The Miles Between (11 page)

“That's just what I thought! And my poodle skirt too.”

“Right. That too.”

“Plus they're on clearance! They're practically giving them away! Here comes the clerk. I hope they have my size.” She pulls off both oxfords and stuffs her socks in her bra. “For safekeeping,” she explains.

I look at Mira's feet. I hadn't noticed before how large they are.

When the clerk approaches, I pull off the display Mary Jane and hand it to him. “This size fits fine. Do you have another pair?”

He grins. “Most certainly.” He turns to Mira and raises his eyebrows. “And you, miss?”

“These!” she says, jumping up and holding the flashy shoe out to him. “Size ten . . . and a half. Wide.”

The clerk looks up, his short stature accentuated by Mira's height. The top of his bald head is barely even with her shoulders. His own shoulders pull back, and his eyebrows rise impossibly higher. “Are you sure you wouldn't prefer something more . . . practical? Like your friend?”

“Oh, no. These! They're perfect!”

He clears his throat. “They've been on clearance for quite some time. I don't think—”

“Can you check? Please?”

The clerk's lips pull tight in a polite smile and he nods. He turns on his heel and disappears into a back room. Almost immediately, he returns with two boxes in his hands and Mira squeaks and claps her hands together. He opens my box first and shows me the suede Mary Janes with the dainty flower at each buckle. I take the box from him. I slip them on at once. It is amazing what the right pair of shoes can do. Perfect.

“That will do it,” I say.

He turns to Mira and opens her box. Her smile vanishes.

“I think you will find these much more comfortable and . . .
complementary
. They're one of our bestsellers.”

And much more expensive, I note, looking at the price on the side of the box. They are a pair of black flat slip-ons with a tiny lace bow. They do indeed seem like a much better match for her feet. I think he has chosen well.

“Did you look for the others?” she asks.

He offers an unconvincing nod.

Mira clouds up.

“Don't be such a baby, Mira,” I say. “They're only shoes.
You don't have to turn everything into a big deal. If you don't like the ones he brought, find something else.” And then on a second glance at her feet, I add, “These suit you better anyway.”

A satisfied smile spreads across the clerk's face. These shoes will certainly result in a much better commission for him.

Mira jumps up and runs from the store.

The clerk and I both look after her in shocked silence. I glance across the store and see Seth watching the whole scene.

It was only a small admonishment. And she
was
being a baby. Practically making a scene over a silly pair of shoes. A ridiculous pair of shoes.

Seth's eyes are steady.

“Excuse me,” I tell the clerk. “I'll be right back.”

 

I find Mira sitting on the curb outside the store. Her lashes are wet, and her cheeks flushed. She is aware of my presence but says nothing.

“This spot saved?” I ask, pointing to the curb next to her.

She nods, so I remain standing.

I may as well get it over with. We really have to address
her outburst. “Quite a fuss you made in there over a pair of shoes.”

She looks up and glares at me, an expression I have never seen on her before, at least not directed at me. She looks away and remains silent.

“The clerk must think—”

“You don't need to tell me what the clerk thinks. I know what others think of me, Des. Hell, I know what
you
think of me.”

“Where'd you learn that kind of language?”

“Company I keep, I guess.”

“I don't think anything of you—”

“Don't!” she says, jumping to her feet and staring at me eye to eye. “Just because I'm perky and I tend to smile a lot doesn't mean I'm blind! Or dense!” Her chest is rising and falling in deep breaths, like she is winding up for more. I expect her next words to explode out of her, but instead they come out low and steady and bitter, which is even more frightening. “I know your life has been hell. Maybe
that's
why I try to smile so much around you. Being cheerful doesn't mean there's nobody home, you know. Maybe it just means someone cares and they wish they could balance out all the garbage but they're as helpless as everyone else. Maybe that's
me
, Des. Have you ever thought of that?
Maybe I'm the helpless one. Maybe I'm as afraid as anyone else, and maybe just once I wish someone would back me up for a change.” She tilts her head to the side and offers a sarcastic grin. “Back
me
up. Yeah. What a thought that is! Maybe a pretty pair of shoes is shallow and stupid to you, but maybe for a fair day—” She looks away, her jaw rigid but her voice wavering. “Never mind. It's stupid. You'd never understand.”

