“Oh, yes. That is a fine idea,” Mrs. McCallum whispers. “Isabelle, dear, is your mother here? I should go find her and say hello.”
I nod. “She’s over by the dressing rooms.” I glance at Chrissy, worried. Mostly I want to protect her mom from my mom. But also, I don’t want them talking about dance. I didn’t tell Mom I’m taking ten classes instead of eight this year, because I don’t want her to flip out.
“Mama?” Chrissy flashes her angel smile. “Could you find me some of those little sticky pads that go over your nipples? I’m almost out and I know you don’t want me high-beaming everyone when I’m on stage.”
Mrs. McCallum’s eyes grow huge. “Oh no! That would be something, wouldn’t it? Where do you think they are, honey?”
Chrissy points to the corner of hair accessories, even though the nipple pasties are next to the cashier’s desk. Mrs. McCallum gives me a wave before wading through the racks of sequined dance dresses.
“Thanks,” I whisper.
Chrissy lifts the cover off one of the boxes and wiggles a pointe shoe at me. “No probs.” Chrissy insists she doesn’t mind my mom. But we’ve been dancing together since fifth grade so she knows how my mom can be. “Mama will probably come back with a Pinterest post about how to make a tiara out of rhinestone bobby pins, ain’t that right, sugar?” Chrissy grins as I laugh. She’s good at that, attacking my family stress with humor.
I take the shoe as Chrissy tugs stuffing out of the other one.
“Are we almost done here? Oh, hello, Chrissy.”
“Mom!” It’s an out-of-breath gasp. I didn’t see her coming.
“How are you, Mrs. Warren? Isa’s almost finished. She just needs to settle on shoes.” Chrissy puts a hand on each of the two towers of boxes.
Mom looks Chrissy up and down. I fight the urge to grab my friend and push her behind me. Please don’t say anything, Mom. Don’t say a single thing.
“Chrissy, you look wonderful! Your calves are so sculpted. And your arms . . .” Mom lifts one of Chrissy’s hands, inviting her to twirl. “Have you been doing pilates this summer?”
Chrissy spins, her mouth stretching ear to ear. “Nope. Just dance.”
“I’ve always said dancing makes the most beautiful bodies. Right, Isabelle?”
She’s never said that to me. Not one time. I nod and smile anyway.
Mom’s eyes come back to me and the shoe boxes. “Do you have to try all of them on?” She looks at her watch. “It’s quarter to six and I have a board meeting at seven thirty. I’d like to see your father for more than ten minutes before I have to go.”
“You know, Mrs. Warren”—Chrissy flips her auburn curls over one shoulder—“you could start checking out.” She gestures at my pile of dance-wear, then looks at me. “By the time they ring everything up you’ll be done with the shoes, right?”
Mom doesn’t wait for me to respond. “Where do I pay?” She’s come with me to this same store at least four times, but Mom hates this stuff. She can’t help not remembering it.
“I’ll show you.” Chrissy leaps up, grabbing the leotards, skirts, and tights. “Oh—I love these skirts! Don’t you?” She holds up a hanger, letting the white gauze sway. “I’m so glad we get to wear them this year.”
Mom picks up only the hairpins and follows Chrissy to the register.
I’m battling with a pointe shoe when Chrissy returns. “Thanks,” I murmur, as I lace it up.
“Hey, what else am I here for? Any sign of my momster, by the way?”
I rise up on pointe and draw my knees to my chest in sharp, short jerks, turning in a slow circle. The added height gives me a good view. “She’s over by the tutus.”
“Ha! I knew she wouldn’t be able to resist!”
Rising voices come from the direction of the checkout desk. Mom is arguing with the sales lady. I’m about to yank off my shoes and sprint over there when I notice a boy about my age standing by the windows facing Seventh Avenue. He’s flipping through a rack of pants in the men’s section. His white shirt hugs his body, showing the movement of his muscles underneath. An older woman approaches, speaking to him in Spanish. He laughs and lets out an, “Ay, Mami!” He turns and puts his arm around her. It’s not Chuck, the guy from the subway. I’d thought maybe it was.
Chrissy takes the box of slippers from me. “These are the ones you want, right?” She eyes my right foot, then my left. “Those two feel the same?”
“This one is better.” I hand the left shoe to Chrissy just as the boy and his mother pass in front of us.
Chrissy’s voice drops. “Tell me you saw the fine piece of ass that just walked by.” She makes the same noise she does whenever we go into the Brazilian bakery near her for brigadeiros. “Hmmmm, hmmmm. Well done, Mother Nature. I commend you.”
“Chrissy!” I hiss.
“Whatever. I saw you checking him out before.” Chrissy peeks inside the shoe box, then snaps a photo. Her nose scrunches as her thumbs tap her screen. “Sending this now.”
“I’ll just buy this pair.” The sales lady spent all that time with me. It wouldn’t be fair to not give her the commission.
“Isa? You ready?” Mom starts toward us from across the store, head bowed as she rummages through her purse.
She runs smack into the dancer I’d thought was Chuck.
“Ah!” The bags fall from her hand. Her new phone hits the floor with a crack.
The boy’s eyes are super big. “I’m sorry, so sorry. You OK?” His mother is saying the same thing in Spanish.
“Elisa? Are you all right?” Mrs. McCallum gets to Mom before we do. She picks up Mom’s phone. She smooths the ruffled sleeves of Mom’s silk blouse. “You’re fine, just fine,” she says. “It’s just a phone. You can have it fixed.”
The glass face is shattered.
Mom’s hands draw into fists.
“You were looking at your screen, weren’t you?” Mom shouts at the boy.
He’s holding a cell too.
I choke in a breath. “Mom, he wasn’t—”
She silences me with a single enraged finger.
“You dancers are all the same,” she spits, advancing on him. “Self-centered, thinking only about your art and not watching where you’re going. What happens when you lose your youth and beauty? Are you even capable of thinking that far ahead?” Her cold eyes cut to mine.
My whole body burns. Like I’m on stage but there’s no music and I’ve forgotten the steps.
“I’m so sorry, ma’am.” The poor guy is on his knees, putting my dance stuff back in the bags. Even though none of it was his fault. He offers my mom a small smile.
“You think your charm will work on me?” Mom laughs, but it’s too loud and too bright. “Well, it won’t.” Mom grabs her phone from Mrs. McCallum, avoiding the fragments of glass on her cracked screen. “Isa, call us a car. I’ll be outside.” She whirls back to the boy. “And teach your grandmother English, for Christ’s sake. This is Manhattan. You’re not in the Caribbean anymore.” She snaps it at him in Spanish, her Cuban accent clipped and furious. I’ve never heard her speak anything other than English in New York. Unless Abuela is visiting. Or Mom’s on the phone with her family.