Do you believe in plagues?” I ask at a volume loud enough to be heard over the yells and shouts of pre-Easter shoppers. (I have yet to hear a hosanna among them.)
“Like locusts?” Caitlin runs her fingers over the latest fabric combinations. “This is sad.” She looks with disappointment at the department store’s version of a display.
“More like…lousy luck, date drought, faith famine…contemporary plagues.”
“Oh, what’s this one?” Caitlin points to the speakers overhead.
“I dunno,” I say, an unwilling participant.
“Sure you do. Name it,” Caitlin chirps.
I listen to a few beats of the song. “Muskrat Love.”
She listens for a bit and nods overzealously. “Incredible. And no, I don’t think you are experiencing personal, contemporary plagues, if that is what you are getting at.”
“Maybe not full-fledged biblical plagues, but perhaps these days God serves up plaguettes. Mini-disasters to remind us of his power.”
She rolls her eyes at my twisted thinking. “I can explain your date drought plaguette, as you call it.”
“Oh, yeah? Do I want to know?”
“You are picky. Holding out for something great. You, Mari, have had dates lately and you just aren’t interested.” She says this while trying on a hat of purple fake fur. “Whereas I have not had a date in nearly two years. If anyone has been infested by plagues, it is me.”
“Correction. One date. What is your plaguette?” I don’t tell her about Beau. Not yet. Besides, I probably ruined a perfectly good chance at a real date. I wish I knew if he put the handkerchief in the box before or after my childish outburst.
“Mary Margaret is trying to take credit for the outfit I created for you. Can you believe it?” She adjusts her revised apron look self-consciously. Two aprons tied together create a skirt and a third apron tied in the back over a turtleneck. It reminds me of a baby’s bib, but I know she is hoping the apron look made locally famous by the Kevin Milano photo will be noticed out in public.
“I’ll vouch for you. Just tell me how. I’d love to take on Mary Margaret.” I pantomime rolling up my sleeves for a fight.
“I don’t suppose you will have any more photo ops? As great as that caption was, I’m afraid I’ll need a second chance.”
I examine the combination she has just pulled from nearby shelves and racks: a striped blouse, pencil skirt, and a pair of Doc Martens. She is discreetly draping them over the display figure closest to her while watching for the salesclerk. “You’ll get your chance; I just know it.”
“Miss! Miss, can I help you?” a salesgirl comes from behind the counter and approaches us as fast as her white boots can carry her. Blond, sleek hair is rolled in giant, old-fashioned rollers. I think she and Caitlin should get along, but they eye each other with distrust and disapproval. However, there is a moment just before the woman’s lip curls like Lisa Presley’s that I see something that resembles respect for Caitlin’s impromptu display.
“No, just looking. Thank you.” Caitlin waves and we rush out the door.
“Let’s just go home. If we put together a noteworthy outfit for my date with Jace, it should be easier to plan clothing for Sadie’s event.” I desperately want to cut this afternoon short so I can look at those ten digits and consider the possibility of making a call.
“Practical, but shortsighted. What if this weekend presents you with an opportunity and you are not dressed for it? I’ve seen your closet, and you definitely at least need a stellar pair of shoes. Ah,” she shoots at my forthcoming argument. “I’m right. We need to go two blocks and take a left.”
I play the reluctant child who insists on immediate gratification while shopping. We stop at an ice cream stand and a corner coffee kiosk before arriving at the store, Best Foot Forward. “That’s so Angelica,” I say when I see the stiletto-logo adorned door.
“Well, they do carry her overly promoted brands, but they also include a lot of unknown, fabulous labels.”
“No, that’s Angelica. Look.” I nod my fudge-dipped cone toward the woman just passing through the doors.
“Stick with me. She’ll lead you toward a shoe purely for the name. Just watch. Down the cone or toss it.”
“No fair,” I whine. My nap time is approaching quickly. As we enter the very chic narrow store filled with well-lit glass shelves, I mimic Angus’ greeting. “Angel!”
This must be Angelica’s code name within her inner circle because she turns around with an air of popularity and known-ness. But when her eyes take in two old friends, she puts on a more casual countenance. The one she uses for everyday intimidation purposes.
“Looks like we all need shoes for the stargazer party.” Caitlin decides to start us all off on the same foot, so to speak.