I stand there unable to utter a word. She's right. I never have understood. I never tried. I reach out and touch her arm, but she shrugs me off.

“I'll be okay. Just give me some time.” She walks away and stops at the corner. I see her shoulders shake.

“I've never seen Mira that angry.”

I turn around. Seth is standing just outside the store door. “Guess today didn't turn out so fair, after all,” he says.

I look down at my feet, the Mary Janes not looking so perfect anymore. “No. It did,” I say. “I got exactly what I deserved. Mira has never been anything but kind to me, and all I have done is returned that kindness with ridicule.”

Seth walks closer to me, looks down the street at Mira and then back at me. “But Mira still hasn't gotten what
she deserved. I suppose for it to be really fair, you'd have to make it right. For her, anyway.”

How can I make it right? I've already hurt her. She's angry with me. And shoeless.

Shoeless.

I look at Seth and then at Mira still in her bare feet on the corner. “Yes,” I say. “I suppose I would.”

 

 

 

A
IDAN AND
S
ETH ARE WAITING
on the sidewalk for us when we exit the store. Aidan peals out a loud, long whistle. Mira strikes a pose. I am still mystified by these two and how just a few hours away from Hedgebrook, their inhibitions have disappeared. Aidan, whistling?

“Nice,” Seth says.

“Yes, Mira,” I agree. “You were right all along. They are perfect.” And they really are. In the space of a few minutes, the shoes look entirely different to me. Maybe because Mira looks entirely different to me. Her perkiness has a layer beneath it I hadn't noticed before. I've heard cafeteria talk that her parents are divorced and she was the center of a long, bitter custody battle. Is that when the smoothing over began? When she didn't want to choose
sides because she loved them both? Why didn't I see this before?

“The shoes were there all along,” she says. “Just misshelved. Happens all the time with clearance shoes. Isn't that right, Des?”

“Yes,” I confirm. “Only misshelved.”

She hands Aidan her oxfords, and he drops them in the store bag with our others. “You should have heard Des!”

“We did, Mira. We were in the store too.”

“But not close up like me. No sir! Wowee, she gave it to that clerk! You should have seen his eyes.”

Mira only heard the words I gave to the clerk. She didn't see the hundred-dollar bill I slipped into his palm. Much better than a commission, and I knew he wouldn't want to be caught in a lie. But for a hundred easy dollars anyone can muster some creative explanations. Besides, I contributed to Mira's humiliation as much as he did. It should cost me something too. My tab of borrowed money is growing.

Mira models her shoes, turning one way, then the other, trying to catch all possible perspectives herself. “He said these were the last pair. Probably set aside for another customer, which is why they weren't where they should be. But he said he was sure no one was coming for them.” She
shoots me a quick sideways glance. I watch her, smoothing out the wrinkles, the way she does at Hedgebrook, so no one is wrong, everyone is right, so everyone is happy. Forgiving even me. In the space of twenty minutes, she has managed to turn her world around and move on. Shoes or not, she would have done the same. No grudges. No looking back. Or maybe looking back in a way the rest of us can't see.

 

 

 

T
HERE IS SOMETHING TO BE SAID
for not looking back, but it has never been my strong suit. I look back every day. Sometimes other people do too.

“Will you be staying, Destiny? Or shall you turn your world upside down once again?” Mrs. Wicket was the first to ever phrase it quite that way. Or perhaps it was the tone of her voice. Or maybe it was just who I was and where I was at that moment in time that made it sound different.
Will you be staying?
Like I was a guest who might check out of a hotel. Like it was my own choice and perhaps the sheets were not quite to my liking.

