Free Ms. Taken Identity by Dan Begley Page B

straight on.
    “If you’re going to stay with this, you need a pair of these.” She holds up her shoes. “You’ll spin and turn a whole lot better,
     plus no racket.”
    To my eye, they’re black leather sneakers. Mine are off-white. “What’s so different about them?” I’m not in the business of
     spending money just to spend it.
    She tosses me one. “Turn it over.”
    I do. The sole is soft and fuzzy, almost like suede.
    “That’s why we don’t wear them into class. They’d get chewed up on the pavement.”
    Ah, so that little foo-foo habit of changing their shoes that was starting to get on my nerves—
Look, I’m a dancer! I’m changing my shoes!
—actually has a reason.
    “Just make sure you get practice shoes, not performance shoes,” she cautions. “They’ll wear better and last longer. And watch
     out for the heel. You want flat soles.”
    “Get the ones that lace up with both Velcro and shoelaces,” offers Gina, enunciating her
s
sounds with particular precision. “You can control the tightness better. And they’re unisex, so don’t be embarrassed about
     that.”
    “That’s what I have,” Steve says brightly, without a hint of embarrassment.
    “And buy them to fit you right now,” Rosie chips in. “Maybe a half size small. The way you move out there—” and here she tries
     to give a little bump with her hip, even though she’s sitting, so her chair skids a bit, “the leather will always stretch.”
    Graphic designer Vicky with red-framed glasses speaks up: “Showtime is a good brand. So is Supadance.”
    Dave: “Just stay away from Aztec. El cheap-os.”
    I feel like I should write all this down. “Where do I get them?”
    Jennifer: “Adonis’s catalogue.”
    Dave: “EBay.” He looks around to make sure Adonis isn’t listening. “Save yourself a few bucks.”
    I turn to Marie.
    “If it were me,” she says, “I’d probably just go to a store. That way you can try them on, make sure they fit the right way,
     especially for a first pair. There’s a place not too far from here called Dance Loft. Do you know where Fratelli’s Pizza is?”
    “I’m afraid not,” I say.
    “Crafty Corner?” Fran inquires.
    “I’m not so familiar with that either.”
    “What about Chesterfield Mall?” demands an incredulous Rosie.
    Marie picks up on the “man overboard” look that must be plastered to my face. “I’ll tell you what,” she says. “I could meet
     you here on Saturday, we could drive over together. That is, if you think you need the help.”
    “I’d
love
the help.”
    We swap cell phone numbers and it’s settled: I have my first ever shoe-shopping date. At least, Jason does.
    I call the hospital when I get home, since I figure I owe my father at least that much. They tell me he isn’t taking calls,
     but he is resting comfortably in intensive care. Do I want to speak to someone in the family? No thanks. I don’t bother telling
     them I
am
family.
    The writing goes well again that night, and the next morning and afternoon and night, and I’m beginning to think I’ve punched
     a winning ticket with this Cinderella theme. (But of course I have:
Cinderella
is the archetypal chick-lit story—down-and-out girl gets extreme makeover, glitzy gown, fancy shoes, handsome guy. No mention
     of bedding her Prince Charming, but we all know that comes standard with happily ever after.) My method is to create a scene—at
     the coffeehouse, jewelry shop, fitting room—and then ask myself what Rosie or Jennifer or Gina or Marie or any of them would
     do, based on what I’ve gotten to know about them. And it’s not like I’m stealing their lines, since I’ve yet to hear any of
     them say, “I wonder if I should get that Brazilian wax job or just a bikini bottom with more coverage”; it’s just that getting
     to know them has allowed me to crawl into their heads and move around and see the world through their eyes, and the view isn’t
     entirely repulsive. In