Free Best Foot Forward by Joan Bauer

of just about everything.”
    â€œWe had to move fast from our other place ’cause my father’s business associates kept coming by, hassling us.”
    What kind of business were they in?
    â€œMy old man’s in the joint.” He squared his shoulders when he said it.
    â€œI heard. I’m sorry. Do you mind me asking what he’s in for?”
    â€œAssault and battery, robbery, resisting arrest, assaulting an officer, possession of narcotics, unlawful possession of a firearm ...”
    I think he could have kept going. “Will he be getting out anytime . . . soon?”
    â€œYou mean, is he gonna come visit me at the store?”
    I straightened the cowboy boots on the display. “I was just . . . curious . . .”
    â€œWhen he gets out, I’ll probably be thirty. If he behaves himself, which he never does.” Tanner stood there staring at the Lone Star, the unifying symbol of Gladstone Shoes and all of Texas.
    â€œMy dad was in jail, but only for a couple of days.” I gulped, not sure why I said this.
    â€œWhat for?”
    â€œDrunk driving.”
    Tanner snorted.
    â€œIt seemed like a pretty big thing to me.”
    He laughed. “I’m here to remind you there’s always somebody worse off.”
    â€œYou win,” I said. “So, what’s it like for you with your dad? Do you see him?”
    He picked up the photo of Harry Bender. “Nah, I don’t see him.”
    He stood there studying Harry’s face. “You want to know what my old man’s like? The bank’s got a video of him taking money and beating up a guard, and he claims he’s innocent. He’s been in and out of drug clinics for years and he says he’s not hooked.”
    â€œMy dad has trouble with truth, too.”
    â€œI tell Webster, when you aim at zero, you always hit the mark.” He put the picture back. “I’m learning about aiming better.” He laughed. “Mrs. G’s a good shot.”
    â€œYou mean metaphorically?”
    â€œYeah. Whatever.”
    That’s when Charlie Duran pushed through the door.
    What was he doing here?
    He looked right at me. “Is it crimson red or burgundy?”
    â€œ What are you talking about?”
    He shouldered his book bag. “What color is your car? I got a paint card from the dealer. I’m not sure which red you’ve got.” He held out the card with five squares of different reds. “I’m trying to get the right paint to match your car so I can fix the scratch.”
    It took a minute for that to sink in.
    â€œI wasn’t looking, either,” he said.
    I stood there.
    Tanner looked at me. “Uh . . . I don’t have my car here today.”
    â€œBring it tomorrow and I’ll see if I can match the paint.”
    â€œI guess.”
    â€œOkay, I’ll see you.” Charlie Duran looked around. “Nice store,” he said, and headed out. He had broad shoulders—broader than mine, even.
    â€œWho was that?” Tanner asked.
    I cleared my throat. “A doughnut guy.”
    Tanner nodded like that made perfect sense.
    I went back to what I was doing, but I couldn’t remember what that was.
    Â 
    There’s not that much difference between crimson red and burgundy. Charlie Duran asked five complete strangers in the parking lot which color they thought was the best match. Crimson won, three to two.
    â€œI thought that was it.” He took a little bottle of crimson paint and painted over the scratch on my door. “Good as new,” he said.
    â€œThanks.” I wasn’t used to looking up at guys when I talked to them.
    I asked him about school—he was just starting at Palmer Junior College, taking night classes in business so he could work days.
    We talked about the rigors of retail—he’d been working in stores since he was a little kid. When he lived in Indiana, his other grandfather owned a White