The incident that brought about this meeting in her office was the trimming of Camille Preston's ponytail. I had asked Camille quite civilly to stop flinging it in my
face. True, it had never actually touched me, but it came close. Wasn't the worry of it all enough to justify its departure? And the way Camille carried on. You'd think her golden tresses were actually made of the precious metal. I never saw so many tears over one silly rope of hair. As penance, and to expose her shallow preoccupation with appearances, I chopped my own hair off to within a half inch of my scalp, uneven spikes going every direction. I shoved the black locks into a lace handkerchief and gave it to her as a gift. I thought it might squelch the drama and bring forgiveness, but it only landed me back in Mrs. Wicket's office.

Of course, Mr. Gardian, as usual, had already taken care of the main problem. Camille's parents agreed that a check for next year's tuition was probably sufficient to make the whole nasty affair disappear. And my seat was changed so I no longer sat behind Camille and her distracting hair in civics. But the chopping off of my own hair seemed to distress Mrs. Wicket just as much as the cutting of Camille's.

“And now this.” She gestured at my new haircut and shook her head. “I know you've been here for quite a while, but I was hoping this time you might stay longer than your past schools. Look back, Destiny. Is leaving what you really want? Look back.”

I already had. I looked back as I do every day of my life. As I always must. But my vista is entirely different than Mrs. Wicket's. I see things that no one else can see.

“Destiny? Are you listening? Will you be staying?”

Again, as though I had a choice. But she didn't know my parents. No one ever has.

“It depends if my parents will let me.”

She sighed, knowing this was a useless road to go down. And that was the end of the matter, but before I left, I turned and said, “If it helps, I've retired my scissors. No more haircuts.” She smiled and nodded. It was the least I could offer to someone who cared whether I stayed or left.

 

 

 

A
CROSS THE STREET ON THE NEXT BLOCK
, the busyness of Langdon opens up onto a vast green expanse, a city park with towering mature trees and wide winding paths. Part of a lake can be seen through the trees. I listen to the
click click click
of Mira's heels on the sidewalk. What does she mean, she knows my life has been hell? I've never told her anything. She's wrong. It hasn't been hell. It's simply been purgatory. A limbo existence of waiting.

“Great park,” Seth says. “Did you come here when you were a kid?”

“Of course,” I say, wanting to sound as though at least some portion of my childhood was normal, but in truth, I am not sure I have ever been here at all.

And then I see it. The white split-rail fence that borders
the walking path near the lake. The uneven timbers I climbed as a child. The fence that made me clutch my stomach when Mr. Gardian sent the brochure of Hedgebrook. “Of course,” I repeat, not even sure if I have said the words out loud. I cross the street and hear the others following behind me.

“There's cars coming!”

“You can't just walk out into the middle of traffic!”

“What about our real lunch? And Lucky's ball?”

“Just follow her!”

I kick my Mary Janes off as soon as I reach the grass. The blades are as cool and soft as I remember them to be, and I dig in with my toes. I used to come here with my aunt Edie on her brief visits before I was sent away for good. Of course Mr. Gardian accompanied us as well because Aunt Edie was not to be trusted. At least that is what I heard him whisper over the phone to someone—perhaps Mother and Father off on one of their never-ending jaunts. He said Aunt Edie was wild and impulsive and had to be watched constantly. But she always behaved herself as far as I could tell, and her shocking red hair was always tamed into a dutiful bun when she came. Mr. Gardian kept a respectful distance so we could visit but was never too far away. She used to sit on
the split-rail fence with me, our balance precarious, and we would pretend about all the places and all the people we might really be. She talked enough for both of us, because I wasn't speaking then, but I listened to every word. I imagined, right along with her, that I was the princess in a tower, the cowgirl on a horse, and the trapeze artist in a circus. And even on my own, I imagined I was Humpty Dumpty, an unsteady egg ready to fall, and no one could put me back together at all. I was clever even then.

Mira spots a fountain, points, and I hear Seth say something, reaching into his pocket and putting coins in her palm. Handing over Lucky's leash. Words to Aidan, something like
Go. Go now
. Other sounds too. A child laughing somewhere far off. And music. And Aunt Edie . . . laughing and telling stories. But not laughing too loudly so that we draw Mr. Gardian's attention.