Free The File on Angelyn Stark by Catherine Atkins Page A

take them off. “Can I look around?”
    Her mouth turns down. “I don’t know what you think you want.”
    I’m backstepping. “Five minutes.
Less
than five.”
    Mom just looks at me. But she doesn’t say no.
    Families from toddlers to grandmas are picking through shoes, hopping in, testing walks. I weave through, scanning displays.
    Then I see them.
The shoes
. Stiletto-heeled Mary Janes, ribbon straps,
red
, standing out like jewels in a sea of black and brown.
    I find my size. Cradling the box, I take it to Mom.
    “You’re kidding,” she says when I lift the shoes out.
    They fit like custom-made. Feel great walking. In the step-stool mirror I check front, side, and back. My legs are long, strong, endless.
    I can’t stop smiling. “These are the ones I want.”
    “What would you use them for, Angelyn?”
    “Dances? You said it was a treat.”
    “You want to look pretty for
all the boys
,” Mom says. “Right?”
    My stomach dips. “No. Not really. I mean, I like the shoes for me.”
    “Why?”
    I stick a foot out, looking. “It’s not complicated. They’re pretty.
They
are.”
    Mom checks the box. “Ninety dollars.”
    “Ninety.” I sit on the bench. “I didn’t see that.”
    “Ninety dollars.” Her voice is hard.
    I pull the shoes off. “Okay, Mom.”
    Taking one, she fingers a ribbon. “I used to want things like this. I never got them.”
    “You didn’t?” I say, watching her.
    “We were too poor.” Mom is somewhere else. “I’ve brought you a long way, Angelyn.”
    I shrug. And sneak a look at the shoes before they go back in the box.
    “Why
do
you want them?” Mom’s voice is intense.
    Surprised, I raise my eyes. “They make me happy.” My face flushes, but it’s true.
    She boxes the shoes and walks them past me.
    We stand at the end of a very long line. Mom’s back is to me, her arm curved around the box.
    “Thanks?” I say.
    I see the price on the box end—$90.
    “Really, Mom. I can’t believe it. I mean it—thanks.”
    “All right,” she says.
    We shuffle forward with the line.
    “You can borrow them sometimes,” I say.
    Mom turns. “What?”
    I smile a little. “We are the same size.”
    She looks me up and down. “I wouldn’t wear these outside the bedroom.”
    My smile sticks. “Mom—that’s disgusting.”
    “Yes, it is.”
    She’s mad. The woman in front of her is turned and staring.
    I reach for the box. “I’ll take the running shoes instead.”
    Mom swings away. “No, ma’am. You made your choice.”
    In a diner across the parking lot, Mom tells me her news. Her eyes shine. It’s like the store never happened.
    “It’s a great opportunity,” she says. “They
asked
me to apply.”
    I sip my Diet Coke, the bulky shoe box pressed to my thigh.
    Mom pulls back. “You can’t say you didn’t hear me this time.”
    “I’m just not that excited about you becoming a bus driver.”
    “Angelyn, it’s twice the money. Overtime hours. Better insurance.”
    “That’s why the shoes,” I say.
    Mom’s face falls, like a little kid’s. Then it gets mean. “Most girls would be happy to shop with their mothers. Most girls would be glad for a new pair of shoes.”
    The waitress steps up with our food. Burgers and fries. We eat in quiet.
    “This is going to change our lives,” Mom says, wiping her lips. “You don’t see that now, Angelyn, but you will.”
    I’m thinking. “You’ll be out of the house more. Right? With overtime and things.”
    She looks at me quickly. “Yes. Why? You’ve got something planned?”
    “No. I don’t. Is Danny all jazzed about this?”
    Mom doesn’t answer right off. “Sure he is.
He’s
excited for me.”
    “How is that going to be—” I lose my nerve.
    “How is
what
going to be?”
    “Nothing,” I say. “Wow, more money coming in. Danny won’t even have to
pretend
to work.”
    “You’re missing the point,” Mom says. “And I don’t like your tone.”
    The hostess leads a group to the booth