Cinderella Smith

Cinderella Smith

by

Stephanie Barden

Illustrations by

Diane Goode

To
Craig Virden, for fishing me out of the slush
Emma, Jack, Abby, Hannah, Isaac, and Will for inspiration
And Tom and Joe, for everything
—S.B.

For Peter
—D.G.

Chapter 1
A White Sneaker with Green Stripes

T
here was a very crazy knocking noise going on at my front door that I was pretending not to hear. Instead of going
knock-knock-knock
like most knocks, it went
knock-bounce-knock-bounce-knock
. And I wasn't even one bit wondering what was making that crazy noise because I already knew.

“Cinderella, can you answer the door, please?” my mom called.

I thought a little bit about that question. I
could
answer the door; I just didn't want to.

The bounce-knock-bouncer kept knocking.

“Cinderella!” my mom called. “Did you hear me?”

“I'm a little busy with something!” I called back, and that was true. I was lying on my bed looking through a coupon book full of back-to-school supplies and pretending I could get anything I wanted. Even the Puppy Power Messenger Bag. Even the Rock Star 40-Piece Value Pack.

“I'm busier finishing this page!” my mom yelled. And she wasn't talking about the page of a very, extremely exciting book. She was talking about a web page, because that's what she does for work. “Answer the door!” She said it very loud and stern, like she meant business. And in case you were wondering if she was a mean and bossy stepmom and that's how I got my name, the answer is no. She's just a regular kind of mom who is usually nice but kind of strict.

I rolled over to the edge of my bed and raced to the front door. So now you know that I didn't get my name from sleeping by an ashy fireplace in the kitchen like that other Cinderella.

“Finally!” said the bounce-knocker when I opened the door. “Think fast!” A white sneaker with green stripes flew toward me.

“Good catch, Tinder,” said the bounce-knocker. The bounce-knocker, by the way, lives next door and is named Charlie Prince. He was making that crazy noise by dribbling his basketball and knocking on the door at the same time.

When we were very little, we called each other Tinder and Tarles because we couldn't say each other's name just right. As soon as I could, I started calling him Charlie; but he kept calling me Tinder because he knows it embarrasses me, and this is why. Back when I was calling him Tarles, I had, for some dumb reason, a crush on him. In this instance I am allowed to use the word
dumb
because it's about me and because it really was dumb. I used to walk over to his house every morning and ask him if he thought I looked pretty. If he said yes, I went back home and had breakfast. If he said no, I went home, changed my clothes, and tried again. And that is embarrassing stuff with a capital
E
.

“You don't need to put your name and address on shoes anymore,” said Charlie. “No other kid loses just one shoe.”

“You don't need to bring a basketball with you everywhere you go either,” I said. I was a little bit proud of myself for coming up with that. Usually I never think of anything to say when he's pestering me.

Charlie shrugged his shoulders and kept dribbling. “Did you get your back-to-school letter?”

“Yep,” I said.

“Who'd you get for a teacher?” he asked.

“Someone new named Mr. Harrison.” I didn't want Charlie to know, but I was a little bit worried about getting a man for a
teacher. I'd never had one before, and I didn't know what to expect.

“Oh no!” Charlie turned and jogged toward his driveway. “I got him too!”

“‘Oh no' is right!” I said. Charlie and I haven't had the same teacher since Mrs. Adams in first grade.

All of a sudden I remembered my manners. “Thank you for my shoe!”

“No problem, Tinder!” he yelled back.

Then I was mad I'd remembered my manners after all.

“Who was at the door?” My mom looked down at the shoe in my hand and her eyebrow went up, which is not a good thing.

“Look at the bright side, Mom,” I said. “I might have lost a shoe, but I got it back! And I'm almost one hundred percent sure this is the only one I lost all summer, except for the flip-flop at the beach. Dad said that one didn't count, though, remember? It was the lollapalooza wave's fault.”

My mom's eyebrow stayed up, but Tess ran into the living room naked.

“Woilà!” she yelled. That's French for “ta-da!” and something I taught her. And, by the way, Tess is a nice little sister and not a mean step one, so that's not how I got my name either.

“Would you mind getting her ready so we can get your school things and tap shoes?” asked my mom. “If we have time we'll stop by the library too, so make sure we have all the books.”

Keeping track of the library books is one of my chores, but I don't have a billion like the other Cinderella.

I helped Tess get dressed and then we searched for Mrs. C, a stuffed crocodile that has to go everywhere with her. Even though she's almost the most important toy in the world, she still gets lost a whole lot, and that causes a whole lot of problems. One time Mrs. C went missing for an entire day. When we finally found her, I super quick wrote on her tag
Property of Teresa Louise Smith
before she could get lost again.

While I was writing, I had a big
AHA!
which means a very, extremely good idea. I thought of something else that got lost a whole lot, and it wasn't car keys or the cordless phone. I ran to my closet, pulled out all of my shoes, and wrote on their bottoms:

Some of the shoes were easy to write on, like my ballet slippers and new back-to-school silver sandals from Grandmother Smith, because they had smooth, flat bottoms. Some of the shoes were harder, like my rain boots and gym shoes. They had wavy and zigzagging bottoms, and I had to make the letters extra big and puffy. My old tap shoes—which I just grew out of, by the way—had black bottoms. I had to use nail polish on them because pens didn't work.

When my mom saw what I was doing, her eyebrow went way up high; and that is mostly a very bad sign, like I mentioned earlier. But then her eyebrow went back down. She said she guessed it was okay and maybe even a good idea, after all. And ever since then I've been naming and addressing my shoes as soon as I get them to keep them safe.

So by now you've probably figured out how I got my name, which is just a nickname, for the record. My real name is Josephine-Kathryn with that little line thing in between. Everyone calls me Cinderella, though, on account of my trouble with losing shoes.
Alas.
Alas
is something I say when I'm a little bit frustrated and a little bit sad. Since I like the sound of that word, especially if I say it all dramatic and sigh-y, it makes me feel a little bit better. And when you have shoe trouble as bad as I do, you end up saying
Alas
a lot.
Alas.