“Need, want…all the same when it comes to shoes.” Angelica’s eyes brighten with purpose as she looks down at my raggedy pair of Converse sneakers. “I’d say it’s a blessing I am here.” With authority she turns to the saleswoman and beckons her by name. “Lucinda, let’s start with these, and these, and where is the April release from Manolo?” She grabs various styles by their skinny straps and dangles them in front of Lucinda’s permanent smile.
I shouldn’t be surprised to find that Angelica knows the store date for shoe arrivals the way I know the dates for new Muzak compilations and books on aging.
Caitlin stabs me in the side with her sunglasses to be sure I am noticing Angelica’s gorilla label tactics. I hold my hands up, submitting to whatever unfolds and not taking any responsibility.
“Lucinda, is it? Nice to meet you. I’m Caitlin and this is Mari. Could you bring out Revel Yell’s new four-inch heel?” She positions herself between Angelica and the woman in charge. “And if you have any of last year’s divine black leather boots from GaGa, bring those with you too. The ones with the tassel wrap, not the buckle. Thank you.”
Two can play this game, apparently.
I sit down on a large scoop of a chair that resembles a guitar pick more than a piece of furniture. Such comfort. They can fight over my feet, but my rear belongs to this goofy chair. Lucinda snaps her fingers and I start to rise, thinking I am not worthy to sit here. Her command brings out two assistants. One to take our size and style requests, and one to serve sparkling cider and petits fours while we wait.
Nobody told me snacks were involved. “We should have my next intervention here.” I lick pink frosting from my finger and am ignored. Caitlin and Angelica are facing off, peering into tissue paper and sleek boxes to accept or reject offerings from the back room. My unsolicited comments and shoe opinions are clearly irrelevant to today’s outcome.
Half a dozen petits fours later, Lucinda is looking haggard, whereas Angelica and Caitlin seem energized as they near a consensus. Torn between two cults of fashion, I’m the disheveled recruit they would all love to shape, dress, and use to bring others into the fold.
Assistant one clears a path from the back room to my feet. And as she bows down and removes my sneakers, Angelica and Caitlin stand on either side of her like the little shoulder-perching devil and angel that appear in dream sequences about temptation. They both are grinning widely. Could it be that the shoe will fit and I will be transformed into some version of myself that pleases both?
Breath is held all about me as I watch a pair of lavender shoes emerge from the rubble. The heel is considerable, but the trim is a very delicate, an iridescent weave of fabric so fine that at first I think it is merely a shaft of light from Lucinda’s diamond ring reflecting off of the satin. This thread winds the length of the shoe, from the heel to the very tip of a slim band of satin where the most intricate, understated fabric flower adorns my big toe.
I am captivated but don’t want to give in too easily. “I’m afraid of heights.” I take a few steps and then tell my group of observers about a speech I gave in seventh grade against the Chinese practice of binding women’s feet. Seems my generation has introduced its own version of social status through podiatry pain.
“You get used to it, believe me. And the downward slant makes you look like you have somewhere to go,” Caitlin responds while Angelica likely wonders how on earth we all remain friends.
“Oh, hey…that could work for me.”
“Shall I wrap these up for you?” Lucinda moves so quickly I almost don’t notice the price tag. It is the extra zero that catches my eye.
Now I hold my breath. “This is not practical. Maybe if I had not blown my only chance at Majestic Vista…and lost my job…”
My two friends are delighted with their selection. They have crossed the great divide for the sake of shoes and friendship and will not accept no for an answer.
Caitlin repeats her view of dressing for opportunity and Angelica could not be more agreeable. “Yes, you must. I just wish you had a date to see these shoes.”
Angelica notices. “Really? Do tell.” She strings this out with great amusement.
I tell them about Beau, the party, and the handkerchief…but nothing of engraving the number on my toaster. Still, they understand the seriousness of my interest.
Angelica hands the shoe box to Lucinda and places her hand on top as if taking an oath. “That’s it then. You absolutely must. She’ll take these.”
Caitlin is equally thrilled. “Wear them for confidence when you call Beau and ask him to Sadie’s event. The timing is too perfect.”
I protest while downing the last of the cider straight from the bottle. “But will these really be in season ever again?”
Caitlin has the answer to this. “Taking chances, Mari, is always in season.”
I look at their faces, which are so often scrunched in opposition to the other’s viewpoint. But today their best foot forward is in a common direction.
As I hand Lucinda my zero-balance credit card I am telling myself, “I must take this chance.” I’m not a shopper at heart, but today I am buying wholeheartedly into this ideology about life and fashion…and other important things.
Suddenly, I have a fantastic desire to make toast.