23

SHOPPING

After dinner that night, Mom showed up at my door and said, “We’re going shopping, V . . . c’mon.”

“Shopping?” I love shopping. I grabbed my pack and off we went.

“Does Roxanne live in a house or an apartment?” I asked as we climbed in the car.

“A house. In an older, very charming, interesting neighborhood,” Mom said as we pulled out of the driveway.

“Good interesting or bad interesting?” I asked. “Is Roxanne poor or something?”

“No, it’s a very nice neighborhood, mostly black. It used to be the center of a lot of African American cultural life in Los Angeles. It’s the house your father grew up in. It isn’t modern like ours, but . . . she’s hardly poor.”

Remembering the price tags I’d seen on her artwork, I said, “I didn’t think so, because her paintings sure cost a lot.”

“But some artists only sell a few paintings a year,” Mom explained.

“Then maybe we should buy one of her paintings,” I suggested.

“Maybe we should.”

“Just not that labyrinth mind one . . . it was scary.”

Mom laughed and said, “I always looked forward to seeing his family’s home, but it was never to be. He said he’d practically grown up in an art gallery. I’m glad you’ll get to see it.”

“Maybe you will, too, someday,” I told her.

“Maybe,” she replied.

At the mall, I got to pick out two dresses and a new bathing suit and a purple tank top with matching shorts. I love purple. Then we went to the shoe store and I got new sandals.

“Are you buying all this stuff for my trip? I’m only going to be gone for a week.”

Mom took my hand. “I want it to be very special for you, V, that’s all.”

So do I.