for parts. Open that drawer.” She does and takes out a bag of scrap leather pieces, all different colors. “You know those really expensive handbags that are made from bits and pieces of other expensive handbags? I’m going to do that with shoes.”
Meg claps her hands. “That’s genius. I always knew you were a genius.”
“I have almost enough for another pair.”
“When do you find time for this?” She touches my arm. Her hand is icy cold, and I shiver under it. She sees me flinch and removes it. “I thought you were just staring into space, drooling.”
“Hey, I’m a surprising guy.”
“Excuse me. Who do you have to kill to get some service around here?”
My first customer of the day is a businessman in an Italian suit. A rude one. He’s drumming one set of fingers on the counter. With the other, he holds a Cole Haan black blucher oxford. Retail: About two hundred dollars, low-end around here. He wiggles the loose heel. “If it’s not too much trouble, maybe you could fix this. I need it right away.”
I reach past Meg for it. “Of course, sir, but I have other jobs ahead of you. I’ll have to charge you for a rush job.” I’m lying.
“Yes. Anything. I have a life-changing meeting in an hour.”
Life-changing. I wish something life changing would happen to me.
I examine the shoe. The heel’s worn down an inch, and it doesn’t look like the original either. This guy bought a pair of expensive shoes years ago and has been using them to try to impress clients ever since. I’m guessing if I examined his suit, it would be going threadbare too. I think about giving him a break on the repair. But then, I remember the bills stacking up, Mom crying over them yesterday. Besides, he was a jerk. “Sixty dollars,” I say.
“Sixty? In St. Louis, I paid—”
“This is South Beach not St. Louis, and you need it in a hurry.” But I relent. “Okay, fifty. I’ll have it done in twenty minutes.”
Fifteen minutes later, I send him on his way. “Good luck!”
As soon as he leaves, Meg’s signaling to me to come over. Between customers, she says, “I had an idea. If you could get Princess Victoriana to wear a pair of your shoes in public, everyone would want them. You could charge a thousand dollars a pair!”
“Yeah, and if a frog had wings . . .”
But then, I think it’s an inspired idea. I’ve been around enough rich people to know that what they really want is to look like richer people.
“‘My shoes are special shoes for discerning feet,’” I quote Manolo Blahnik, the shoe designer. “Maybe you’re right. Who better to wear them than a princess?”
“Who better,” Meg agrees.
“But one problem. How do we get her to wear them?”
“Give her a pair. You said she seemed nice. Maybe when she sees how amazing they are, she’ll wear them. And then, if she gets photographed falling drunk out of a limo, it will be in your shoes. You’ve got to talk to her again.”
Suddenly, I hear a commotion coming from the lobby, a commotion that could only mean another Victoriana sighting. I run to check it out.
Not her. Only her dog. Her dog, three bodyguards, two hotel employees, six swans-a-swimming, and a partridge in a pear tree.
“No luck?” Meg says when I return.
“No luck,” I say, “but I’ll keep trying.”
Chapter 4
All I can think about the rest of the day is Meg’s idea of getting Victoriana to wear my shoes. I’m excited for the first time in, maybe ever. It’s a busy day, not much time to sit and dream, but that’s a good thing too. As I pull off each heel tip, sew each rip, I scheme about how to make it happen. At six, I decide to close for an hour, for dinner. Mom should be home, and I want to tell her about it. Meg’s already left, but her brother Sean says he’ll let customers drop off their repairs at the coffee shop. If we even have any.
It’s raining when I leave. Even so, I bike home feeling totally pumped.
As soon as I reach the apartment, I know something’s wrong. The lights aren’t on, and neither is the air-conditioning. My mother sits on the sofa, fanning herself.
I say, “Hey, you’ll never guess who I saw today.”
“Oh, Johnny.” My mother has on a T-shirt that says, “Love that dog!” It’s from her second job, a hot-dog place. She walks over to the window. “Sorry it’s so hot. They—”
“Turned off the power. Got it.” When she nods, I say, “How much do we owe?”
“Five hundred. It was either that or rent. I got some ice from Mrs. Castano. That should keep the food cold until payday if we don’t open the refrigerator too much.”
I mentally add up today’s repairs. Not even close. Now, I’m sorry I gave that St. Louis guy a ten-dollar break.
But Mom smiles, like she’s used to it. She is used to it. It happened last summer too.
Me, I don’t ever want to get used to it. When I was little, we made it a game, like camping. But now, I know it’s not a game. I wonder how long it will be until we can’t pay any bills and lose the business too.
“So tell me,” Mom says. “Did you see the princess?”
“Yeah.” I try to smile, but suddenly, it doesn’t seem that cool. I mean, what’s a princess anyway? Just someone who won the birth lottery and gets to do nothing and have everything while the rest of us poor slobs sweat. Literally. It’s so hot I’m actually shivering from it.
But Mom wants to hear about it. “How did you see her? Was she beautiful? Was she drunk? Did she have a million servants?”
“Yeah, we—Ryan and I—saw her check in. I thought Farnesworth was going to swallow his tongue. And she had a dog, a bloodhound.”
Mom laughs. “Your father always used to want a bloodhound.” She glances at the bookshelf, at the eight-by-ten wedding photo she keeps there. I glance too. She’s gotten out some candles, the white ones in a jar that they sell at the supermarket during hurricane season. We keep them around for when the power gets shut off. She’s arranged them around my father’s picture, so it looks like a sort of shrine.